The Honeymoon House

She glanced out the office door into the fifteenth-floor hallway. The hall was deserted on that Saturday. She returned to Harrington’s private office, closed his door—and realized there was no lock.

She remembered he had said he’d be back in forty-five minutes or so. She had time. So she quickly lifted her skirt and began tugging down her panty hose.

In the multilevel Century City underground parking structure, Paul Richards drove his faded green van, looking for a parking space. He was so eager to talk to Mr. Harrington that he was forty minutes early for his appointment.

He was just about to turn into a spot, when the engine sputtered and died.

“You did it again,” he groaned, shaking his head. His van had stalled out on him fifteen times in the past month.

He pulled out a wrench from his construction tool belt lying on the worn passenger seat. He got out and yanked open the hood of the van, then tinkered with the valves to get the engine going again.

He needed a new van. He needed to pay his mortgage on his small cottage in Santa Monica. And he needed his general contracting business to grow, because residential building was at a record low.

At his last meeting with Mr. Harrington, Paul had handed him a business proposal. Harrington had the finances, and Paul had the construction talent. Paul hoped to create a partnership with Mr. Harrington to construct commercial buildings.

“Paul, I like your idea of a partnership,” Harrington had told him. “With me as the financier, you as the general contractor and Victor Horton, the architect you recommended, we could make an unbeatable team.”

If only Harrington would make his final decision, Paul wouldn’t be sweating it out anymore. As he slammed down the hood of his van, he anxiously glanced at his watch, wanting to hurry up to Mr. Harrington’s office.

A few minutes later, Paul quietly entered Mr. Harrington’s reception area. He wished he’d dressed properly for the meeting. He’d rushed from a construction site and was sweaty in work shorts and a T-shirt.

Paul noticed that the door to Mr. Harrington’s private office was closed. Mr. Harrington had told him many times to just walk in without knocking when he came by on a Saturday.

He wiped his perspiring hands on his shorts, turned the doorknob and barreled into the office.

“Mr. Harrington—” Paul’s words caught in his throat.

Standing in front of him was a shapely female holding up her skirt in one hand and panty hose in the other. His gaze landed on her tanned bare legs and pink bikini panties.

“What are you doing in here?” Danielle shrieked. She yanked down her skirt. Her cheeks turned bloodred with embarrassment.

Paul leaned against the door, unable to take his eyes off her. Her black hair flowed down her shoulders like silk. “Exactly what are you doing in here?” he asked, glancing at the nylon hose in her hand.

She immediately stuck the panty hose in her briefcase. “I—I have some work on the computer that I need to show Mr. Harrington when he returns,” she stammered. “So if you will please leave...”

“Leave?” Paul repeated, incredulous. “I’m here to see Mr. Harrington, too.”

“You can wait outside.”

“Are you throwing me out?”

She stared at him with bold turquoise eyes. “Listen, Mr. Whoever You Are, if you don’t get out of here in three seconds, I‘ll—I’ll—”

He was definitely intrigued. “You’ll what?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll do something!”

Paul smiled. “I’m open to all possibilities.”

“You’re—you’re impossible!”

Danielle felt exasperated, embarrassed, but most of all, she was frustrated at herself for being so attracted to him.

His charcoal gray eyes twinkled mischievously at her. He had curly brown hair that gave him a boyish quality. His green T-shirt hugged the hard muscles of his broad chest. She had to force her eyes away from the ample bulge in his denim shorts.

“Tell me,” he began. “Who are you? I’ve been here hundreds of times. I definitely would’ve remembered you.”

His steady gaze made her knees grow weak. “You first,” she insisted.

No man had ever thrown her off balance the way he had. She had to sit up on the edge of the desk to steady herself.

“Okay,” he began. “I’m—”

Just then, Mr. Harrington entered the office. “Paul, good to see you!”

Danielle immediately jumped off the oak desk, feeling like a complete fool. “Mr. Harrington, we were just talking.”

“Danielle Ford meet Paul Richards,” Mr. Harrington said. “Paul is the building contractor on my honeymoon house. And, Paul, Danielle is an architect interested in designing my house.”

“Paul Richards?” she repeated, incredulous. It couldn’t be. Paul Richards was the building contractor who’d ruined her first project, the Tilden house. And to top it off, he’d later given her an awful reference when a potential client of hers had inquired, even though he’d never even met her.

“Danielle Ford?” Paul asked.

The knowing twinkle in his charcoal eyes told how he obviously recognized her name.

“What a superb pleasure to meet you.”

Danielle was suddenly aware of Paul’s strong hand closing over hers. Though her mind fought it, she felt an electricity rush from his masculine hand through her entire body.

“Have you two ever worked together?” Mr. Harrington inquired curiously.

Danielle gulped. One word from Paul about the Tilden house, and her dreams of designing the honeymoon house and the children’s library were over.

“Hmmm...now, let me see,” Paul began with a teasing glint in his eyes.

She held her breath, begging him with her eyes not to say anything to Mr. Harrington about the Tilden house.

“While you two are thinking,” Mr. Harrington said, “I’ll take a look at Danielle’s computer sketch.”

As Mr. Harrington sat down at the computer to study her work, she felt panicky at not knowing what to do.

Paul leaned over to her and asked in a whisper, “You didn’t tell Mr. Harrington about your botched-up job, did you?”

“My botched up job?” she repeated. “You were the one who constructed the house all wrong!”

“No way!” he shot back in a hushed voice. “You designed a humongous house on a tiny piece of property. Your kitchen measurements were totally out of whack, and the kitchen ended up being larger than the living room. And you forgot to draw plumbing plans, so the bathroom had no pipes!”

Her hands shot to her hips, and in a low whisper she retorted, “Really? I saw pictures of the house after your construction. The windows you installed were lopsided. The floorboard was put in crooked. Nails popped out from the drywall. Great work, Mr. Richards!”