His By Design

HIS BY DESIGN

KAREN ANN DELL

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

HIS BY DESIGN

Copyright©2015

KAREN ANN DELL

Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher.  The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-61935-
992-5

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

This book is dedicated to Alma Fillmore

whose artistic talents never saw the spotlight

they so richly deserved.

Acknowledgements

So much more goes into bringing a book to life than the collection of words written by the author. My heartfelt thanks go to members of my writing group, Leigh, Laura, Kristen, Rocki, and many others for their suggestions, support, and encouragement.  I also want to thank my beta readers Darlene and Linda for reading and critiquing multiple versions of the same chapters without threatening me with bodily harm. And last but certainly not least, I thank my lucky stars every day for my editor, Debby Gilbert, who works tirelessly to make my stories the best they can be. And to the behind-the-scenes workers at Soul Mate Publishing who put so much time and effort into cover art, formatting, copy editing, and the other myriad of tasks involved in getting the finished product before the public—thanks so much to all of you!

Chapter 1

Zoe dragged her brand-new ladder through the front doors. A commendable feat considering it was twice her size. She paused to bite off the jagged remains of her last nail, glad at least now, all her fingers matched.

It was two weeks past Labor Day and still every bit as hot and humid as it had been in July, but it was officially fall and the mad tourist season was over. Blue Point Cove prepared to settle in for the winter. This was her favorite time of year, made even more enjoyable now that the sidewalks were no longer crowded with sunburned vacationers looking for souvenirs and too relaxed to control their overactive offspring.

A motorcycle slid up to the curb, its owner swung a long leg over the seat and lowered the kickstand. He took off his helmet and sauntered across the sidewalk, lifted the ladder out of her hands and smiled.

“Hi. My name’s Jeff. You the new owner?” He nodded toward the store.

Eyes about the same deep blue as the September sky above crinkled at the corners with his smile.

“Can’t slip anything past you, can I?”

Oh yeah, she knew this guy. Well, not
this
particular
guy but he was an exceptional example of the hunk genotype—tall, handsome, and ripped to perfection. Men who were sure their charming smiles and killer bodies would gain them admission to any woman’s inner sanctum. One of them had fooled her too, and not that long ago. Recently enough, in fact, to give her some protection against the instant spark of attraction she’d felt when he’d walked up to her like the Big Bad Wolf introducing himself to Little Red Riding Hood.

Faintly annoyed that he had so cavalierly taken possession of her ladder, she raised one eyebrow and crossed her arms over the yellow tank top he seemed so interested in. One disadvantage of being petite was the amount she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. He was just shy of six feet she guesstimated, having had lots of practice with perspective. Tanned arms with biceps that stretched his T-shirt taut across his shoulders made quick work of standing the ladder against the side of the building.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to overstep, Miss . . .?” He let it hang until she gave in.

“Silvercreek. Zoe Silvercreek.”

Be civil, girl. You’re the new one in town. You’re a business owner now, so make nice with the natives.
Oh, but he was way too dangerous to make . . . anything with.

She held out her hand, nicked and scraped in several places. When he took it in his, she gave him a brief, firm handshake, and ignored the tingle that ran up her arm. She stepped back, forcing him to let go.

He did his own appraisal, his eyes traveling slowly from the dark brown hair piled loosely atop her head to her small sandaled feet, and unabashedly enjoying the view.

“What kind of shop are you opening, Zoe Silvercreek?”

“A gallery, Jeff.”

“A shooting gallery?”

She laughed and shook her head. “An art gallery. You know, paintings, sculpture, photography?”

The blue eyes sharpened. “Ah, I see.” He glanced through the front windows. “Well, Zoe, if you need any help renovating the inside, I’d like to offer my services. I’m your typical jack-of-all-trades. Carpenter, electrician, plumber, you name it.”

He looked up to where the store’s former name had been obliterated with white paint, the blank sign awaiting its new title. “Painter, too.”

“Painting I can handle pretty well myself,” she said, thinking of her canvases stacked in a storage locker, “but if I need some other help I’ll keep you in mind.” She plastered a pleasant smile on her face to keep the dismissal from being too harsh.

Don’t hold your breath, Lothario. I may need a handyman—but not for the kind of work you’re looking to do. I need experienced, knowledgeable, and dependable. Not egotistic, impudent, and hotter than hell.

