“I thought you were going to comfort me.”

Taylor’s words messed with Mac’s head, tempting him. He knew if he so much as touched her, he’d never stop. He took a deep breath, needing to put some distance between them.

“You’re going to be fine.” It was himself he was worried about at the moment.

As he watched, she shrugged her robe off, leaving her shoulders bare, leaving her body bare except for that column of silk and the ribbon beneath her breasts. Crossing her arms, she ran her hands up and down her arms and shivered. “It cooled off tonight.”

Had it? He was hot as hell, sweating just watching her.

When she shivered again, he sighed, recognizing the inevitable, and took a step toward her.

The top of her gown dipped low, exposing the soft curves of her breasts. The material clung to her, molding and outlining every part of her that he’d been dying to touch, taste since he’d first seen her.

“Warm me up,” she whispered.

His hands slid to her hips before he could stop himself. “Taylor—”

“No, don’t think. Just touch me.”

Dear Reader,

I had so much fun writing my first Harlequin mini-series—SOUTH VILLAGE SINGLES. I have to confess a particular soft spot for this story. The hero, Mac, is a deliciously sexy, alpha guy with a heart of gold. And whether he likes it or not, he’s met his match with Taylor—a tough, brave woman who, for all her outrageous wit, isn’t so sharp when it comes to men. Oh, boy, the fun I had pitting these two against each other!

I hope you enjoy their fall into love. If you haven’t already, be sure to read the other Harlequin Temptation SOUTH VILLAGE SINGLES stories—#910 Roughing It With Ryan and #914 Tangling With Ty. Also, look for Men of Courage, a May 2003 anthology where I team up with Lori Foster and Donna Kauffman. And keep an eye out for my first single title, The Street Where She Lives, coming out in October 2003, when we return to South Village.

Happy reading!

Jill Shalvis

P.S. I’d love to hear from you about this or any of my other books. You can reach me at P.O. Box 3945, Truckee, CA 96161, or check out my new Web site at www.jillshalvis.com.

Messing with Mac
Jill Shalvis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Courtney, for watching every Disney movie ever made ten times during the writing of this book.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

1

ONE OF THESE DAYS, Taylor Wellington figured she’d be old, maybe even wrinkled, and then, finally then, her best friends would stop trying to convince her she needed love.

No one needed love.

Having been both with it and without it—mostly without it—she knew this for a cold, hard fact. Still, Taylor held the cell phone to her ear and let Nicole and Suzanne, via three-way conferencing, ramble on about how amazing the L-word was.

“You’ve got to try it.” This from Nicole, who’d been swept off her feet a few months back by Ty Patrick O’Grady, Taylor’s rebel Irish architect.

“It’s even better than ice cream,” Suzanne promised, and coming from Suzanne, this was quite the promise, but she’d recently fallen in love, too, and had even gone one step further and gotten married. “Come on, Taylor, give up on singlehood and try a man on for size. It’ll change your life.”

Taylor wasn’t buying it. Not one little bit. In her opinion—and she had very strong opinions, thank you very much—love sucked. Always had, always would.

She was speaking from firsthand experience and hard-earned knowledge, not that her friends would understand. They wouldn’t because she hadn’t explained, she hadn’t known how to in the short time they’d been together, which had begun when, in order to keep up with life’s little luxuries like eating, Taylor had rented out two apartments in the building she’d just inherited. Suzanne had come first, then later Nicole, and both had happily joined her in a solemn vow of singlehood.

Only they’d each caved like cheap suitcases in the face of true love, and had both recently moved out again, having found their soul mates.

“Just because you two willingly gave up your freedom doesn’t mean I have to—” Taylor stopped at an odd noise and cocked an ear. “Hang on a sec.”

The building, her building, shuddered. Not surprising really, as she considered it an amazing feat the entire thing hadn’t fallen down long ago, but in Taylor’s world, things didn’t happen off schedule. Her building crashing to the ground definitely wasn’t on her schedule for today.

And yet there it went again. Another shudder. And then again. Something was systematically banging, in tune with her growing headache. “Guys, much as I’d love to listen to you tell me what’s wrong with my life in singular excruciating detail, I have to run.”

“Hold up. Is that more construction I hear?” Suzanne asked casually. Too casually.

The question didn’t fool Taylor. Both Suzanne and Nicole had found their happiness due to construction. Her construction.

Now they had equally high hopes for her.

They were going to be disappointed, as Taylor didn’t intend to fall for anyone. Feeling like a heel, she pulled the cell phone away from her ear and simulated a static sound with her mouth. It wasn’t a kind thing to do to the only two people in the world who truly cared about her, but all this talk of love, no matter how well-meaning, was making her perspire.

And a Wellington never perspired, especially in silk. That was one thing she’d learned from her mother. “Gotta go, bad connection!” she yelled into the phone and disconnected.

Damn it. She loved Suzanne and Nicole, loved them like the sisters she’d always wished for instead of the two she had, but any more talk of love as it pertained to her and she risked losing her wits, something she couldn’t afford at the moment, as she needed each and every available wit to keep her sane.

Oh, and in the black. Her every thought these days seemed to focus on finding enough money to pay for the work that needed to be done. That alone was enough to give her insomnia. This was a real kicker of an inheritance from her grandfather—this falling-off-its-foundation building she stood in, and not a single penny to go with it. No trust fund, no cushy little savings account, nothing.

After a lifetime of paying for all her fancy education and everything else, the distant, cruel bastard had cut her off cold turkey, giving all of his substantial wealth to her mother, who hadn’t seen fit to share.

The woman wouldn’t, not when all her life she’d been so cheap, so tight with money, she squeaked when she walked.

Well, tough. Taylor wouldn’t wallow over that, or the fact that her family—called such only because they shared the same bloodlines—probably wouldn’t notice if she succeeded, but would most definitely notice if she failed. And she wouldn’t think about the fact that she only had to sell this place and walk away if she chose, because sheer stubborn pride refused to allow her to walk away from the first real challenge in her life.

