The Man for Maggie

She dumped the spatula back in the blender, spread the stuff around with her fingers and spoke without looking up. “I finally got it right. You will not believe how good this feels.”

She popped the tip of one finger between a pair of very luscious-looking lips. “It even tastes—” She glanced up then. “Oh! You’re not Allison.”

He watched her grab for the nearest kitchen implement and smiled when she ended up arming herself with a wooden spoon.

“Who are you?” she asked. “How did you get in here?”

“Nick Durrance. Through the front door. It wasn’t locked and you did say I should come in.”

“I thought you were Allison.”

“I think we’ve already established that I’m not.”

She glared at him and he chided himself for being a smart-ass. Let’s face it. Most women would be surprised to look up and find a six-foot-four construction worker standing in their kitchen.

She pointed her weapon at him. “Allison lives next door. I called her to come over and test my new rejuvenating pore-cleansing facial mask. She’ll be here any minute.”

The corners of his mouth twitched and he had to cover them with his thumb and forefinger to make them behave. He understood she was startled but she looked perfectly ridiculous. A pencil protruded from the untidy bundle of dark red hair piled on top of her head and almond-shaped brown eyes gazed suspiciously from two circles in the pink stuff she’d smeared on her face. What man in his right mind would attack a woman who looked like this?

“Listen. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He took a step forward, and she jumped to her feet and jabbed the wooden spoon in his direction.

“Watch it, mister. I’ve taken self-defense classes.”

He found that difficult to believe. From the neck up, she looked like a cross between Wilma Flintstone and Lucille Ball on a bad-everything day, but from the neck down…whoa! Even faded denim shorts, a purple tie-dyed T-shirt and a string of pearls couldn’t disguise a body that just wouldn’t…

Wait a minute. Pearls? Who wore pearls anymore? Even his mother had abandoned hers for the kind of bling that Hollywood types wore these days. Apparently pearls were passé. Maybe too reminiscent of the dutiful wife who greeted her husband at the door at the end of the day with a sweet smile and a whiskey sour.

One thing was for sure. This woman was no June Cleaver. If the state of the kitchen was anything to go by, she’d created her rejuvenating cream from yogurt and an assortment of fruit that she’d whipped up in a blender, resulting in the fruit salad scent that had drawn him down the hallway. That, and the voice that felt like the hot-rock massage he’d once experienced at the hands of an even hotter little masseuse whose fear of commitment matched his own. Not that he’d wanted her to commit. He’d wanted her to pay for the work he’d done for her. She’d had other ideas.

“I’m sure your friend is eager to have her grocery store facial but I’m here to see Miss Meadowcroft, so if you could—”

“I’m Miss Meadowcroft.” She still stared at him warily but lowered the spoon a few notches.

“Are you?” This time he let the corners of his mouth have their way. “Then I have to tell you, that miracle product of yours really seems to work. You look much younger than the last time I saw you.”

She laughed at that. Not the contrived halfhearted giggle that masqueraded as laughter in so many women. Hers was deep and exuberant and it flowed over him like honey on warm toast.

“I’m her niece,” she said. “Her great-niece, actually. Miss Maggie Meadowcroft, makeover specialist.”

“I see. Is Miss Meadowcroft—retired high-school English teacher and tormentor of teenage boys—here?”

She went serious. “You were one of Aunt Margaret’s students? She did have a way of always making you want to try harder, didn’t she? To do better.”

That was one way to put it. “I wasn’t one of her ‘do better’ students, but apparently she wants to renovate this place, and that’s something I can do.” Although Shakespeare was still way beyond him, he’d like to show Miss Margaret Meadowcroft that he was good at something.

Maggie tipped her head to one side and looked him up and down, taking her time about it. “I’ll bet you’re a Capricorn. Determined, distrustful, a little on the cynical side.”

“So I’ve been told. It takes most people longer to figure it out though.”

She smiled again. “I knew it. I have a kind of sixth sense about these things.”

Give me a break. “Listen, is your aunt—” Some of the yogurty goop dripped off her chin and plopped onto the worn linoleum.

She laughed again. “Oops! I’m dribbling.”

He grabbed a towel off the back of a kitchen chair and tossed it to her.

“Thanks. I’ll go wash this stuff off.” She flung the wooden spoon onto the table and dashed out, holding the towel under her chin.

She was back in less than two minutes and all Nick could do was stare. Why would anyone cover such a beautiful face with…food?

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No. No, everything’s fine. I should probably talk to your aunt though.”

Her eyes went moist. “Aunt Margaret died six months ago.”

Add clueless to his list of Capricornian flaws. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

She grabbed a tissue out of a box on the table and wiped her eyes. “It was a heart attack—quick as could be, the doctor said. She didn’t suffer at all. I still miss her like crazy but she’s in a happy place now so I try not to feel badly for her.”

A “happy place”? How was he supposed to respond to that? She talked as though she had some kind of inside information.

She brightened a little. “She left everything to me. That’s pretty wonderful, don’t you think?”

Wonderful for his bank balance. “So, you want to renovate this place?”

“Yes. Lucky for me she left enough money for me to fix up the house and start my business.”

Lucky. So why was his conscience niggling at him? “It’s going to need a lot of work. I think it should be rewired and it definitely needs a new roof. You know, you could always sell it and buy yourself a nice condo.”

“A condo?”

He might as well have suggested she cut off an arm.

“I don’t think you understand,” she said. “I don’t just want to live here. I’m going to open a day spa and do natural makeovers. It’ll be called Inner Beauty.” She smiled up him. “‘Making the most of what you’ve got, naturally.’ That’s my advertising slogan. What do you think?”

“Catchy.”

“I thought so, too! Most spas just work on the person’s external appearance but I do makeovers from the inside out. If a person feels good about themselves, then they’re naturally beautiful. You know what I mean?”

He didn’t have a clue.

“Everyone’s always said I have a way with people. Even Aunt Margaret thought so.” She waved a hand around the kitchen. “This will be my workspace where I’ll create all my beauty products.” She ran a hand over her cheek. “Like my rejuvenating pore-cleansing facial mask. It works like a dream. Feel.”

She wanted him to touch her? No way.

“Go ahead.” She took his hand and guided it to her face. “Amazing, huh?”