The Honeymoon House

“I knew it!” Lisa replied with joy. “Mr. Harrington loved your computer sketch, didn’t he?”

“Just like you said he would.” She was still spinning with joy. “To celebrate, when you get home from work tonight I’m cooking your favorite Italian dinner.”

“Oh, no, I’ve got to work late,” Lisa said, disappointed. “Then, before I leave the office, I have to phone Manny before it gets too late in New York. You’ll probably be in bed when I get home.”

“That’s okay, Lee, we’ll do it tomorrow night.” Danielle knew how much Lisa looked forward to talking to her boyfriend, Manny, who had temporarily moved to New York for his job.

“I’m so happy about your new project!” Lisa added enthusiastically.

The moment Danielle hung up, she spread out her plans on the drafting table. She’d drawn a contemporary but warm two-story house in Malibu, near the ocean, with picture windows in the front facing eucalyptus, orange and lemon trees, and two large windows in the back facing a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

She made a quick list on a pad. First, she had to call a structural engineer for the framing plans. She wanted the honeymoon house to have a strong foundation because of L.A.’s earthquakes.

She also had to draw up the electrical and plumbing plans. She couldn’t forget the bathroom pipes! She was so excited she could barely write.

She’d show Paul Richards she was a good architect.

Paul Richards. She fingered the plans. She knew Paul could have easily told Mr. Harrington about her part in the Tilden house catastrophe. Why hadn’t he? Was he as attracted to her as she was to him?

Her stomach fluttered just thinking about working closely with Paul. The sensual way he looked at her in Mr. Harrington’s office had made her momentarily forget about work.

She put down her plans and drank a cup of cold water to calm her insides. She couldn’t allow her sexual attraction to Paul Richards to take over her senses. Hadn’t she learned the hard way that getting involved with a man she worked with only ended in emotional disaster?

As she drank the cool water, she remembered when she’d met Kevin three years ago at the architectural firm where they’d worked together. Kevin had been selfconfident and fun, and when she’d fallen in love with him, she’d shared her secret dreams with him.

She’d told Kevin she wanted to design a modern, high-tech house. She was sure a project of that magnitude would move her career ahead in their firm.

Her chance came. A wealthy client appeared in the office, seeking an architect to design his ultra-contemporary home. She excitedly told Kevin she was going to talk to the owner of their company right away and request that she be chosen for the job.

Kevin advised her to wait a little while. She listened to his advice because he loved her. He supported her. And she trusted him like family.

A few days later, she spotted Kevin talking privately with the owner. She was thrilled. She was sure he was recommending her for the job.

Then, one afternoon while Kevin was at a construction site, Danielle couldn’t find her drafting pen. When she searched Kevin’s drafting table for one, she felt the breath knocked out of her.

Hidden underneath other plans was Kevin’s sample design of the wealthy client’s modern, high-tech house and a letter to the owner of their firm requesting the prestigious job for himself.

She was crushed by his betrayal and devastated when she found out that the owner planned to move his architectural company to Chicago and wanted to take one talented, aggressive architect along with him. Kevin made sure he was that architect. He gave up their love as if it never mattered, as if she never mattered.

Danielle crumpled the paper cup and hurled it into the trash can. She’d learned one thing from Kevin. She’d never again fall in love with a man she worked with.

The next day, after doing some final finish work on a new home, Paul sped his faded-green van toward home. He felt troubled about the idea of keeping an eye on Danielle’s work. An architect had the right to privacy, and a good builder had to trust her creative judgment.

Paul made up his mind. Even though Mr. Harrington had insisted on his being a watchdog, he knew he couldn’t do it. He’d make sure Mr. Harrington’s house was built to perfection, but he’d never insult Danielle by interfering in her work.

Danielle Ford. She was spunky, determined and very sexy. He remembered her standing in Mr. Harrington’s office with her skirt up in the air, her tantalizing legs gleaming at him and her pink bikini panties in full view. He felt his body react just thinking about her.