She would do this. She would take this place and make something of it. And of herself. She’d started months ago, one room at a time, but had decided to sell several of her precious antiques—which had been worth more than she’d imagined—using the opportunity to renovate all of it in one fell swoop.

Starting tomorrow.

Hard as it would be to maintain her notorious cool, maintain it she would. With a nod of determination, she slipped the phone into her pocket and narrowed her eyes at the walls, which were still quivering from the rhythmic blows.

Oh, yes, she was quite certain she’d agreed with her new contractor that he could start tomorrow.

Not today.

And if there was one thing Taylor didn’t appreciate, it was someone messing with her carefully laid plans. She needed today, her last day alone, her last day to buck up, thrust out her chin, and get ready to show the world what she was made of.

Her building had been built circa 1902, and looked liked it. The Victorian style had nooks and crannies everywhere, windows galore and all the old charm and personality from the turn of the previous century, but with a hundred years of neglect added in. To say it was falling apart was the understatement of the new millennium. Bad trim, bad siding, bad paint, bad electrical and never mind the termites and last year’s flood damage from a busted pipe.

The bottom floor had two store-front units. The top floor had one loft apartment and an attic compartment. The middle floor had two apartments, one of which she’d claimed. Shutting the door of her apartment now, she headed downstairs, toward the hideous banging.

Outside, the streets of South Village were gearing up for what promised to be another profitable day.

Los Angeles, only five miles away, had been kind enough to share its smog and muggy heat, but Taylor didn’t mind the summer months like so many others did. She loved it here, felt perfectly at home among the young, hip, urban crowd which was drawn to Southern California’s premier pedestrian neighborhood. And why not, when any day of the week one could walk to a theater, an outdoor café run by someone famous or simply stroll through a mecca of interesting galleries or shops.

Taylor was counting on that crowd, as someday soon her two storefronts would be ready for lease.

Suzanne was taking one of them for her catering business, she’d already committed to that. A relief.

But there was still the other one. Leasing it out would keep her bank account happier than it was at the moment. But the truth was, she’d held out a little tiny seed of hope that someday she could use it for herself, opening her own shop. That is, if she had any antiques left after using them to finance the renovation.

A definite pipe dream at the moment.

The banging sounded louder now, and was definitely coming from one of the dusty, dirty storefront units. Outside, from beyond the front gate, she could hear people walking by, talking, laughing. Shopping. Once upon a time, that had been her favorite pastime, shopping, and a silly part of her suddenly yearned to be out there.

But that, too, was for another day.

As she reached the left unit, the banging increased in intensity. Opening the hallway door, which led into the back, she was greeted with a thick cloud of dust. The banging was so loud now she could hardly hear herself think, but as she stepped inside, the noise abruptly stopped.

Stunned by the silence, Taylor inhaled dirt in the already hot, muggy, spring California morning, and wondered how long before her carefully curled hair, flowing in a purposely artful and loose manner beneath her straw hat, sagged into her face.

“You’re in my way,” said a low, gruff voice from behind her.

Whirling, Taylor blinked into the cloud of dust as it slowly settled. Standing there among the dirt and grime was a man. He had one long arm propped on his hip, the other holding a huge sledgehammer, which rested against his shoulder.

Paul Bunyan, came the inane thought, if one substituted the sledgehammer for an ax. But why was Paul Bunyan standing in her building? Confused, a rare occurrence for Taylor, she found herself momentarily speechless.

Another rare occurrence.

The dust started to settle, and Paul materialized into her contractor Thomas Mackenzie, and though most of their contact had been handled by e-mail and telephone, she had seen him before. Clean and dressed up, that is. He wasn’t clean or dressed up now.

At least four inches taller than her own willowy five-foot-ten frame, she found it a bit of a surprise to have to tip her head back to see his face. The last time she’d seen him, they’d sat at her table, and for the life of her, she didn’t remember him being so…tall, so built, so imposing.

His mouth was scowling. His eyes were the color of expensive whiskey, two liquid, shining pools of heat and annoyance, and his hair, an exact match to his eyes, fell over a blue bandanna which had been tied around his forehead. Combined with his unsmiling, and rough and tumble expression, he looked more than just a little dangerous.

At the thought, a completely inappropriate shiver of thrill raced down her spine. Now was not the greatest time to remember that while she’d vowed to remain single for the rest of her life, she’d never vowed to remain celibate. She had a great appreciation for all things beautiful and finely made. And this man—tall and edgy and frowning as he was—was beautifully and firmly made, a magnificent male specimen, one who seemed to awaken every hormone and nerve ending in her entire body.

But she most definitely did not have a thing for a rebel-at-heart, and it didn’t escape her that this man was one-hundred-percent pure attitude.

In light of that, she repeated the same thing she told herself at estate sales, when she saw some spectacular piece of furniture she quivered to own but couldn’t afford… Walk away. Just walk away. Repeating that mantra, she took a careful step backward, taking one last glimpse to tide her over.

Hard, powerful looking legs were encased in soft, faded denim. His work boots were well worn, with a sole made for the long haul. She’d already noticed his very capable arms and his chest, which was wide, hard and covered in a T-shirt that clung like a second skin to his damp body. He was long and lean, rugged and virile, the way she preferred a man, when she chose to be with one.

But she wasn’t choosing now.

“You’re still in my way,” he said.

“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Mackenzie.”

He blew out a breath. “Mac.”

“What?”

“You can call me Mac. That’s my name.”

“Really? It’s not Mr. Attitude?”

His lips twitched. “I respond better to Mac.”

“Okay, then. Mac.”

He stood there politely enough, and…waited for something. At his raised brow, she realized he was waiting for her to leave.

Too bad he didn’t know her better, or he’d already know she did only as she pleased, not as expected. “I didn’t approve for the demo to begin today,” she said.

