Cara O'Shea's Return, page 6
part #1 of Small Town New England Series
Erin scooted back her chair. “Let’s go ask Shan.”
Cara pointed her fork at Erin’s full plate. “There’s no rush. Eat your breakfast, Mrs. Espizitto.”
Chapter Nine
Shan balked at the idea, just as Erin predicted, but her eyes were full of the same cautious excitement Cara had seen in Meggy’s. And Cara knew her sister. The seed was planted. Shan would mull it over. All Cara had to do was sit back and let her.
For what seemed like the millionth time, she sent a silent thanks to Evan Malone. His friendship eased the loneliness during her eight years of self-exile, and his belief in her as an artist had brought her success beyond her dreams.
The memory of his grin the day he handed her that first, stunning commission check made her laugh aloud. God, she loved having a healthy bank account! Give her a beard and a belly and she’d give Santa a run for his money.
A wide smile tipped her lips as she rang Maive’s doorbell.
“You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.” Maive pushed open door. “Did you find a lost Rembrandt behind a wall in that building you stole from me?”
Cara laughed and followed her into the parlor. Maive moved to an open curio cabinet and resumed dusting the delicate figurines filling every shelf.
“I didn’t steal a thing from you, if I can believe my accountant. It sent him into convulsions having to write you that check.”
Maive harrumphed and swiped at a porcelain southern belle with the feather duster in her hand.
“Your carpenter may disagree with that opinion though. The stealing part.” Cara ran her fingers over the back of the settee. “He seems pretty possessive of my new home.”
“It’s not good for a man to always get everything he wants.” Maive waived the duster dismissively. “Disappointment builds character. Missing out on the place will be good for the boy.”
“And you think Michael Finnegan needs his character built?”
Maive turned, studying her. “I didn’t say that. Finn’s as fine a man as they come. He’s just led a charmed life. That kind of thing can make a man overconfident.”
“He is that,” Cara complained beneath her breath.
“So, you’ve come to talk about Finn.” Maive lowered to her favorite seat and waved for Cara to sit. “You won’t find a more talented craftsman in this county.”
“His talent as a carpenter isn’t in question.”
When Cara fell silent, Maive scowled at her. “Spit it out, girl. I’m ninety years old. I could keel over before you say what’s on your mind.”
Cara choked on a laugh, though she needed to tread lightly. The old lady was too perceptive for her own good, and Cara had never been very adept at concealing her emotions when it came to Finn. To avoid blurting out the entire embarrassing incident at the studio the other day, she asked, “Has he always gotten everything he wanted?”
“What kind of idiotic question is that?” Maive snorted. “You want me to answer your questions, you ask me straight out. What is it you want to know?”
Swallowing nerves threatening to choke her, Cara inhaled a deep breath. “I want to know about Andrea.”
“You want to know about his ex-wife?” Maive eyes glittered with speculation.
“It’s not what you think,” Cara quickly added.
“And just what is it I’m thinking?”
She was digging a hole deeper every time she opened her mouth. In the interest of self-preservation, she got to the point. “Finn told me Andrea left him because he retired from football.”
Maive nodded and her eyes went hard. “The woman was and is an insatiable social climber. I never knew what the boy saw in her. She loved the idea of being the wife of a famous quarterback infinitely more than she ever loved him—if she loved him at all. She married a congressman from Pennsylvania three months after the divorce. Good riddance, I say.”
Hearing his claim validated, a knot of guilt tighten in Cara’s stomach. Not that she’d actually doubted him. She simply found it hard to believe any woman would walk away from a man like Finn of her own accord. Apparently Andrea the Addlepated had done just that—and assigning ridiculous appellations to a woman she never even met was a sure sign she was losing her mind.
She realized she’d been staring into space for too long when Maive purred, “So, our Finn told you about his ex-wife, did he?”
Too rattled to be evasive, Cara muttered miserably. “I sort of asked him about her.” When Maive didn’t prod further, only sat there grinning, Cara rolled her eyes and explained. “Actually, I...sort of accused him of being unfaithful to her.”
