Almost Perfect (4 page)

It wasn't as if he considered himself exceedingly clever or handsome or any of those things he assumed women wanted. His two brothers had pointed out often enough that he was the runt of the litter, the shallow ne'er-do-well with no driving ambition to improve the world. They'd left him with few illusions of ego. But even his brothers admitted that women liked him. Even as the class freak, he'd escorted the valedictorian to the prom, because he was persistent, and he listened to her.

That's
all
he'd ever done, listen, because he had been, after all, a skinny freak who drew cartoon characters for amusement. Besides, Regina had been a stuck-up bit of rudeness most of the time. He'd just liked the way her
mind worked, and they'd agreed that going to the prom together made sense. He must have shined up pretty good because he'd ended up taking both Regina and the football captain's date home that night, and what Regina hadn't offered, the cheerleader had.

Not that any of that had any relevance to the fascinating creature sitting next to him, doing her best to pretend he didn't exist. He'd put on his cowboy boots for her, and she didn't even notice when he propped them on the dashboard. But she was aware of him, all right, and she was madder than a wet cat about it. Hell of a reaction to the electricity bouncing around in here.

“I never got a chance to look at the place. Is it in good repair?” he asked idly, trying to divert her attention from her mad-on. He loved Spanish moss, and admired the way it drooped over the crushed shell highway they roared down. He trusted the truck had four-wheel drive, or they'd be headed for a skid shortly. He wasn't too eager for a repeat of the day's earlier catastrophe. Broken hands or head would not bode well for his currently flagging career. Good thing he'd sent in that last batch of strips before setting out on this adventure. One more black mark against his name and his agent was likely to can him. A cartoonist without a career was a pretty sad affair.

“It needs a new roof,” she answered curtly. “No one lives there, so I don't pay much attention to what shape it's in.”

“Why haven't you sold it, then? Beachfront property has to be worth a mint.”

“This isn't California, and I like my privacy. Keep that in mind, and we'll get along fine.”

Jared hummed a country song he'd heard on the drive down and tried to imagine why a creative woman like this would be hiding in the outback of a swamp, but his
mind wouldn't settle on any one reason. Maybe she was an inventor afraid of someone stealing her ideas before she patented them. If she wasn't, she ought to be. That cackling witch sweeping across the road on her broom was enough to cause heart failure. He particularly liked the witch's stringy hair and red shoes.

“Fine with me,” he agreed easily. “I was feeling burned out and needed to get away from distraction to finish this project.”
Finish,
his foot and eye. All he'd written so far was cow manure. He had to raise it to bullshit, at the very least. He'd manage. He always had.

Except for that last project. He hid his grimace at the unfamiliar sensation of the ground cracking under him. “Failure” wasn't in the McCloud family credo.

He'd rather think about the current object of his interest. “I've always found the pounding of surf relaxing.”

“Swell for you,” she mocked. “It's hurricane season. Maybe you'll hear some
real
surf.”

“I live in Miami. I know hurricanes,” he said comfortably, not about to be scared off, if that was her intention.

“Surf is about all you'll hear out there. I don't think the place is wired for much more than a light and a stove and the well pump.”

“Mind if I upgrade the wiring if I need it? Computers are finicky about electricity.” He hadn't counted on rewiring, but if there was electricity, it shouldn't take much to run in a line or two for his stuff.

She shrugged. “Your money.”

She didn't even ask him how long he would stay. Entertaining.

In the interest of seeing just how far she could ignore him, he hunted for a more telling question. That didn't take much thought. “Why'd you change your mind?”

For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer, she stared out the windshield so fiercely.

“I like my privacy,” she repeated.

“That doesn't answer the question.” Jared tried not to smile as she struggled to find an answer that wasn't an answer. His older brother, Tim, had once warned him that he would someday run into a nutcase who would blow him away for his annoying persistence, but Jared figured he'd take his chances. Risk nothing, gain nothing, was his motto.

He wondered if she'd forgotten the question or simply refused to answer further, but she finally gritted her teeth and shot him a glare.