“You signed the contract.”

Yes, she had. She’d sold her beloved Queen Anne headboard to give him the first payment of many, but she’d agreed upon tomorrow. Damn it, she needed today.

Apparently deciding they were done, Mac turned and walked away, moving with the easy, loose-limbed stride of a man who knew the value of patience. With that patience, he hoisted up the sledgehammer and brought it down on the south wall. And then again. His arms strained and stretched, his muscles working in perfect synch, taut and sleek with sweat as he completely ignored her while simultaneously stripping down the wall to the framing.

Unable to help herself, she stared, utterly fascinated by the unrestrained violence of what he was doing. By the hone of that well-built machine that was his body. “Um…excuse me?”

The sledgehammer continued to rise and fall with amazing regularity. What kind of strength did that entail, she wondered, watching with utter fascination as Mac’s muscles flexed and flowed. Another shiver wracked her frame, and it had nothing to do with a chill. The room was hot. He was hot…and so, suddenly, was she.

Definitely, it had been too long since she’d had any sort of physical release besides her handy, dandy, trusty vibrator. “Mac?”

He never even looked at her, which was a bit disconcerting. Taylor had matured at an early age, her long, gangly body turning into a man’s wet dream. In all the years since, she’d never failed to turn a head.

And yet she was being completely ignored now. Vexing. So was the cell phone ringing in her pocket. Pulling it out, she put it to one ear, finger in the other to hear over Mac, and yelled, “Hello?”

“I have bad news,” said Mrs. Cabot, the owner of a very upscale antique shop in town.

“Bad news?”

Sledgehammer raised, Mac turned.

Their gazes locked.

It was like a chemical reaction. Unintended. Unavoidable. He had the most amazing eyes, and for the first time in her life, Taylor lost her place in a conversation. Chewing her lower lip, she wracked her brain for working brain cells, but her pulse tripled when Mac’s gaze dropped from hers, and locked on the movement of her mouth.

This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t attracted to her. She wasn’t attracted to him. That would be bad, very bad, but while she’d promised herself to never again engage her heart after the devastating loss she’d once suffered, she was no monk.

But even so, sex had become a very fond, distant memory.

She licked her lips, a nervous habit. Again, her contractor’s gaze flickered downward, becoming hot, focused and filled with frank sexual curiosity.

Oh boy. With sheer will power, she concentrated on her phone conversation. “What’s the bad news?”

Mac set the sledgehammer on the floor. In deference to her call? No, that would mean he had a considerate streak.

He was probably just done.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Cabot said. “But you lost your bid on that nineteenth-century chandelier.”

Instantly forgetting about Mac, she gripped the phone. “What do you mean? Who else bid on the chandelier?”

“You were outbid by…” Papers rustled. “Isabel W. Craftsman.”

Taylor might have guessed. There was only one person in town who would have coveted that piece as much as she had, and that was her own mother.

It only had been Taylor’s greatest heart’s desire to own it, but hey, she figured her mother knew that, too. Her mother was highly educated, incredibly brilliant and had eyes in the back of her head. Bottom line, she knew everything, she always had.

Well, except how to be a mother. Shocking how she’d screwed that up, but maybe Taylor was partly to blame. She’d always resented her mother’s vicious drive, sharp ambition and ability to multitask everything in her world except when it came to her own daughters.

When Taylor had graduated from college and had moved out of the house, she’d decided to be the grown-up and let it all go. She’d told her mother so, saying she’d forgiven her for all the missed events, the forgotten birthdays, the lack of any physical attention whatsoever. She didn’t know what she expected, but it hadn’t been to be cut off by her mother’s cell phone. Her mother had held up a hand to Taylor, answered the call, dealt with some business problem, then absently kissed the air somewhere near Taylor’s cheek and walked away.

Having completely forgotten they were in the middle of an important conversation.

After standing there in seething resentment, Taylor had shrugged and moved on. She’d had to. Not every mother was cut out to be a warm, fuzzy type, and she needed to get over it.

Then a few years ago Isabel had done the unthinkable, she’d gotten married again, and had dropped everything for one equally ambitious, equally cold-blooded Dr. Edward Craftsman, brain surgeon. Taylor had gone to the wedding, and if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she would never have believed it.

Her mother lived for this man, gushing all over him. Constantly. Kissing, hugging, leaning, more kissing.

It burned just thinking about it. So did her mother buying this chandelier from beneath her. “Thank you,” Taylor said into the phone. And as if it were no skin off her nose, she dropped the phone back into her pocket. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. She’d wanted that chandelier with a ridiculous passion. Served her right, wanting something so badly. Hadn’t she learned that nothing, nothing at all, was worth the heartache?

She had other things to worry about. Like she had a building in disrepair, and a man was reminding her of things far better forgotten.

Mac had tossed the sledgehammer aside, but he hadn’t been idle. There was now a shovel in his hand and he was loading debris into a wheelbarrow with the same narrow-minded intensity he’d swung his sledgehammer.

Eyes narrowed, she set her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. “We never solved the problem of why you’re here a day early.”

He kept loading until the wheelbarrow was full to bursting. Slowly he straightened, then eyed her with that light brown gaze, completely inscrutable now, without a trace of that intense sexual speculation.

Had she only imagined it?

“I didn’t think twenty-four hours would make any difference to you,” he said. Tossing the shovel aside, he grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted. Muscles strained. Tendons corded.

Taylor tore her gaze away. “I needed this last day before the hell of the next three months of construction and renovation. You’ve ruined it.”

He swiped a forearm across his forehead, looking tired, sweaty and temperamental. “I think that phone call ruined it.”

Deep within her, a pesky lone hormone quivered. “I’d really like you to go and come back tomorrow.”

That got his attention. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“You need to be alone bad enough to disrupt the start of your own renovation?”

“I do, yes.”

