Wise Moves

But if Kristen turned out to be Elena, he’d set aside whatever warm feelings he had.

He was going to catch Benito. No matter who he had to use.

Chapter 4

Wednesday, May 16, 1:25 p.m.

Kristen pulled on a pair of faded jeans and a white T-shirt. She neatly folded the yoga pants and top that Sheridan had given her and put both in her knapsack, which she always kept packed.

Her movements were deliberate, slow, a holdover from her days growing up with her brother. He hated disorganization and sloppiness and he’d expected her to be perfect. Her hand slid to her cheek as she remembered a time when he hit her so hard she’d have sworn her teeth had rattled in her head. He’d been angry that day because she’d left her shoes out in the middle of her bedroom. He’d tripped on them when he’d come into her room to wish her well in school. But the stinging red mark he’d left on her face had meant she couldn’t go to school that day or the next. She’d been fifteen years old.

Kristen curled her fingers into a fist. Anger boiled inside her as she remembered how she’d cowered in front of him that day so long ago.

As she zipped the knapsack closed, she forced the memory from her mind and replaced it with Dane Cambia’s quick smile. His deep voice swirled in her head. He’d said all the right things and seemed like one of the good guys. And she liked him.

Kristen put on her sneakers and went downstairs. She came into the reception area just as Cambia closed a flip phone and tucked it back in on his belt holster. Instinct had her tensing.

He heard her and turned. Even white teeth flashed. “That was fast. I was just on the phone with the hardware store. Wanted to make sure the lumber I ordered had arrived.”

Feeling foolishly paranoid, she shoved her hands in her pockets. “Time is money, I suppose.”

“You are right about that, Miss Kristen.” He hitched his head toward the side door. “I’ve got my sledgehammer in the truck. The way I figure it, I’ll knock down walls and you can drag debris to the construction Dumpster out back. I just checked, and see it’s arrived.”

“It came this morning.”

“You mind helping me unload a few supplies from my truck? Many hands make light work.”

She was glad to have something to do. “You’re the boss.”

He grinned before heading out the front door. She followed. When she reached the front stoop, she paused and looked from right to left. Her stomach knotted. She’d not had this sense of anxiousness in months and was surprised she felt it now. Dane stood by a white van, the back door open. The van gave her pause. She’d heard they were soundproof—the perfect place to put someone if you wanted to snatch them.

Dane had shifted his gaze from her to the van’s interior. He started to pull out tools, totally relaxed.

What had gotten into her today?

She hurried down the stairs to the back of his van. Carpenter’s tools filled the neatly organized interior—hammers on the right, nails in labeled drawers, saws hanging from hooks. But what caught her attention was the condition of the tools. They were well used: the hammers nicked, the drop cloths spattered with paint and the circular saw’s handle worn. The wear and tear was tangible proof that Cambia was indeed a carpenter.

Her spirits lifting, she brushed bangs out of her eyes. “What would you like for me to carry?”

He handed her a drop cloth, eye protection and gloves as he hefted a large sledgehammer and crowbar out of the back. “This should be all we need to get started.” He locked the back of the van and tucked his keys in his jeans pocket. “After you.”

She headed back up the stairs, through the main door and into the small room. “So do we just tear the wall down?”

“I’ll cut the electricity to the room and then start removing the drywall. After that I’ll go for the studs and frame work.”

His tall, broad form filled the doorway. It had been a long time since she’d looked at a man with desire. But unexpected warmth spread through her veins.

“What do you want me to do with this?” she asked, holding up the drop cloth.

He moved into the room past her to the wall that needed to be demolished. “Spread the cloth in the hallway to protect the hardwood floors. We’ll contain the mess as much as we can.”

“Right.”

“Where’s your fuse box, Kristen?”

“Basement. Far right corner.”

“Great. Be right back. Might want to shut off the computer if it feeds into this circuit.”

“Oh, yeah, right.”

She quickly shut down the computer. Seconds later the lights in the reception area went out. The bright April sunshine shone through the large front window and provided enough light to see.

Cambia came back through the reception area and went to the room marked for demolition. Kristen followed. He shoved his large hands into well-worn gloves and started lightly tapping on the wall with his hammer. He looked confident and relaxed.

She enjoyed watching him work. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the studs—the supporting wood under the drywall. As I knock on the wall I can tell by the sound if I’m close to one.”

In the last nine months, she’d washed dishes, mucked out stalls, even tried to waitress, but she’d done nothing in construction and knew zero about it. “Oh.”

She spread out the drop cloth, careful that it covered all the hardwood in the entry hallway. Sheridan had had the floors redone just a year ago and had been worried that Cambia would damage them.

He put on his safety glasses and tossed Kristen’s to her. “Let’s get rolling.”

“Ready.”

“You stand clear, Miss Kristen. A hunk of drywall might hit you and we want to keep you safe.”

She stepped back. “Got it.”

“When I give the okay you can start collecting debris. For now just wait.”

“Okay.”

He lifted the hammer over his head and smashed it into the wall. The resounding crack sounded like gunfire and made her jump.

Cambia turned. “That noise scare you?”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

Who was she kidding? She would never be fine.

Cambia drove the sledgehammer, taking another hunk out of the wall. The energy of the strike reverberated through the hammer’s wooden shaft up into his arms. Since Nancy’s death, he’d been filled with pent-up rage and he’d wanted nothing more than to destroy everything in sight.

He remembered when his sister had first come to the foster home. He’d been thirteen, had lived in the home for two years and had fallen into a routine. Nancy had been ten years old. She’d had a broken arm and had been so afraid when she’d arrived. But instead of cowering, she’d given everybody, especially him, so much sass. At first he couldn’t stand to be around her, but Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, who’d raised fifteen foster kids over the years, had been patient. In time, her anger had faded and she’d started to lighten up.

He’d found out later that Nancy’s father had broken her arm. He’d been drunk and had hit her with his car when he’d zoomed out of their driveway. Eventually, the Bennetts got full custody.