Maive’s gray brows snapped together, all hint of amusement gone. “The hell you say! My boy would never do any such thing.”
“I know that…now.” Cara squeezed her hands together on her lap.
“What were you thinking? Accusing him of something like that?”
“I had my reasons.” Her defense sounded weak, even to her own ears. When Maive continued to frown, she blinked guiltily. “Okay, so I was wrong. I’m going to apologize, but he’s so angry with me he’s refusing to do the work on the studio. He told me to call some guy named Gillespie.”
“Of course he’s angry. I’d have been shocked if he wasn’t.” Maive leaned back on the settee. “His divorce is a sore spot for him. It’s the one time in his life he failed, and failed big in his mind.”
Cara grimaced and bit her lower lip. “You’re not making me feel any better.”
“Was I supposed to?”
She closed her eyes at the caustic reply and flopped back in the chair, defeated.
“Why would you accuse him of something like that, anyway? Do you even know Andrea?”
She opened her eyes and met Maive’s steady gaze, unsure what to say. She wasn’t sure she could explain, even if she wanted to. “It’s a long story.”
“And an even longer history?” Maive observed keenly.
Far too perceptive, Cara decided. When she remained stubbornly silent, Maive sighed.
“Not all marriages end due to infidelity, Cara. Some just end. Finn’s was one of those, and he was better off when it did.” Maive shrugged her thin shoulders before adding, “I happen to know Finn is up at that old rat trap of a place he’s restoring this afternoon. You remember where Maple Street is?” She didn’t wait for Cara’s reply. “It’s the old Sawyer place at the end of the street. You can’t miss it.”
“I’m not sure he’ll accept my apology. He was pretty mad.”
“Do you want Gillespie doing the renovations on your studio?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“Neither does Finn.” Maive cackled and sat forward on the settee. “Oh, if I know my boy, he’ll make you sweat a little, but he’s not going to let that clod Gillespie get his hands on your studio. You owe Finn a genuine apology.” Her eyes flashed with mischief. “Once you’ve given it, offer him the job again. When he refuses, and he will, thank him very sweetly for Gillespie’s name. You watch how fast the boy changes his tune.”
Cara’s lips formed a small smile. It faded quickly. “Why are you helping me? What I accused him of was rotten. I wouldn’t help me.”
“You’ll make it right with him.” Maive nodded with firm resolve. “And if I had to guess, I’d say you probably had a good reason for believing something like that of him, even if you turned out to be wrong. Besides…” She settled back once again. “I’ve seen the way Finn looks at you. I think you’ll be good for the boy.”
Cara scrambled to her feet. “That’s not what I want.”
“Isn’t it?” Maive studied her with keen eyes. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, too, girl. The sparks practically fly.” She cackled a laugh and rose to link her arm with Cara’s, leading her to the front door. “He’s just a man, Cara, albeit a fine looking one. Nothing to be scared of.” She opened the door and gave Cara a gentle shove onto the porch. “Relax and enjoy the ride, girl. And call me if you mess things up again.”
Chapter Ten
Relax and enjoy the ride? Cara was so nervous, she’d be lucky if she made it to the end of Maple Street without plowing into one of the trees lining the quiet road. Maive noticed the way she looked at Finn? Had anyone else? Had Finn? God, she hoped not. Regardless, it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be doing anything about the mutual interest obvious to a too perceptive old lady, if no one else.
Cara could measure her knowledge of romantic endeavors in a teacup, while Finn could fill an Olympic swimming pool with his experience with women. A man that skilled in romance would rip her to shreds, and whistle a happy tune as he walked away.
Considering his reputation, she was ten kinds of a fool to even consider signing him on to renovate her studio. But apparently she was okay with being a fool, because here she was, climbing the wide steps to the old Sawyer estate. She passed between the towering white columns of the one hundred-and-ten-year-old Georgian Revival, and pressed her finger to the doorbell.