“Fine.” Dropping the wheelbarrow, he propped his hands on his hips. “Have your way, Princess. Tomorrow it is, but don’t even think about pulling this again. I’m not going to postpone this job further, no matter what kind of day you’re having.”

Princess? Had he just called her Princess? She’d show him princess! Reaching up, she yanked off her wide-brimmed hat, which once upon a time had cost her—make that her grandfather—a bundle. She’d die before explaining that her fair skin required she protect it from the harsh summer sun, especially since he seemed like a man to mock such a weakness. “Tomorrow will be just fine,” she said through her teeth, hat in her fist.

Mac stretched his shoulders, which put a strain on his T-shirt, not that she was noticing, and rubbed his eyes. “Good. I’m outta here. But since I am, and since steam is still coming out your ears, why don’t you do both of us a favor.” Retrieving the sledgehammer, he held it out. “Start pounding walls. Consider it anger management.”

She stared down at the tool, having never in her life so much as lifted a screwdriver. She might have blamed her uptight, pretentious family for that, though she’d been on her own for awhile now, and could have made the effort to learn such things.

Should have, because it would feel good to swing the thing with authority and knowledge, surprising that smirk off his face.

He wriggled the sledgehammer enticingly.

Odd how a little part of her tingled to touch it, hoist it over her head and let loose. Barbaric, yes, and suddenly very appealing.

“You know you want to,” Mac said in a low, husky dare. “Touch it.”

She cocked a brow and looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “So…are they all the same size?”

His eyes sparked, heated and flamed.

And one question was answered…she had most definitely not imagined that intense sexual speculation.

“I thought size didn’t matter to a woman.”

She lifted a shoulder. “That’s just the story some woman started in order to appease her poor husband who didn’t have…the right equipment.”

“Hmm.” He lifted the sledgehammer again, his eyes amused now. “The right equipment, huh?”

“That’s right.”

He looked at the sledgehammer with a new light, then back into her eyes. “Seeing as I have the right equipment, are you going to go for it?”

Oh yeah, she was. For the sledgehammer, anyway.

What could it hurt? She had aggression coming out her ears; for her grandfather, who was probably sitting on a cloud laughing down at her right this very minute, for her mother, who would rather do anything than be a mother, for her dwindling bank account, for the chandelier she’d lost out on…for being alone in all this.

For just about every damn thing in her entire life, she needed that sledgehammer.

Mac held it out.

Her fingers itched.

His eyes sizzled with the dare, and a potent, heady male heat.

“Fine.” She set her hat back on her head, snatched the tool from him, then swore in a very unladylike way as the thing jerked both her arms down with its weight, slamming the heavy sledgehammer to the floor.

Mac tsked. “Sorry, I thought you were stronger than that.”

2

TAYLOR’S ACCUSING EYES speared Mac, and he had to bite back his grin as he lifted an innocent shoulder.

She let out a rude sound, and with determination and aggression blaring out her eyes, she hoisted the sledgehammer up…and nearly fell to her very finely dressed ass. Stumbling back a step, she spread her legs out a little for balance, then sent him a triumphant smile.

It stopped his heart.

Funny, that, since he’d have sworn the organ in question had dried up from abuse and misuse.

Taylor turned her back on him and with all her might, swung the sledgehammer into the wall. When drywall fell and dust rose, she let out a cocky laugh, whirling back to make sure he was looking.

Oh, he was looking. He’d been looking since she’d first sauntered into the room, just as he had a feeling men always looked at Taylor Wellington.

He’d bet his last dollar that she knew it as well. She was a pricey number, all fancy labels and perfect grooming. Stunning, too, with her blond hair, see-through green eyes and a body meant to bring a grown man right to his knees. She had long, willowy curves, outlined in mouthwatering detail beneath the silky sundress that made his hands itch to mess her up. It was crazy, but he had the most inane urge to toss off her hat, sink his fingers into her hair and shake a little, to eat off her carefully applied lipstick that smelled like peaches and cream, to run his hands over that cobalt silk and see if she looked as good undone as she looked done.

But he recognized a spoiled socialite when he saw one. Oh yeah, he did. He’d been there, bought the T-shirt, and because of it, he wasn’t tempted.

Well, maybe a little tempted, but he wasn’t an idiot. She was upset because of some silly little bid she’d lost for a damn light fixture, when Mac had his entire future riding on a bid as well. A bid with South Village’s town council to get in on the area’s renovation and preservation acts. South Village wasn’t some prefab pedestrian neighborhood like Universal’s City Walk, but a genuine historical district in the middle of extensive restoration. He had bid on several of the upcoming jobs that would hopefully set up his business and reputation. Now that was something to get a little excited over, and he was trying not to think about how badly he wanted to be awarded those bids.

Taylor lifted the sledgehammer again, and with all her might, gave it everything she had. Not a strand of hair fell out of place beneath her hat, and nary a wrinkle appeared on those fine clothes. More interesting, he sensed she wasn’t just humoring him here, but was genuinely striving to work off steam. Her mouth was grim, her eyes quite focused on the task, as if she was imagining someone’s face right where the sledgehammer fell.

It shocked him, the barely restrained violence pouring out of her, but what really shocked him was how arousing it was to watch her go at it. With every swing, her perfect, palm-sized breasts jiggled, her hips wriggled, her ass shimmied and shook.

And damn, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Remind me to never piss you off,” he said, and she let out a rough sound of agreement as she swung again.

She was going to get blisters if she kept it up, which she appeared to intend to do. He hadn’t expected her to be able to lift the sledgehammer, much less swing it. “Uh…Princess? Don’t you think that’s probably enough?”

Ignoring him, she swung again, but it took a huge effort.

Figuring she had to be nearing exhaustion, he shifted closer, thinking he should grab the sledge-hammer before she hurt herself. That’s all he needed, was to maim the boss before she paid him.