“I prefer you to the sheriff.”

Remembering the paunchy, balding man of the law, Jared crossed his arms and lifted his eyebrows. “Gee, gosh. I'm overwhelmed.”

He wanted to cackle like her witch as she threw him another glare, but then her lip twitched, and she almost smiled.

“Well, Vern is a pretty impressive sight, you have to admit.”

“I'm honored. Now, if I could just figure out what hit my windshield and why a snake crawled up my leg …”

The dawning smile slipped away. “You were trespassing.”

She didn't admit guilt or look guilty. Maybe his freaking imagination had finally fried his brain. “I thought these beaches were public property,” he insisted.

“Not when you cross private property to get to them.” No witch sailed across the road on her mechanical broom as she shifted gears, popped the clutch, and took the beach road at an illegal rate of speed. “There's a bad undertow out here. I suppose you ignore No Swimming signs, too.”

Jared was too absorbed in the sight of a peacock
feather caught in a prickly shrub to comment. Peacock feather. Did peacocks fly?

Snakes didn't. He couldn't imagine one crawling over the Jag's shiny hood either. He grimaced as the Southern sun caught on the glitter of red and chrome as they roared past the place he'd gone off the road. He couldn't see enough of the car to verify the full extent of the damage, but Jags were temperamental creatures at the best of times. Sand and palmettos wouldn't improve its condition. If the evil genie beside him hadn't wrecked the car, he'd damned sure find out who had. The Jag had been a childhood dream that had cost him the cash advance on a script he hadn't written yet.

His head began to throb in earnest. “Guess I'd better find some transportation next.” He figured he was talking to himself, but to his surprise, she actually responded.

“You'd better have one of those expensive varieties of Triple A. I doubt you'll find a Jag dealer closer than Charleston to tow you. The dealer might have something to rent.”

He slumped back to rest his pounding head against the seat. “Nah. A Jeep's probably best out here. I can see right now that Jags shouldn't leave Miami.” He winced as the truck hit a rut.

She eased up on the accelerator. “Sorry. Head hurt?”

He hadn't expected sympathy. Maybe she was just testing the extent of damage for liability purposes, as his younger brother, Doubting Thomas, would say.

His life was too cluttered and disorganized for Tom's cynicism. Maybe he'd adopt brother Tim's narrow focus and pretend the world didn't exist outside his head. Painful thought. He grimaced and rubbed the ache. “Nothing a few aspirin won't cure. Am I taking you from your job to drag you out here?”

“I've got someone covering for me. I figure you'll take one look at the shack and back off.”

Even with his head pounding and his Jag no more than a gasoline spot in the sand, he knew the answer to that one. He was staying. She'd have to deal with it.

Cleo watched in growing agony as
The
Jared McCloud wandered aimlessly from the tattered screened porch, past the worn vinyl, down the squeaking-board hall, and up to the overheated half attic. Standing below, she held her breath as he leaned his lanky frame against the splintered wood rail of the balcony overlooking the beach and stared in absorption at the rising tide. That was her favorite spot up there. From that vantage point, the uncontrollable freedom of the waves both terrified and elated her.

Right now, she feared he'd fall through the rail.

She knew what he would say before he returned to the porch to say it. The leaky old house should have fallen to pieces long ago, but it exuded love and warmth and the tenacity of lifetimes of vacationing families. More likely, it just symbolized the childhood she'd never had. Whatever, she hadn't had the heart to tear it down, or the stupidity to restore something that the next strong wind or tide could rip away.

“How much?” he asked the instant he hit the sagging front step.

Cleo could read the gleam in his eye through the pain etched on his forehead, and she set her jaw stubbornly. “I'm not selling.” Why couldn't the dork just see the place was a catastrophe and leave? She really hadn't believed a rich yuppie could tolerate such primitive conditions. She definitely didn't need his restless, sexy carcass in her backyard.

He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets as he
studied the bird nests in the eaves. “Fine. I'm not much good at fixing things. What's it worth to you to put it into habitable condition?”