A fresh coat of paint made the spooky mausoleum she remembered shine like a well-loved home. The glossy, eight-foot oak door gleamed like a large wooden portal, beckoning visitors to come inside and rest.
As she waited, she tugged nervously at her light-weight peach sweater, smoothing it over the waist of her short denim skirt. Her heart pounded erratically in her chest. She shouldn’t have worn this outfit, it was too girly, and she shouldn’t have worn her power heels, but the strappy, white Prada sandals said I’m a woman of confidence. And right now, she needed all the confidence she could muster.
When all remained quiet inside the old house, she heaved a sigh of relief, and turned to leave, happy to put off her apology for another time. The door swinging wide crushed her newly hatched relief and left her staring into Finn’s cool, blue eyes.
Oh yeah, he’s still mad as hell.
Before she could chicken out, she plunged into the apology she owed him. “I’m sorry, Finn. I made an assumption and…I’m sorry.”
He stood silently, a blank expression on his face while his eyes studied her. The moment stretched out until she decided he could stick her sincere apology in any orifice he chose. She was about to suggest just that, when he swung the door wide.
“Come on in,” he invited grudgingly.
She moved passed him and her eyes widened at the truly incredible staircase at the end of the grand foyer. The eight-foot wide flight leading to the second story curved majestically, the intricate carvings of the banister continuing all the way to the top to run along the hallway to the second floor rooms.
The door clicked shut behind her, and she whirled to face him. Swallowing, she held out the six pack of beer she picked up on her way.
“A peace offering.”
He took the package from her hand, and motioned for her to follow, guiding her down a long corridor to the left of the staircase.
“Oh.” She inhaled an admiring gasp as he pushed open a swinging wooden panel, and she stepped into a huge, homey kitchen. Her eyes roamed over the custom cabinets, the wide plank wooden floor, and finally, the built-in breakfast nook below a large bay window.
“This is gorgeous, Finn.” He grunted and pulled two beers from the box, holding one out to her. She shook her head. “I don’t drink beer.”
His eyes narrowed. “You drank wine at the wedding. What’s the matter? Is beer too common for a famous artist like yourself?”
Definitely still mad.
Well, she’d accused him of something pretty nasty. He was entitled to a little retribution. She’d allow him a swipe or two.
“No.” Ignoring his sneer, she glanced around the beautiful kitchen. “I just don’t metabolize beer very well.” He’d never know how true that was. She had learned the hard way on a cool June night years ago.
He replaced the bottle in the empty slot with a shrug. “Would you like a tour?”
“I think I would. Thank you.”
“This is the kitchen.”
His sharp tone told her he hadn’t expected her to accept, and wasn’t happy she had. Too bad. She didn’t mind throwing him a few curves while he got in his swipes.
“It’s beautiful.” The rich wood of the cabinetry reminded her of the built-in shelving in the bookstore. She smiled, recognizing his work. “Did you do the woodwork in here?”
“I’ve done all the renovation around here,” he said in a clipped tone.
He marched ahead of her, hurrying her through the sixteen room, seventy-five hundred square-foot home. Most of the renovation was finished from what she could see. Only two of the six bedrooms on the second floor still had the neglected appearance she expected to find throughout the house, considering how long the place had been vacant.
The seven fireplaces throughout the home were each more impressive than the last, the mantels amazing. He said the spiral staircase he’d seen was a work of art, but he was an artist himself.
He grunted noncommittally when she told him so. Did he think she was using flattery to soften him up so he’d accept her apology? She shrugged inwardly. That was fine with her. It allowed her to praise him in a way she would have been reluctant to do under normal circumstances. The warm, stunning showcase of a home he had created reinforced her belief he should do the work in her studio.
To that end, she took Maive’s advice when he ended the tour a few short minutes later, staring at her like a not-so-polite stranger at the open front door.
“I wish you’d reconsider taking on the work I need done at the studio. You’ve done beautiful work here, Finn. I want the same attention to detail for my own home.”