Blocking him with an elbow, she growled, “Back off.”

Torn between annoyance and amusement, he did. “Okay, maybe I was wrong, maybe anger management classes would have been more effective for you.”

“No.” Heave. Smash. Heave. Smash. “You were right, this is good. And…” Heave. Smash. “Cheap, too.”

She paused, gasping for breath.

“You could always just ask Daddy for more money,” he suggested.

She went utterly still. Then carefully and purposely set down the sledgehammer before turning to him, eyes suddenly cold as ice. “You know, I think I’m finished after all. Thank you,” she added politely, and then cool as he pleased, walked past him and quietly shut the door behind her.

Shaking his head, he let out a low whistle. Classy down to the last millimeter, when what she’d obviously wanted was to tear into his hide. Still in that state of amused annoyance, he let himself out of the unit as well, figuring he’d give in on this, her need to have the rest of the day to herself.

Only because it suited him.

Mac got into his truck and drove east. He didn’t live in the high-class, high-rent district of South Village. Nor with the middle class in their gated condo developments and upscale houses that all mirrored each other. He didn’t live with the wannabes on the outskirts either.

He lived exactly where he wanted to, and damn expectations. He lived in the area known as The Tracks, which before the Town Council and Historical Society had gotten a hold of it meant that he lived on the wrong side of the tracks.

He appreciated the irony of it.

In ten minutes he was walking into his own little house, little being the key word here. The first thing he did was toss his mail—unread—on the table, where it knocked over the existing pile of unpaid bills.

Didn’t matter. No matter how big that stack got, he was still free. Free of his family’s obligations, well-meaning but smothering nonetheless. Free of his ex-wife—whom he had to thank for all those un paid bills.

He’d refused to let her live off his very generous family and their money, refused to make her the socialite she wanted to be. As a result, she’d taken everything he owned and then some before purposely and completely destroying him in the only way she could.

By aborting his child.

But he wasn’t going there, not tonight. He stripped, hunted up a pair of beat-up old shorts and headed back out for his own anger management class.

A long, punishing run.

AT THE CRACK OF DAWN the next morning, Mac drove back to Taylor’s building. He had a soft spot for this hour, before the sun had fully risen on the horizon, as no one had yet screwed up his day.

Today he’d have a crew working on the demolition, tearing out drywall down to the wood studs, then stripping old electrical and plumbing lines. Yesterday had been just for him, a way to burn off some accumulated steam. And he’d had plenty of it. There’d been that call from his mother, who in spite of her own life and full-time, very demanding job, was warm and loving and more than a little certain he was wasting away without her home cooking, and when was he going to come home for a Sunday meal?

Then had come the call from his old captain, wanting him back on the police force, which he’d left at the same time as his divorce four years ago. Much as Mac had loved being a cop, he loved rebuilding and renovating more, and always had. He’d been building things, working with his hands, ever since he could remember, and his love of doing so hadn’t changed.

But his purpose had. Life was too damn short, as he’d learned the hard way, and he intended to spend the rest of it doing what he loved. And what he loved was taking old, decrepit, run-down historical buildings and restoring them to their former glory. He’d been doing just that since getting off the force and had never looked back. He’d started out working for a friend of the family, learning the trade. For two years now, he’d been on his own doing mostly single rooms within existing buildings until this last year when he’d taken on whole buildings for the first time.

He’d found his calling. Taylor was his biggest client to date, his biggest job and his stepping stone to the next level.

He hoped. Thanks to Ariel, who’d dragged him through the coals financially, morally and every other way possible, he couldn’t afford to renovate his own place, not yet. Fine. He’d do it for someone else and work his way up. He had no problem with that.

And with that single-mindedness, he parked right in front of Taylor’s building—a miracle given the deplorable parking in South Village—and fervently hoped she’d made herself scarce. He had a crew to think about, and he wanted their minds on work, not on a beautiful woman, no matter how good she’d looked swinging a sledgehammer in all her finery.

His crew was waiting for him, just standing on the front steps, which made no sense. They knew better than to stand around wasting time.

But they weren’t just standing, they were smiling and nodding like little puppets to…surprise, surprise…Taylor.

“It came from Russia,” she was saying, holding up some sort of vase as he strode up the walk, annoyance already starting to simmer.

Taylor stroked perfectly manicured fingers over the smooth, porcelain surface of the vase as she talked, caressing the thing like she would a lover, and Mac’s blood began to beat thick, and not with just annoyance now. An ache, purely sexual, began to spread through his belly.

Which proved it, he was insane.

“It’s worth a small fortune,” Taylor said, seeming lost in the delicate etching on the vase, sighing over the beauty of it as she touched.

The sound of her soft sigh didn’t help Mac’s inner ache, and he spent a moment brooding over the fact he hadn’t been with a woman in a good long while. He hadn’t wanted to, not since Ariel and her cruel betrayal.

But not having a sexual urge wasn’t the same as ignoring one. He looked at the vase in Taylor’s hands and concentrated on her words.

Worth a fortune, she’d said.

Enough to cover the wasted labor for however long she stood there occupying his men’s every thought?

But what did she care how much money he lost in wages unearned? Mac wasn’t exactly sure what had happened yesterday, why she’d momentarily drawn him, given who and what she was—that being a woman too close to Ariel’s type to make him comfortable. But whatever it was, whatever little spark or electrical current of attraction he’d felt in spite of himself, he wouldn’t feel again.

She wore a pair of pale blue capris with a matching short, little cropped jacket, looking like she should be getting ready to walk down the runway instead of standing on the step of her ugly building.

Her hair was pulled back in a careful twist and she wore more of that peach lip-gloss from yesterday.

She was a long, cool drink of water, and even knowing it, even having prepared himself to see her again, he was suddenly dying of thirst, and couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off her.

When she saw him, she stopped talking, rubbing her lips together in a little gesture that signified either nerves or arousal. Either way, awareness shot straight to his groin.