Damn him. Well, she'd give him credit for not being an airhead. He knew it was unlivable. “It would cost three fortunes, and the insurance out here is astronomical. Beach houses come with a high price for a reason.”

“Pare it down to one fortune, and I'll do it. You hire the help, I'll pay for it.”

Cleo gaped at the inverted triangle presented by Jared McCloud's back as he walked away. She shouldn't be seeing muscular shoulders narrowing to trim waist. She ought to be seeing dollar signs, or an invasion of privacy. She ought to be screaming bloody murder and heaving obstacles in his way. Or at his inviting back. She never looked at men that way.
Never.

She hurried after him as he captured a sand dune. She knew his sort—patrician good looks, easy life, and wealth to throw around. He'd rub her the wrong way one too many times, and she'd have to kill him. Or maim him badly. Either way, she'd be back in prison and Matty would be lost to her forever. No way. She knew her limits.

Of course, her usual reactions to stress were selfdestructive rather than violent, and she couldn't afford that any better.

“That's ridiculous,” she practically spluttered upon reaching the top of the dune. She hadn't thought spluttering a possibility until she did it. Drat the man. Drawing up straight and forming her words carefully, she continued in her more forthright manner. “The place is falling apart. I won't sell. What's the point of your repairing it for the few months or however long you want to use it?”

The ocean wind blew his hair back, revealing a long,
straight nose and firm jaw that could have been carved out of marble and placed in a museum of Roman artifacts. He shrugged with much more fluidity than marble. “What's the point of having money if you can't spend it on what you want?”

Sighing, Cleo stared at the sun sparkling off the water. Maybe it wouldn't be too terribly bad to have one lone guy living back here, pounding on his computer. Her store was on the mainland anyway, so she wasn't here all day. What would she see of him at night?

And it would be kind of nice to have the beach house fixed up—at someone else's expense—when family visited.

“How long you staying?” she demanded, not giving in immediately.

“Until the project is finished. A few months, probably. I can't see staying in this place at Christmas. You'll have a great beach house and I'll have my privacy. Fair trade, don't you think?”

He wanted privacy, too. That could work. Maybe she wouldn't even see him. Other than letting Maya and her family visit more often, she had no idea what she would do with a beach house, but she could think of something.

“Who pays for the insurance?” She'd learned to be practical. It took a lot of scrabbling to get where she was today, and she wasn't letting loose of a penny without earning two pennies in return.

He slanted her a satisfied look. “I'll pay for six months' worth of insurance and all the repairs in lieu of rent. How's that?”

“You have no idea how much that's going to cost,” she warned. “The roof alone will set you back thousands.” And she'd have to pay the insurance after he was gone. She'd have to rent the place at least part of the year to cover the cost. If the town persuaded the film director to
use the harbor, they might even list her as having available housing. Curses. It would be much simpler if he'd just go away.

“A place like this in Miami would rent for thousands a month. It's no big deal, provided you know who to call.” He shot her a challenging look. “You do know someone who can get right on it, don't you?”

She owned the only hardware store within fifty miles. She knew everyone. “You want the best, or the most cost-effective?” she countered with a hint of defiance. She didn't like people underestimating her.

“The best and most efficient. If I'm working out here, I don't want to waste time chatting with carpenters while they drink their coffee.”

Had he been anyone else, she might have smiled at the recognition that he'd had some experience with Southern construction crews. She still didn't like the light in his eyes when he looked at her. She bit off the smile, nodded curtly, and started sliding down the dune in the direction of the truck. “I'll take you into town, call my attorney to draw up an agreement, and call a few workmen. One of the car lots should have some kind of four-wheel-drive vehicle available. You can call around.”

She didn't even know if the clown was who he said he was, although the Jag and the way he carried himself surely showed he could afford to put his money where his mouth was. Still, she wanted this right and tight. She disliked officialdom, but she knew attorneys. Lots of attorneys.

The idea of this desk jockey occupying her personal space for months still ticked her bomb. She'd have to remember Gene and the sheriff. The boy didn't deserve a rougher life than he already had, and if The Jerk ever figured out who put the snake in his car …