Apparently unwilling to take the hint, the man slouched against the doorway as though he had all the time in the world to make idle conversation.

“What made you decide on Blue Point Cove for your gallery?”

“It’s just the size town I was looking for and not too far from Baltimore and D.C. where the population is big enough to provide lots of tourists, once I put this place on the map.”

His mouth quirked up at the corners.

She could read his mind, which was, no doubt, a short story. He thought she was an idiot, with two brain cells and not a synapse between them, but he’d appear to be on board with her fantasy if it would help get her underneath him on any nearby horizontal surface. He couldn’t know how much thought and planning had gone into her idea. To say nothing about her life savings and all the money she could beg, borrow or . . . “There are lots of small towns known for their artistic communities and I plan on making Blue Point Cove one of the best of them.”

He lost the slouch and listened with what appeared to be genuine interest, so she continued.

“I’ll start out with local artists and work my way up to finding some well-known, established ones who’ll be willing to show their work in my gallery. Once I get the word out it will attract more talent to live and work here. Right now housing here is inexpensive, exactly what budding artisans need.”

He nodded sagely and she managed not to roll her eyes. She didn’t have time for this. She had a deadline. She had work to do. Lots of work. And no time for men whose primary job should be posing naked behind her easel. She blinked away that image and wiped her palms on her shorts.

“Well, Jeff, it was nice to meet you.”

This time he got the hint but dug in the pockets of his jeans to come up with a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it over his well-muscled thigh, then plucked the pencil she had tucked over her ear and scribbled his name and phone number on the front.

Handing both back to her, he returned to his bike and donned his helmet.

“Nice meeting you, too, Ms. Silvercreek.” He started his bike and winked. “Call me anytime.”

Zoe watched the bike disappear around the corner. Cocky bastard. Her snort blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. She wasn’t interested in lean, lanky smartasses with lips that could have been carved by Michelangelo, no matter how nicely those low-slung jeans hugged his perfect butt.

She stuffed the scrap of paper in her back pocket and turned to assess her new purchase. She was now the proud owner of a thirty-year mortgage on a twenty-year-old building that had seen better days and housed four different businesses in the past five years. Not such a good track record, but Zoe was convinced that hers was the incarnation the building had been waiting for all that time.

It would take a good deal of work, though. The last tenant had sold children’s toys and the owner had painted each of the interior walls a different primary color. That red would be a bitch to cover and with the display shelving removed the interior was one big, cavernous space.

She’d divide it into virtual rooms by the strategic placement of walls that would entice browsers to find out what was around the next corner. She’d need pedestals for sculptures and display cases for smaller handcrafted items. Once the walls had been painted white the artwork would act like the brightly colored eggs children hunted on Easter Sunday. Treasures for grown-ups to discover and hopefully, to buy.

Zoe climbed up the ladder and began penciling in the letters she would paint across the front of the building. Silvercreek Gallery. Her dream would come true and Fredrick Barker, her sleazebag former boss, now co-investor, would choke on his “all beauty, no brains” description of her when she turned this town into a magnet for artisans.

A small frisson of nerves skittered up her spine as she thought of the deal she’d made with that particular devil.

Positive, Zoe. Think positive. You can do this. You’ll be the Georgia O’Keefe of the Chesapeake Bay and Santa Fe will have nothing on Blue Point Cove.

By the time she was done, her tank top was plastered against her body and she itched from the rivulets of sweat trickling between her breasts and down her back. She lugged the ladder back inside and poured herself a mug of iced tea from the Thermos Marjorie had packed with her lunch. The owner of the town’s only Bed and Breakfast had a heart of gold and Zoe would be sorry to give up her cozy room. But she couldn’t afford to stay there and make mortgage payments here, so as soon as she could get the second floor converted into a studio apartment she’d move in and begin the renovations below.

She sipped her tea and looked out the front windows, across the grassy town square with the customary gazebo, toward the docks and restaurants along the waterfront. The smartass handyman tooled by on his bike, headed back the way he came, and although she was well back from the door, she swore she could feel his eyes find her in the dimness.

