Secretly Yours

Remembering what Annie had said about the front step, he set his toolbox beside it. He noted immediately that the step was not only broken, it was actually dangerous. It was a wonder Annie hadn’t fallen, landing on the oversize rocks that had been used to outline the unplanted flower beds on either side of the front door. He frowned as he recalled her saying that she’d almost tripped several times. She was very lucky she hadn’t.

Pulling out a hammer, a handful of nails and a level, he found himself thinking about Annie Stewart. She hadn’t been at all what he’d expected. For some reason, he thought she’d be older—much older. But she’d looked even younger than his own twenty-six years—and was so small and delicate he could hardly imagine her tackling heavy cleaning every day.

He supposed she could be considered pretty—if he had a taste for a heart-shaped face dominated by big, long-lashed brown eyes. Or a tip-tilted nose and a full, soft mouth bracketed by shallow dimples. Add to those attributes her glossy, shoulder-length, chestnut-brown hair and a petite, but definitely feminine figure, and most men would probably start fantasizing about getting to know her better. Trent, on the other hand, had taken one look at her and made a silent vow to keep his distance.

If there was one thing he didn’t need in his life now, it was a sweet young thing who seemed to be in even worse shape than he was, judging from what his mother had told him. Annie apparently had no family, no friends in town yet and obviously no money if she was forced to live in this dump. He, on the other hand, had more family than he knew what to do with, old friends who were determined to stay involved in his life even though he had tried his best to push them away, and a nagging uncertainty about his future that seemed to have no workable solution.

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 respected 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.