So much for ignoring her. “Why are you here?” he asked.

She lifted a brow, assuring him and everyone around that she considered him a Neanderthal for asking such a question. And okay, yes, maybe his tone had been a bit brusque. After all, she did own the place. But there was some inexplicable…thing going on between the two of them, some amazing thing that reminded him of…a shark bite. Painful, and probably lethal.

But they’d signed a contact, he and she. Every possible little detail had been decided on, down to the last shade of paint on the walls. Her presence here wasn’t required, and in fact, he knew the ratio of work done today would be directly related to how far away she was.

The further the better. “You agreed to move out for the duration of the restoration,” he reminded her.

“I agreed to make sure there were no tenants during the duration. Suzanne and Nicole are gone.”

“But you’re not.”

“I’m not a tenant.”

Shaking his head, he took the last step that put him on even ground with her. Mostly he towered over everyone around him, and knowing it, he usually made a conscious effort not to use his size as an intimidation. But right now he wasn’t thinking intimidation so much as self-preservation. He wanted this job. He needed this job. It was the first thing he’d cared about in far too long. And in a way he was just beginning to understand, he needed to lose himself in the pure joy of the work itself, something he couldn’t do with her parading around all damn day.

“You can’t mean to be here while we work.”

She lifted that chin, eyes flashing. “I’ll do as I please.”

Damn. She did, she meant to be here while they worked. Because she didn’t trust him, or because she wanted to drive him crazy every step of the way?

“Why?”

“I won’t be in your way,” she said in lieu of a real answer.

In his experience, clients couldn’t help but be in the way, always wanting to change the logical order of things, waiting until paint was on the walls or tile on the floor before deciding the color was off, or the brand not quite right. And he had the Town Council and historical society to impress on this one. “Look, Princess—”

“My name,” she said, still smiling that cool smile as she carefully shifted the vase from one hand to the other in a way that suggested she was considering smashing it over his head, “is not ‘Princess.”’

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not trying to be a hard-ass here, it’s just that we’d all be better off if you’d just let us do our jobs.”

“You are a hard-ass, it’s one of the reasons I hired you,” she said, surprising him. “And I think you could try trusting me a little. I’m not going to bog you down.”

Mac didn’t do trust, and even if he did, he’d be crazy to give in to a woman quite used to crooking her little finger and having the entire male population fall over its own feet to please her.

“I’m not,” she repeated, a little softer now, watching him with those clear, clear eyes that weren’t going to give an inch.

He ran his hands over his face, put them on his hips and stared at her, but she was still just waiting with what he figured was the patience of a cobra. “Okay, whatever.”

She was wise enough to keep her smile to herself but he saw the triumph in her eyes, the eyes that only yesterday had turned him on.

Still turned him on.

“You’ll finish the demo downstairs this week?” she asked.

“And upstairs.”

“Oh.” Now something else flickered in her gaze. “Is it really necessary to push your men like that?”

“Like…what?”

“Well, I would think demolishing just the downstairs would be enough for the next week. In any case, it’s going to be awfully hot.”

“We’re doing both up and down this week,” he said firmly.

“Hmm.”

The sound that escaped her throat suggested he was not only a hard-ass but a brutal boss to his crew. “Demolition is back-breaking, hot, filthy work,” he explained, trying not to resent having to do so.

“I realize that.”

“Then you also realize we’re far better off digging in and getting it over with quick as possible.”

“Okay…well, maybe you guys can start and complete the entire renovation downstairs before moving to the next floor.”

“No. Not cost-effective.”

“Hmm,” she said again doubtfully, and he narrowed his eyes. Why didn’t she want them upstairs this week? He would have pushed for answers but each of his crew’s heads were whipping back and forth between the two of them as if they were watching a tennis match.

He was not going to make a scene. The woman wanted to breathe down his neck all day long? Fine. Today was going to be particularly brutal. By the end of it, her hair would be in her face, her creamy skin smeared with dirt and no way was that million dollar linen going to make it through unscathed.

She’d be, at the very least, hot, sweaty and rumpled, and he could only hope he would get that insane urge to see it right out of his system.

“Let’s move it,” he said to his crew, and they scattered.

3

FOR SEVERAL DAYS, Taylor kept close tabs on the demolition, from a safe distance of course. She wasn’t stupid enough to rile the beast any further, though she had to admit, she had been able to rile him with little to no effort so far.

She supposed that meant he felt the same irritating physical attraction she did. And it was purely physical. A man as alpha as Mac was only good for the physical. There was nothing sensitive, tender or gentle about a man like that, nothing.

He wasn’t someone to fool around with. He’d swallow her whole and spit her right back out, and in her world, she was the one who did the spitting, thank you very much.

What she needed, if she needed at all, was a far more beta man to have fun with, to walk all over, if that’s what she was looking for.

And maybe she would. Later. Right now she had bigger problems, such as figuring out how to keep her contractor from learning she wasn’t just going to be casually around, she was still living here.

Not because she didn’t trust him, as he figured, but because she didn’t have the money to move out and get another place. Every cent she had was sunk into this building and the renovations. Until she could get more tenants—something else she was dependent on her contractor for—she was pretty much stuck.

Suzanne and Nicole had each offered her a place to stay. But Nicole lived in Ty’s house now, and Suzanne with Ryan. Both were deliciously, deliriously drunk on true love. She knew the feeling, oh yes, she knew, but she couldn’t watch it or witness it too closely. She just couldn’t.

She figured she’d just stay here, quietly, out of the way.

Undetected.

But that would be tricky, because now she knew the truth, that very little, and quite possibly nothing, got past one Thomas Mackenzie.

“You want to move, Princess, or you’ll feel the effects of this dust in two seconds flat.”

Having come out of nowhere, the tall, moody, opinionated man in question stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. She leaned against the railing on the second-floor landing just outside her apartment, the one he didn’t realize she still slept in.

