Secretly Yours Page 2

  He definitely had no interest in getting involved in Annie Stewart’s problems—whatever they were. He would make this house reasonably safe for her to live in—at least as much as he could accomplish in the four weeks he’d granted her—and then he would sequester himself into his own sanctuary again. No matter how hard his mother and others tried to drag him out.

  BY THE TIME Annie finished cleaning Trent’s place, she was in love—with his furniture. Polishing his wood was the most sensual experience she’d had in ages, she thought ironically, slowly stroking a hand over a satiny-smooth cherry tabletop.

  The solid wood, raised panel cabinets in his kitchen were works of art. The tables and chairs were solid, exquisitely crafted and so beautiful she found herself wasting several minutes just admiring them. An oversize rocker beside the stone fireplace in his cozy living room proved an irresistible temptation; she was unable to deny herself the pleasure of sinking into it, putting her head back and slowly rocking for ten blissfully lazy minutes.

  The hand-crafted furniture was the only evidence of personality she found anywhere in Trent’s four-room cottage.

  Bobbie McBride had claimed her son was a skilled woodworker. If these pieces were examples of his work, Bobbie had been guilty of major understatement.

  Before she left, she wrote Trent a note and stuck it to the refrigerator with a magnet. It was simple and to the point: “Mr. McBride, the lightbulb in the bedroom blew out. I don’t know where you keep the replacement bulbs.” She wasn’t able to resist adding, “Your furniture is beautiful.”

  Long after she left his house, while she was cleaning and scrubbing other places, Annie regretted that impulsive postscript. He’d made it clear he wanted to keep their arrangement strictly professional. She wouldn’t be the one to cross that line again.

  THE FIRST THING Trent noticed when he limped into his house four hours after he’d left Annie there was the faint, fresh scent of lemon. It smelled clean, he thought.

  The scent reminded him of Saturday afternoons from his childhood; his mother had spent nearly every Saturday morning cleaning and polishing. Because he didn’t like to dwell on the carefree days of his youth, days he wouldn’t see again, he pushed the memories away and headed for the kitchen in search of a cold drink and a pain pill. His back ached, letting him know he’d done too much today. He hated being nagged—even by his own abused body.

  He spotted Annie’s note as soon as he entered the room. Prissy handwriting, he thought, deciding it looked like her. He could still hear the prim, polite way she’d called him “Mr. McBride.” He read the note, his attention lingering on the last line.

  She thought his furniture was beautiful. Had she guessed that he’d made most of it himself? Had she somehow known that his woodworking was the only thing he took any pride or satisfaction from these days? It annoyed him that her compliment pleased him.

  Scowling, he pulled the note from the refrigerator and tossed it into the trash.

  ANNIE CLEANED the McBride Law Firm offices three afternoons a week—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She usually arrived just as everyone else was leaving and then locked up when she finished. She was running a bit late on Wednesday, the day after she’d cleaned Trent’s house, and everyone was already gone except Trevor McBride, who was working late in his office behind a pile of papers. A still-steaming mug of coffee sat at his elbow. Photos of his wife and his two young children lined the credenza behind him, giving a sweetly personal touch to the otherwise ultraprofessional office.

  He looked up with a smile when she entered. “Hello, Annie. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you, Mr. McBride.” She pushed a limp, damp strand of hair away from her face and returned the smile ruefully. “Except for resembling a drowned rat, of course. It’s really pouring out there.”

  He cocked his head, listening to the rain hitting the windows. “So I hear. It doesn’t seem to be letting up.”

  “I hope it stops before I get home. The way my bedroom roof leaks, I’d hate to drown in my sleep,” she said with a wry smile.

  “Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

  “No, thank you.” Having left her wet raincoat in the rest room off the lobby, Annie felt confident that she wasn’t dripping on the carpet when she crossed the room to empty his wastebasket. “I’ll be working in the other rooms. Let me know when you’re ready for me to clean in here.”

  “All right. By the way…”

  She paused in the doorway, studying him. Blond and blue-eyed like his younger brother, Trevor was an attractive man, though perhaps not as breathtakingly spectacular as Trent—at least in Annie’s opinion. She imagined his wife would probably disagree about which McBride brother was the most appealing. “Yes?”

  He seemed to choose his words carefully. “Mother told me about the service-swapping deal she made between you and Trent. That’s a satisfactory arrangement for you? You didn’t let my mother railroad you into it, I hope.”

  She smiled. “It’s a very satisfactory arrangement for me. I actually feel as though I’m getting the better end of the bargain. Your brother’s house is small, and he keeps it very neat. It definitely doesn’t need much cleaning. But he worked very hard at my place yesterday. I couldn’t believe how much he’d gotten done in just one morning.”

  Trent had repaired her precarious front step, replaced a broken board on the small porch and tightened a shutter that had hung loose at one window. He’d even mended the screen door, which had previously hung crookedly from a broken hinge.

  “Trent needs something to do to get him out of the rut he’s got himself into,” Trevor said. “This will be good for him.”

  “I don’t know about that, but it’s certainly helpful to me. It’s really sweet of your brother to do this.”