Hard blue eyes pinned her to the spot. “Gillespie is a harmless grandfather and a passable carpenter. He’ll give you what you want without making you freeze up like a frightened little girl.”
The insult stung like a cold slap. Wow! That hurt. Okay, she’d just given him his last damn swipe.
The bastard.
She met his angry gaze with the lift of her chin. “Maybe you’re right.” She turned away and walked out onto the porch before she gave in to the urge to belt him. “Thanks for the tour, Finnegan.”
She was half way down the steps when he growled. “I’ll be there at eight on Monday morning.”
She wished she could laugh at his capitulation—her esteem for Maive’s predictive abilities shooting up several points—but she was still smarting from his cutting remark. So, instead of grinning and claiming victory, she kept right on walking, without looking back.
“I’ll expect you at seven. Don’t be late.”
****
The three inch heels of her sexy sandals clacked against the flagstone walkway like rifle shots, but her angry stride did nothing to mar the seductive view. Above the mile of tanned, gut-wrenching legs, her shapely ass swished beneath the denim excuse for a skirt she wore. He frowned, unable to tear his gaze away until she climbed into her vehicle. The woman was driving him crazy.
Uttering a raw curse, he slammed the door with a thud. She had placed him in the same cheating husband category as her father, and though he understood how she could have come to that conclusion, he didn’t deserve her disdain.
When she threw her infuriating accusation in his face, it had been all he could do not to shake her, he’d been so angry. He’d been faithful to Andrea, damn it, even when their long-troubled marriage started to go to shit.
His ex-wife’s calm announcement, that he had lost his appeal once his pro career ended, ripped at his pride, leaving what little was left in tatters. The memory still had the ability to make him fume.
He spent the last four years burning his way through a series of utterly forgettable women, proving his ex-wife wrong, but the victory had been hollow. When it came to women, he’d been living life in the fast lane. Hell, more like the sexual equivalent of the autobahn. After racing down that road for so long, he red-lined, and finally, spun out.
Ultimately, none of the women, no matter how beautiful, were able to heal the shards of desperation piercing his soul. His failure to hold Andrea’s interest was always at the back of his mind, and none of the beauties sharing his bed had been important enough to allow him to overcome his failure. After four years, he’d lost all interest in trying.
His physical awareness of Cara O’Shea was the first tickle of real attraction he had experienced for a woman in months, and she seemed to be the only person on the planet who didn’t know the facts surrounding his divorce.
Well, she knew now. The question was, would it make any difference? She’d said she wasn’t interested, when the truth of the matter was, she didn’t want to be. Because she thought he was like her father? Would that change now that she knew the truth, or was there some other reason for her apprehension whenever he was around?
Instant guilt had slashed through him at the hurt flashing in her eyes when he blasted her with that frightened little girl insult, but she’d pissed him off, damn it. And a frightened little girl was exactly what she resembled when she ran back inside her studio.
He all but imploded during that heated embrace, despite it being obvious she didn’t have a clue what she was doing in the kissing department. How the hell did a woman who looked the way she did have little to no experience kissing a man? Despite her bunny-of-the-month body, the average high school girl had more experience than Cara O’Shea.
Not that her lack of knowledge mattered a bit at the time. The moment he held her flush against him, his mind ceased to function. If she hadn’t gone stiff in his arms, he didn’t know what would have happened. Dragging her down onto the lawn and not letting her up until they both lost all reason, and found paradise, had been a distinct possibility considering the way he’d been feeling…until she turned into a spitting cat.
When he broke the kiss and stared into her eyes, he found anger there, anger that didn’t quite conceal the same fear he’d seen in her expressive eyes several times before.
If she hadn’t been responding to him, he would have understood her reaction. Having a man’s tongue halfway down your throat would be alarming to a woman who kissed like a twelve year-old. But he had held enough women to know when one was fully engaged, and Cara O’Shea had been more than engaged. She burned like a flame in his arms. His nerve endings were seared wherever their bodies touched.