He wore a hard hat, protective goggles and a face mask, which he’d shoved off his mouth, and was now hanging around his neck. He also wore a fine layer of dust that clung to his damp body. So did his dark T-shirt, which she was quite certain shouldn’t make her pulse quicken. He seemed so huge, so powerful and virile standing there with his sledge hammer in hand as he stared up at her from those whiskey eyes. And ridiculous as it was, she quivered like a mare in heat. It was shockingly, amazingly juvenile, and if she’d known how it was going to be, she’d have found another man for the job.

No, scratch that, difficult as he was, she wouldn’t want to work with anyone else. He was abrupt, in sensitive and far too hardheaded, but he was a damn good contractor and he was honest to a fault.

Honest or otherwise, he slowly climbed the stairs, holding her gaze in his, until he stood right before her, all but surrounding her with his size and strength in what she considered was a deliberate at tempt to establish his dominance.

Well, she was dominant, too, and she lifted her chin and stared him down.

“You’re not moving out of the dust,” he said.

She wouldn’t back up, not even one little step, though he was close enough now that she could feel the heat of his body, could see the look in his light brown eyes, and it was a very confident, cocksure look.

Even her heartbeat responded to his nearness, quickening, causing a glowing, growing heat within her body. Combined with the almost frantic awareness humming through her every nerve ending, she felt like a bomb waiting to go off.

No. She couldn’t be attracted to him, he wasn’t what she wanted in a man. He wasn’t quiet, easygoing. He wasn’t laid-back. And he certainly wouldn’t let her walk all over him.

Damn, but it had been a long time since a man had gotten to her like this, really gotten to her. And to be fair, Jeff Hathaway had been more boy than man.

They’d met in second grade. Jeff had slugged Tony Villa for calling her a Jolly Green Giant when she’d worn a green dress and green tights with matching green patent leather shoes, and even back then Taylor’s heart had sighed.

In sixth grade Jeff held her hand at lunch break, not caring who saw, and her heart had sighed again and again.

By high school, they’d been soul mates. She’d known he was the one, no matter that he came from what her mother had called an undesirable family. Jeff was her family.

They’d wanted to get married right out of high school but she hadn’t turned eighteen and her mother wouldn’t give her permission. So they plotted away the summer, talking about college, where they’d room together, and then sneak off to Vegas when she turned eighteen in October.

By that time, Jeff had been her best friend, her lover, her future husband and her entire life.

And on the last day of September, he’d been killed in a car accident.

Those days immediately following, and even several years after, didn’t bear thinking about. But al ways having been strong of heart, Taylor did eventually heal. She even moved on, and dated a little in her early twenties, when fast, fun and reckless were infinitely preferable to deep and emotional.

Even now at twenty-seven, she felt perfectly nor mal, but a part of her was missing. The best part. Jeff.

God, she’d loved him. Oh, she could still function, could even care about a man. She could laugh and learn and do all the things she’d done before.

But one thing had irrevocably changed. Now when she let a man in, it was simply to soothe a need, whether it be wanting to be held against his hard body, or merely needing a sexual release that didn’t come from something battery operated.

Nothing more, nothing less, as even now, nearly ten years later, she couldn’t imagine going through that soul-destroying love ever again.

“Princess?”

How could she have forgotten the very unforgettable man looking at her? The one man since Jeff she’d actually found herself yearning for.

There. The admission was out in the open, not that she was going to do anything about it. He was not, repeat not, her type. “I’m not allergic to a bit of dust.”

“You haven’t been breathing it in. Continue to stand there while we demo the hallway and your lungs will be burning within half an hour. Not to mention the pounding sinus headache that accompanies it.”

Was that concern? If so, it didn’t bear thinking about, as it might soften her toward him. And given her body’s response to his without letting her brain get into the mix, that would be just plain stupid. And dangerous.

“Thanks for the concern,” she said sweetly, and turned away. She entered her apartment, stripped now of all furnishings and personal belongings except for the bedroom. Everything had been taken to her storage unit, where she also kept her precious antiques.

But here, in her private sanctuary, her bedroom, she still had her huge four-poster bed and the luxurious beddings left over from the good old days be fore the end of her bottomless—and now nearly extinct—bank account.

She wasn’t upset she had to make her own way in the world. In fact, it was a challenge she appreciated.

What she resented was how it had happened, so abruptly, even cruelly, without a thought to her feelings.

Saying that her family wasn’t close was something of an understatement. Her family was selfish, all of them, including herself. They each cared more about their immediate world than each other, all of them including herself. Taylor hated that, and as her heels clicked across the bare floor, she yearned for it to be different. She yearned for more. She needed…something.

It wasn’t often she allowed herself to need, but she needed to now. Sitting on her bed, she pulled out her cell phone and called Suzanne.

“How’s my unit coming?” Suzanne asked. “Nearly ready for me?”

Taylor could hear pots and pans clattering, and smiled, feeling soothed already. For as long as she’d known Suzanne, she’d smelled like vanilla, had some sort of food stain on one part of her person or another and was always in the middle of whipping up something mouthwatering.

“Your unit is coming along,” Taylor assured her. “You’ll be opening Earthly Delights in no time.”

“I’m ready.”

“Me, too.” Hopefully she’d be right next door opening her own store as well. If she could afford to get away without a tenant’s monthly cash flow. She sighed. “I can’t wait to have you around again.”

The clanging slowed. “I thought you were enjoying your solitude.”

“Yeah, well, not as much as I thought I would, it turns out.”

Now the clanging stopped all together. “Taylor? What’s the matter?”

Damn it, she’d given herself away. Caring deeply for her friends and opening up to them were two different things entirely, at least for her. She didn’t open up easily.

Correction: she opened up never.