  Trevor choked on a sip of coffee. “Sweet?” he repeated, recovering his voice. “Trent? Er…have you actually met him, by any chance?”

  “Only briefly, yesterday morning.”

  “And you thought he was, um, sweet?”

  “I said what he’s doing is sweet,” she corrected, hesitant to apply the word to Trent, himself. “Helping me with the repairs, I mean.”

  “I see.” He chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Prior to his accident, I heard my brother referred to as wild, cocky and reckless. During the past year or so he’s been called sullen, surly and rude. I’m not sure anyone has ever called him ‘sweet.”’

  Though she was intrigued, Annie didn’t think she should be gossiping about one of her clients, even with his brother. “Still, I appreciate having my front step fixed so I won’t break my neck. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”

  She heard him laughing softly behind her when she left his office. It seemed that Trent wasn’t the only odd brother in the McBride family, she thought with a bemused shake of her head.

  TRENT WAS in his workshop Thursday night, rubbing wood stain onto a newly finished shelf, when the cellular telephone he’d brought in with him rang. He glared at the intrusive instrument, wishing he could simply ignore it, but it was probably his mother. If he didn’t answer, she would come charging over to find out what was wrong. He lifted the receiver to his ear. “What?”

  “Hello to you, too,” Trevor said, apparently amused rather than offended by his younger brother’s curtness.

  “What do you want, Trevor? I’m busy.”

  “I’m fine, thanks, and so are the wife and kids. Nice of you to ask.”

  “If you only called to needle me…”

  “No, wait. Don’t hang up. I really do have a reason for calling.”

  “Well?”

  “Jamie wants you to come to dinner tomorrow evening. She’s trying out a new recipe for gumbo.”

  Trevor swallowed a sigh. He didn’t want to hurt his sister-in-law’s feelings, but he really hadn’t been in the mood lately for cozy family dinners. He’d made that clear enough to his relatives, and they generally respect
ed his wishes, but every so often they felt compelled to drag him out again. He understood, sort of, but he wished they could just accept his need for more time and space to come to terms with what had happened to him. “All right. I’ll come.”

  “Try to contain your enthusiasm, will you?”

  “Is there anything else you want?” Trent asked pointedly.

  “No, but it was ‘sweet’ of you to ask. Of course, I’ve been told recently that you’re a very ‘sweet’ man.”

  “Who the hell told you that?” he asked, startled.

  Trevor laughed. “Your housekeeper. Apparently, you’ve earned her undying gratitude by fixing her front step.”

  “It’s a wonder she hasn’t broken a leg on it—or worse,” Trent muttered.

  “Pretty, isn’t she? Intriguing, too. I haven’t figured her out yet.”

  “You shouldn’t be trying. You’re a married man.”

  “Mmm. But you’re not.”

  “Forget it. Not interested.”

  “Then you’re even more of a cretin than I gave you credit for.”

  “Goodbye, Trevor.”

  “One more thing,” his brother said quickly, hearing the finality in Trent’s tone. “Annie mentioned that her roof is leaking. You might want to look into it, but don’t take any unnecessary risks. If you need help, give me a call and I’ll—”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “All right. We’ll expect you for dinner tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there,” Trent grumbled, then hung up before his brother could prolong the conversation.

  Pushing the lid onto the can of stain, he considered what he knew about Annie Stewart. She thought he was sweet. And she liked his furniture. And something about her shy smile made his stomach muscles quiver, damn it.

  This was going to be a long month.

  2

  ANNIE wore a briskly professional smile when Trent opened his door to her on Friday morning. The smile momentarily wavered when she saw him. As she’d left her house that morning, oddly nervous about seeing him again, she had tried to convince herself that he couldn’t really be as gorgeous as she’d remembered. But he was—and then some.

  Not that his attractiveness should make any difference to her, of course. She was here to do a job, not to drool over her client. “Good morning, Mr. McBride.”

  He seemed to study her smile for a moment, then nodded and reached out to relieve her of her supplies. Without speaking, he held the door so she could enter with her lightweight vacuum cleaner.

  She had to pass within inches of him to step inside, which made her even more aware of his height and the intriguing width of his shoulders. Chiding herself for being so easily and so uncharacteristically distracted from the job at hand, she asked, “Is there anything in particular you want me to do here today?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever needs doing. I heard your roof is leaking. How bad is it?”

  She frowned. “How did you…Oh, you’ve talked with your brother.”

  “Yes. So, where’s the leak?”

  Unsure how she felt about knowing he and Trevor had been talking about her, even in passing, she replied, “The worst leak is in my bedroom, but there’s also a small drip in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “If there are any supplies you need, I’ll pay for them, of course.”

  He nodded. “I get a discount at the local hardware store. If I need anything, I’ll put it on my account there and you can reimburse me.”

  She hoped the supplies wouldn’t be too expensive. The money she’d brought with her to Honoria had been severely depleted by utility deposits and other expenses required to move into the run-down house she’d inherited from her eccentric great-uncle. She still had money in her savings account from the sale last year of her uncle’s possessions, but she wanted to spend it wisely. Until she built a more solid clientele for her cleaning service, her income was somewhat limited.