She fished the scrap of paper out of her pocket and squinted to make out the scrawl. Jeff Petrosky. Well, she would need a carpenter, and a plumber and an electrician. Maybe she’d ask Marjorie about this guy and see if there was more to him than a lot of hot air and ego.

Jeff hadn’t been able to resist s
topping when he spied the young woman wrestling an extension ladder out of the doors of the old toy store. She appeared about five-three and the ladder might be aluminum but it still was getting the upper hand.

She didn’t seem very receptive of his help, but the faint frown line between her brows did little to mar the perfection of her face. Her almond-shaped eyes tilted up over delicately sculpted cheekbones and one perfect eyebrow headed north as he took the ladder from her.

He loved petite women, especially ones as slender yet curvy as this beauty. He revised her age upward by about ten years after a closer look. Her small stature had fooled him, but those eyes held a wary look that only experience with life’s more difficult challenges could instill.

So, the town was getting an art gallery. It was almost enough to make him believe in serendipity. Finally, the years he’d spent working for his dad might actually pay off. That building needed work and there weren’t a lot of options locally. The lovely Ms. Silvercreek would wind up calling him for something and once he gave her a hand, she might return the favor. Jeff resisted the flare of hope expanding in his chest.

He parked his Suzuki in front of the end unit in the rundown 1950’s motel he called home. Set back under the trees on the main road, the Blue Point Motor Court had once been the only game in town as far as public lodging went. Now far out-classed by the newer motel chains and Marjorie’s B and B, the nine units in the L-shaped building had become “studio apartments” with the simple addition of a hot plate and small refrigerator.

The owner, George Pennypacker, seventy years old, arthritic, and on intimate terms with Jim Beam, had hired Jeff to be caretaker and general handyman in exchange for a modest salary and the use of the three units at the end of the building.

Jeff unlocked the end unit and went inside where he stripped off his jeans and donned a ragged pair of cut-offs splattered with paint and clay. Then he went next door to the studio.

This space he’d converted to a workshop during his two-year residence. The old twin beds were gone, replaced with easels, a potter’s wheel, and a bench holding his latest work in progress. A ceramic kiln graced one corner and a large irregular block of fine-grained limestone sat on the floor in what was once the closet. Various power tools sat in the opposite corner next to his toolbox. The pine-paneled walls were almost completely hidden behind an array of canvases, some watercolors, some oils, and a few acrylics—all painted by his sister Jenny.

She’d been blessed with the lion’s share of talent in the family. His modest abilities as a sculptor paled to insignificance beside the beautiful images she created. He crossed the room to the interior door connecting the studio with the next unit and knocked lightly. “Jen? I brought you a cheeseburger and fries from Ed’s Diner. You ready for lunch?”

“Just a minute.”

He heard the scrape of a chair across the floor, then a moment of silence.

“Okay, you can come in now.”

He turned the knob and went in, knowing he would find her seated at the small table against the wall so that only the left side of her face was easily visible. Her leg brace would be tucked under her chair in case she needed it, a rare occurrence since she seldom left the confines of these two rooms.

He’d argued with her dozens of times that she didn’t need to hide from him, but it didn’t matter what he said, she stuck to her routine. He sat the paper sack on the table and carried another bag to the small refrigerator, putting eggs, milk, butter, and coffee creamer inside.

“Mmm, smells delicious.” She inhaled the aroma of charbroiled beef and cheese as if it were a gourmet meal. “Did you get ketchup?”

“Yep, here.” He put the large plastic squeeze bottle in front of her.

She squirted a healthy stream of the red sauce over her fries. “So, what took you so long? I thought you’d be back an hour ago.”

“Yeah, sorry, Bug. I had to repair the table in one of Ed’s booths and . . .”

“And? What?”

“You know the toy store that was at the corner on Main Street?”

She nodded.

“Well the toy store is gone. There’s a new owner. A woman. Guess what she’s going to open in its place?”

Jen shrugged. “A brothel? A gambling casino? I don’t know. What?”

He ignored her flippant remarks. Sometimes it was easy to tell they were related.

“An art gallery.”

He tried to get a full-on look at her face but as always, she kept her profile toward him. There was a pause as she swallowed then cleared her throat.

“That’s nice.”

“Jen, look—”

“We’re not going to have this discussion again, Jeff.”