But complicating the matter was the simple fact that she didn’t really even know what was wrong, she only knew she felt this unsettling and vague…need. For what exactly, she had no idea. “I just wanted to say hi.”

“You sound…sad,” Suzanne accused.

“I do not.”

“Never mind. I’m coming over right after I finish up here. I won’t be but another half hour. I’ll bring ice cream, and you can tell me everything.”

Ice cream happened to be Suzanne’s cure-all for anything and everything. It usually worked, but this seemed bigger than even ice cream. “Chocolate?”

Taylor asked pathetically. “Double fudge chocolate?”

“Chocolate,” Suzanne promised. “Give me thirty minutes, hon, tops.”

Tempting, oh God, it was so tempting. But no matter how much she loved Suzanne, Taylor had never been able to tell her about her own painful past, about her distant family, about losing Jeff, and some how she knew that what she was feeling now was all tied up with that. And she couldn’t go into it, not now, not after so many years of burying it, because she was afraid that if she did, if she let it out, it would destroy her all over again. “I have a Historical Society meeting this evening.” True enough. “But maybe tomorrow, okay?”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Kiss Ryan for me.”

“I wish you’d come stay with us so you could get away from the renovation, at least at night.”

“I’m fine.”

“I just don’t like you there in the heart of downtown, all by yourself in that big old empty building.”

“No one is going to bother me because the place is so old and empty. Don’t worry about me, I’m safe.”

“Of course I’ll worry, but that won’t stop you from doing as you please. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

Taylor flipped off the cell phone, and had just slipped it back into her pocket when Mac spoke in that low, husky voice of his, nearly causing her to leap right out of her skin. “You didn’t move out.”

Damn. “Well aren’t you observant.” Slowly, on her own terms, she shifted on the bed to face him.

Big mistake.

First, sitting on the bed while he was standing right next to it made her feel a little bit shameless, a little bit…hungry.

Horrifyingly so.

And second, there was the way he was looking back at her—eyes heated, glinting with that edgy, unreadable expression that made her thighs tighten.

Did he wonder how combustive they’d be in this bed, the way she wondered? Not that she intended to follow through on that wondering, but…

“I don’t know who you were just talking to,” he said. “But they were right. It’s not safe here at night, no matter what you think.”

“Of course it is.”

“The building is deserted, and in obvious renovation. You know damn well this street gets heavy foot traffic on a daily basis. You never know who’s going to come pawing through here looking to steal supplies or tools.”

“I lock up.”

He let a rough snort.

“I’m staying, Mac.”

“There are going to be times where there’s no electricity. No water. No gas. This isn’t going to be the Ritz, Princess. This is going to be little more than camping at best.”

She hadn’t had luxuries in months, but hell if she’d admit that. Or the fact that she was slowly selling off her beloved antique collection just to keep afloat here. He thought her a spoiled princess, so be it.

What he thought was no skin off her nose.

And if he really believed she was going to back off the first challenge in her entire life, the first chance she’d ever had to prove herself, to get by on her own, he was sorely mistaken. She’d continue her spaghetti and canned tomato diet for as long as it took. She was going to do this, and do it right, and not even for him, the first man to make her feel a twinge in the heart region in ten years, would she give it up.

“I’ll make sure I have batteries and drinking water,” she said.

He stared at her for one, long, unwavering heartbeat, then shook his head. “Are you always impossible and stubborn, or is it just me?”

Trick question, that.

He certainly hadn’t been the first man to find her difficult, and she doubted he’d be the last. But only one thing mattered to her, her battered pride. No way was she going to admit she couldn’t afford to go anywhere for the duration of the renovation, not to him, not to anyone. “I’m staying, Mac.”

“Through the dirt and noise, through the inconvenience, through the danger?”

The only possible danger came from him and him alone, but she doubted he’d appreciate the irony. “Through the dirt and noise, through the inconvenience, through the ‘danger.”’

“Taylor—”

“Wow, my name,” she marveled, cocking her head. “You do know it.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re doing this, aren’t you? No matter what I say.”

“I’m doing this.” She had no choice. “No matter what you say.”

4

SOUTH VILLAGE’S NIGHTLIFE rivaled the Sunset Strip as the busiest, most energetic area in Southern California. And yet the crowds it attracted weren’t wild or aggressive. Instead the attitude was a sort of laid-back and easygoing elegance.

The town’s founders had perpetrated this atmosphere with one goal in mind.

Wealth.

The old adage turned out to be correct—build it and they will come. The place had roared in the twenties, declined in the thirties and forties and rebelled in the fifties and sixties. True to the circle of life, it had been given a face-lift, slowly over the past twenty years, and had been turned into a gold mine.

As a result, there was never an available parking spot. Swearing, Mac circled the block. Then again. Damn it, he’d had a long day, all he needed was one little spot. Somewhere. Anywhere.

The heat was going to kill him. If Taylor didn’t kill him first, that is. She could do it with just her eyes, those amazing green eyes she thought hid everything from to the world and yet seemed so expressive to him.

Then there was her calm and cool, sophisticated, elegant exterior, which he hated. But he also was be ginning to understand all that was really just a front for a boiling pot of stubborn orneriness, and where there was stubborn orneriness, there was heat and passion.

And damn if he wasn’t a sucker for heat and passion. Oh yeah, he enjoyed a woman who knew what she wanted and how.

Or at least, he used to.

But his and Taylor’s fate was sealed, no matter how explosive he figured they’d be in bed, because she was everything he would never go for again.

And she was hiding something, he knew it. Some thing more than living in the building when he’d told her not to. God help her if it had something to do with this job, which he was depending on far too much for his own comfort.

Damn, letting himself feel again was a bitch.

And what he felt right now was hungry and tired, but attending tonight’s monthly Historical Society meeting was necessary. Rubbing elbows with the powers that be made him want to grate his back teeth into powder, but it had to be done, because though no one would ever admit to it, it truly wasn’t what you knew, but who you knew.

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