  She thought wistfully of the bank account she had in Atlanta, money she wouldn’t touch unless it was absolutely necessary. After ending an engagement that had been the worst mistake of her life, she had boldly declared her independence from her family and their money nearly two months ago during a blazing row with her overbearing father. It had been her twenty-sixth birthday, and she had announced that she was quite capable of taking care of herself, paying her own bills, making her own decisions. She only wished she had known just how daunting—and expensive—such a declaration would be.

  The money wouldn’t have made any difference, she assured herself, still convinced she’d made the right decision. But at least a little forewarning would have kept her from being so overwhelmed by the financial reality of owning an old, neglected house.

  Realizing that Trent was studying her intently, and that she must have been standing there frowning for several long moments, she smoothed her expression. “Thank you all the work you’ve done, and especially for fixing my step. I feel much safer on it now.”

  He answered in a growl. “It was an accident waiting to happen. You’re lucky you haven’t broken your neck.”

  “You’re sure there’s nothing special you want me to do here today?”

  She was beginning to think he wasn’t going to answer when he surprised her by saying, “I’m out of clean socks. You can do a load of laundry, if you have time.”

  She smiled, pleased that he’d made a request for a change. “Sure. No problem.”

  “Lock up when you leave,” he said, turning abruptly away.

  “Yes, I will. And Mr. McBride, I—”

  Whatever she might have said faded into silence when he left without another word. He was walking stiffly today, she noted. Had he hurt himself working at her place Tuesday? She couldn’t help worrying about those injuries Martha Godwin had hinted at, but she suspected Trent wouldn’t appreciate personal questions.

  Since she was no more interested in answering personal questions than he probably was, she decided she had better just mind her own business.

  IT HAD BEEN a long time since Trent had been drawn out of his own problems enough to be actively curious about anyone else. But as he sat on Annie Stewart’s roof, pounding nails into loose shingles, he found himself wondering about her. He knew why he had chosen to live a hermit’s life during the past year—mostly because he hadn’t known what else to do—but what was Annie’s story? What had brought her to Honoria? Where was her family?

  She seemed intelligent enough and he would be willing to bet she was well educated. So why had she chosen to clean houses for a living? Had she no other goals, no plans? No dreams?

  Had her dreams, like his, been taken away, leaving her lost and aimless—a condition he knew all too well?

  “I had a feeling I would find you up there.”

  Frowning, Trent pushed his glasses higher on his nose and looked over the edge of the roof. His brother stood on the ground below, his hands on his hips as he gazed upward. “You should know better than to sneak up on a guy who’s alone on a roof.”

  “And you should know better than to be alone on a roof. You want to risk ending up in a wheelchair again?”

  Trent hated being reminded of his limitations. “You’re the one who told me Annie’s roof leaked. I’m fixing it.”

  “I also told you I would help you.” Trevor planted a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder propped against the side of the house.

  Trent suddenly realized that his brother wore jeans and a sweatshirt rather than his usual suit and tie. “Don’t you have to work today?”

  Joining him on the roof, Trevor shook his head. “Nope. I took the day off. Mental-health day. I don’t have to be in court, and all my appointments can wait until next week. Jamie’s teaching, Sam’s in school and Abbie’s with the nanny. Today is all mine.”

  “So you decided to spend it on Annie’s roof.”

  Trevor shrugged and reached for an extra hammer from Trent’s toolbox. “I decided to spend it with you.”

/>   Trent had to make an effort to grumble. “I’m having dinner at your house this evening. Isn’t that enough family togetherness for you?”

  Unoffended, Trevor moved to a curled shingle and examined it. “The roof really needs to be replaced altogether.”

  Remembering Annie’s cautious look when she’d offered to reimburse him for supplies, Trent shrugged. “I don’t think she can afford that right now. I’m patching the leaks as well as possible until she can have the whole job done.”

  Trevor reached for a handful of roofing nails. “Having any trouble with your back?”

  His back ached every time he stretched and bent, actually, but he had gotten used to pain. On a scale of one to ten—and he was all too well acquainted with ten—he considered his current discomfort a six. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. Just be careful not to overdo it.”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like Mom.”

  Trevor made a production of looking horrified. “God forbid.”

  A small plane passed overhead, flying low as it headed for the private airstrip on the north side of town. Trent’s gaze was involuntarily drawn upward. He noted automatically that the craft was a Beechcraft V-tail, that the landing gear was already down, the descent slow and smooth. His knuckles tightened around his hammer, and he could almost feel the yoke in his hands.

  The plane disappeared behind a line of trees. His memories flashed to the last time he’d flown. And then moved further ahead, images so vivid he could almost smell the smoke again, hear the creak and pop of heating metal, feel the pain of his injuries and the sick certainty that he would die there in the wreckage of aircraft and ego, a casualty of his own recklessness.

  “Trent?”

  Something in his brother’s voice made Trent suspect it wasn’t the first time he’d spoken. “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Are you going to talk or nail shingles?” Trent retorted, chagrined at being caught in one of his frequent daytime nightmares. The ones during the night were even worse, but at least he had no witnesses then.