The Unknown Malone

Exasperated, she said, “Well, at least I didn’t lose my soul!” It was all she could do to keep the big red smile pasted on her face. Oh, Lord, help me. I’m dying here! Okay, it was corny, but what was wrong with this guy? Most would have found this entrance amusing. And what was he gaping at? Regardless of her getup, she still had to be the most wholesome-looking woman around this place.

Maybe he was testing her under pressure. There had to be some mighty tough hombres frequenting this...this establishment. That had to be it.

She stepped off the porch and thrust out her hand, forcing all the confidence she could muster. “My name is Nicole. I came about—” she hoped he didn’t see her gulp “—the job.”

He looked at her hand as if measuring the possibility of contamination if he touched it.

“Nicole what?”

“Nicole Bedder.”

“Better than what?” he asked all too seriously.

Another time she might have laughed, but this guy had already proven he didn’t have a sense of humor. Nonetheless, she played his game. With an exaggerated look over her shoulder, she said, “Better than all the other applicants standing behind me.”

Reluctantly he took her hand, gave it a quick shake and said, “Michael Phillips. I own the place.” And what in the hell are you doing on my porch is what she read in his squinting blue eyes.

“Wait a minute. A man owns the—” She’d lost her character a moment, but quickly recovered. Beaming again, her voice sweet enough to cause diabetes, she said, “Hmm. Only fair, I guess. Equal rights and all.”

She let go of his long, callused fingers, stepped back and thrust her arms out to her sides. “I’m ready to start right now,” Please! Please!

He pushed the Stetson higher on his tanned forehead and stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t flinch. But after what seemed to be the most pregnant pause of the decade, she caved and spoke first.

“So...do I get the job?”

Two

When hell freezes over, Michael thought.

“I don’t know what job you’re applying for, but I need a helper, not a—” he stopped short of hooker and let her fill in the blank. He watched the slow batting of her dark lashes and noticed one corner was jutting straight out like a perched insect ready to take flight. He felt a smile tug at one corner of his mouth, but he controlled it. The last thing he wanted to do was encourage this...this spitfire.

“I can help,” she said.

He was afraid to ask how. He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re not what I’m looking for.” He turned away and started for the door. She was right on his heels.

“How can you tell? You haven’t even asked me any questions.”

He kept moving, hoping she’d give up and go away, knowing she wouldn’t. “For one thing, I need a man.” When she didn’t respond, he couldn’t help but turn. Her brown eyes were round, her mouth open.

“A man? Here?”

“Well... yes.” No way could someone so small and frail looking possibly carry a sheet of drywall or a bunch of two-by-fours up a flight of stairs. But then, he was certain that wasn’t what she came for.

She closed her mouth and looked defeated, then she took a step closer. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that sex discrimination?”

He hiked an eyebrow before giving her his back and walking up the steps to the front door. “Only if you’re willing to hire an attorney and take me to court.” He knew he had her now. If one thing was certain, her kind wouldn’t go looking for a day in court. Not intentionally, anyway.

Michael was halfway through the door when he heard a thud behind him. He turned and found her lying on the brick walk. In two long strides he was beside her and hunkered down.

“Ms. Bedder?” He watched and waited, hoping this was some sort of last-ditch effort to win sympathy. He touched her thin arm. “Ms. Bedder?” He could see her chest moving, though her breathing seemed shallow.

Faking or not, he couldn’t just leave her there. He scooped her up in his arms, her remaining shoe falling to the ground, and he was surprised at how light she was. At closer inspection he could see her pale and sallow cheeks, and for a moment he almost felt sorry for her...until he remembered what kind of woman she clearly was.

He carried her to the door and pushed it open with his shoulder, just as her eyes started to flutter open. A quick flash of surprise was followed by an indignant palm against his chest.

“What do you think you’re doing? Let me down this instant!”

He had a mind to drop her on her cute little backside, but he didn’t. He headed for the sofa and dropped her there instead. The errant eyelash was now pointing straight up and a grin escaped before he could control it.

“What’s so funny?”

He pointed to his own eye and watched her squirm. She removed the lash and tucked it in her skirt pocket, leaving her with one long-lashed round eye and one...one beautiful brown one. He wiped the grin off his face and started for the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“To get you a glass of water.” He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Or would you rather have something stronger?”

“I’d rather—” She started to stand, then fell back down.

Michael watched and waited. This woman was definitely not okay. In more ways than one.

She lifted her head off the back of the sofa, removed the remaining eyelash and stared at him for the longest time. It was as though he were seeing a different woman. This one had far less bravado and looked far more vulnerable. Damn. He hoped she wouldn’t cry. He hated it when a woman cried.

She lowered her gaze, and again he noticed how frail she looked. Without thinking he asked, “When’s the last time you ate?”

Her head popped up, and the original woman reappeared. “Oh, I’m on this fad diet. That’s all.”

If he’d learned only one thing over the past couple of years, it was to know when a woman was lying. In a flash, images of another woman, another place tugged him back in time. And just as quickly he stuffed them away. Instead, he looked through the front window at the old rattletrap parked in his driveway, then back to this woman’s pale face. “Look, I haven’t had lunch yet. Would you like to join me?”

Her face brightened and she found the strength to stand.

Great! Now why in the hell had he done that?

The phone rang in the kitchen and he left Ms. Bedder to fend for herself.

Nicole took a deep breath and padded barefoot into the kitchen, where she found Michael leaning on the open refrigerator door, staring blankly inside, a phone propped between his ear and shoulder.

“That’s right,” he said into the receiver. “The job’s still open.”

She nudged him aside and proceeded to retrieve lettuce, mayo, lunch meat and pickles from the fridge. Taking it all to a center chopping block, she looked around and found a pantry closet. Inside were bread and potato chips, which she added to her cache on the cutting board.

She pretended not to notice his gaze as he followed her around with his curious blue eyes and carried on his phone call at the same time.

“Do you have your own tools?”

Tools? She almost laughed. Like what? Handcuffs? Leather pants? What kind of tools would a man need for this job? She slapped mayo on four slices of bread. Then she decided to make Michael what’s-his-name a sandwich, too.

“No, you don’t need tools. I was just wondering.” He leaned a shoulder into the wall and looked out the bay window to the overgrown garden behind. “Any carpentry or remodeling experience?”