Just as he drove past the Santa Monica baseball field, a baseball shot into the street in front of his van. He pulled his vehicle to the curb, got out and threw the ball back to the Little League players in the field.

He watched the kids practice before their game started. A rush of warmth filled him. He loved being with kids. But he knew he could never have a family of his own. He didn’t even know what being in a close family felt like.

A sadness overwhelmed him at the sight of the Little League kids’ mothers beaming with pride at their sons. He’d never known his mother. She’d died when he was born. A few years later, his father had married his stepmother, who had had two children of her own, but he’d barely known his father when he passed away of cancer. Paul had been three years old.

Paul had been raised by his stepmother, who had only seemed to care about her own two children. The sole person Paul had felt close to was his best friend, Lucky. He’d run to Lucky’s house whenever his stepmother screamed at him that he was always in her way. Lucky was the one who saw him cry when his stepmother told him that she wished his father had never left him to her.

When Paul had turned seventeen, he ran away for good—where nobody, even Lucky, could find him.

“Let’s play ball!” the umpire called out.

The words brought Paul back to the present. He glanced at the parents cheering in the bleachers for their kids. Family life belonged to others, not him. Never him.

When Paul returned to his small, steamy cottage in Santa Monica, he pulled off his T-shirt.

He banged on his window air conditioner to get it going, but not a whir could be heard from the motor. Maybe with the honeymoon house job, he’d be able to buy a new one.

His stomach grumbled for dinner. He looked in his refrigerator. Empty as usual. He grabbed a clean T-shirt and headed out.

At the supermarket, Paul went straight to the frozen food aisle. He yanked open the glass door. Ice-cold air hit his bare arms. What precooked delicacy was he in the mood for?

None, he thought. Sometimes he envied the construction workers he hired who were married and went home every night to their wives and kids to share a hot dinner and loving feelings.

He couldn’t remember ever having a warm family experience.

Paul pulled out a frozen lasagna dinner from the shelf and hurled it into his shopping cart. He rounded the corner on his way toward the vegetable and fruit department for his ready-made salad, when he suddenly slowed down his cart.

Standing a distance in front of him was Danielle Ford. She was bending forward, reaching into a display of ripe red tomatoes. Her tight white shorts accentuated her moonshaped buttocks. He halted his cart, unable to take his gaze off her. Her long, bare legs winked out at him.

He squeezed the chrome of the cart handle, imagining caressing the silken flesh of her thighs and gliding his palms up to her firm buttocks.

An elderly customer accidentally banged into him with her cart, waking him up from his sexual fantasy.

At the tomato stand, Danielle lightly squeezed each tomato for the perfectly ripened ones. She was excited about cooking Lisa an Italian dinner. She had just pulled out a red winner from the middle of the stand, when suddenly several tomatoes started falling down the display.

“Oh, no!” she whispered as an avalanche of tomatoes began tumbling to her feet. She frantically pressed her body against the display to stop the onslaught.

Just as she grabbed several, a strong hand collided with hers to help stop the tomatoes. She looked up to see Paul Richards’s charcoal eyes on her. The warmth of his masculine hand made her skin heat up in the icy airconditioned produce department.

For a moment, she forgot what she was doing and backed away from the display. “Paul, what’re you doing here?”

Suddenly, a huge batch of tomatoes rolled down the counter and splattered to the floor. Before answering, Paul immediately bent to catch the next batch of falling tomatoes in his open palms.

As Danielle swiftly stepped back from the counter to grab more plunging tomatoes, her foot slipped on tomato juice. She lost her balance and slammed into Paul, pushing him backward, then fell smack on top of him on the supermarket floor.

Her lips were close to his. She could feel his warm breath on her cheeks. Her breasts were crushed against his hard-muscled chest. She felt his broad palms against the small of her back. Desire raced through her veins.

Eventually, she realized that customers were trying to help them up. She rose with red-stained white shorts.

Paul’s shirt was filled with tomato skins. His curly hair was moist with red juice.