LITMIR.BIZ

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“Philippe, out with it. Who is this lovely creature?”

      “She’s my contractor, Mother.”

      Lily laughed dryly. “You have your father’s sense of humor. I would find him alone with all sorts of beautiful women. He always referred to them as his clients. Even in the dead of night when I came back from a tour and discovered him indisposed, so to speak.” There was no malice, no hurt in her voice. She was simply recounting something from the past that had occurred in her life.

      Still, Philippe couldn’t believe she was saying this in front of a stranger. “Mother,” he said sharply, glancing at J.D.

      “I really am his contractor,” Janice told her. “I need a check from you to make a down payment on the materials we decided on,” she told him.

      Kelli tugged on the woman’s hand. “I’m Kelli,” she informed her. And then proceeded to blow her away by asking, “Are you the lady who painted the pretty picture over there?”

      Lily seemed stunned and then immensely pleased. “Why, yes, I am.” She bent down to Kelli’s level. “Do you like it?”

      Kelli’s hair bounced about her face as she nodded. “Very much.” And then she added in a very grown-up voice, “I paint, too.”

      Lily smiled warmly. “Do you, now?” There was genuine interest in her voice, not just the sound of forced tolerance.

      “Yes, she does. Very well.”

      The confirmation with its comment came not from Kelli or even J.D., but from Philippe. His mother looked at him with an interested expression that immediately told him he should have kept that comment to himself.

      But since he hadn’t, he might as well back up what he’d said. He looked at J.D. “Why don’t you show my mother the drawing you carry around with you?”

      Janice paused. It was one thing to show the drawing to a person she was talking to, it was another to show it to a woman who had had her paintings on display in galleries in Paris.

      But Kelli gazed up at her so eagerly, there was nothing else she could do. Taking out her wallet, Janice carefully unfolded the drawing she kept tucked away there, then handed it to Lily.

      Lily studied the drawing with great interest. “You did this?” There wasn’t a hint of a patronization in her voice.

      Kelli nodded. “Uh-huh.”

      Lily’s smile crinkled into her eyes. “Really?”

      “Really,” Kelli echoed, then crossed her heart with childish fingers.

      Lily looked up in Janice’s direction. “This is very, very good.”

      Janice already knew that, but it was nice to hear a professional agree. “Thank you.”

      Lily studied the drawing again. It looked better to her with each pass. “Have you thought of getting your daughter some professional training?”

      It was one of her cherished hopes, but it was something to address in the future, not now. “She’s a little young for that.”

      “How old is she?” Lily asked.

      Kelli responded instantly. “I’m four and three-quarters.”

      “Oh, four and three-quarters,” Lily parroted, suppressing a smile. She glanced up at Janice. “Mozart was four when he wrote his first concerto.”

      “Well, he ultimately didn’t wind up very well, did he?” Janice countered. She didn’t want anyone treating Kelli like some oddity.

      “Well-read, too.” Lily nodded, looking back at her son. Her comment, clearly about J.D., was for Philippe’s benefit. “You’ve given me hope, Philippe.”

      “Remodeling, Mother, she’s remodeling a couple of rooms for me.”

      “Four,” Janice corrected. “I’m remodeling four rooms for you.”

      “Very promising,” Lily commented. Philippe could almost see his mother’s thoughts racing off to the finish line. Any protest he might offer would only make the woman believe the very opposite. This was a case of discretion being the better part of valor.

      So for the time being, he kept his silence and hoped for the best. He’d survived Hurricane Lily before.

       Chapter Eight

      Like most people, Philippe had a temper. However, unless one of his own was being threatened, it took a great deal to nudge that particular part of his personality awake. He usually took things in stride. Being stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic didn’t faze him. But deadlines that came and went, his deadlines, made him uneasy. Because he felt responsible for the failure to meet this particular deadline, he’d become progressively more irritated.

      And God knew, the noise wasn’t helping.

      Philippe looked accusingly at the closed door. He’d been in his office for the last three hours and it was just getting worse.

      This was definitely not what he had bargained for.

      Afraid of losing his work, he saved it, assigning the program’s temporary name yet another number to differentiate it from previous versions. He laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back in his chair.

      When he’d agreed to have work done on his house, he’d forgotten to consider one important thing.

      The noise factor.

      Right now, the house abounded with it. How could one woman create this much noise? It seeped into every crevice of the house, taking his office prisoner.

      It didn’t matter if his door was open or closed. He was still very much aware of it. Sometimes the noise was loud, sometimes almost deceptively soft, making him think that perhaps he’d weathered the worst. But then it would start again. And continue.

      At its best, the noise could be likened to an erratic heartbeat. At its worst, it was like the circus setting up winter quarters outside his door—with a herd of less-than-tame elephants in charge of doing all of the hammering.

      It had been like this for three days.

      Philippe dragged his fingers through his hair and counted to ten. And then ten again. It didn’t help. His long dormant temper had gone short-fuse on him.

      Abandoning his computer and its multitude of crashes, Philippe went out into the hallway and made his way to the kitchen, the source of all this ungodly noise.

      He was ready to do whatever it took to get some peace.

      Wearing safety goggles and wielding a sledgehammer, J.D. didn’t seem to see him at first. For a second, despite the irritation that was close to the boiling point within his chest, he hung back, just watching her.

      She swung that sledgehammer like a pro. Tirelessly. Splintering cabinets she’d already crowbarred from the wall.

      He found the rhythmic movement oddly hypnotic. J.D. wore faded jeans that seemed to lovingly adhere to her every curve and a gray T-shirt that was damp in several places, obviously with her sweat.

      Construction had never looked so good.

      Something inside him stirred as he continued to watch her work.

      One final swing and she broke apart the last of the cabinets. Now the mess just needed to be hauled away. The kitchen was gutted, barren, like the aftermath of a hurricane. He assumed the rebuilding would begin tomorrow. He’d never gotten around to picking out his new appliances. He’d left that entirely up to J.D. A small part of him couldn’t help wondering if perhaps that had been a mistake.

      She had muscles, he realized as he stared at the way they moved and flexed.

      Damn,

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