Will Work For Love (16 page)

“So you’ve said,” Chris answered. He knew he was not
helping himself with his attitude right now, but he was angry.
Angry at the damned hurricane, angry at himself for not listening
to Rick more often, angry at getting caught because he was trying
to do something decent, and angry that he’d screwed things up with
Whitney so bad they were now enemies. He’d give anything to go back
a week and be straight up with her. He hammered several nails with
a lot more force than was necessary.

“Are you listening to me?” Whitney demanded.

“You want me to listen or work?” He continued to
pound nails, making as much noise as he could. He hoped she would
give up and go away if he didn’t look up. He could sense her
standing there watching him still. He risked a glance. Her hands
weren’t on her hips anymore. He drew his hammer back and she
grabbed it in mid-air. The movement threw him off balance a little
and his breath caught when her fingers brushed his hand.

She held the end of his hammer and leaned close.
Chris hoped for a fraction of a second that she was going to kiss
him.

“They arrive in two days, and if everything is not
perfect, there will be a lot of explaining to do. You won’t be able
to charm
them
like you did—” She stopped, but Chris knew how
that sentence was going to end. So, he had charmed her.

Not that it would help him now.

Whitney drew back quickly, letting go of the hammer.
“I’m going to finish painting the trellis,” she said.

“Let me know if you need help with the ladder.”

“I’ll manage.”

Chapter Nineteen

After a morning of hard work, Whitney showered and
drove downtown. She found an outdoor patio with big shady umbrellas
where she could relax over lunch. It was attached to the place
where she and Chris had eaten dinner and sipped Virgin-esias last
Sunday night. Going into the Shellfish Cafe was too painful, but
sitting on the sunny patio nearby with its big circles of shade
seemed harmless enough. It was colorful, full of tourists sipping
beer and perusing menus. Whitney chose a table off to one side
where she could feel anonymous.

“Help you?” a woman asked. Whitney glanced up at the
waitress who served them last Sunday in the indoor restaurant.

“I’m, uh, here for lunch,” Whitney said.

“I figured that,” the waitress said as she handed
her a lunch menu and placed a glass of ice water on the table.
“Last time I saw you in here, you were with Chris Maxwell.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Be back in a minute to take your order.”

Whitney tried hard to concentrate on the menu
offerings. She considered getting up and leaving rather than
enduring the scrutiny of the waitress, but the food being delivered
to nearby tables looked too tempting. At her dinner with Chris,
too, the food had been amazing. A good lunch and a cold beer might
be worth a little awkwardness.

The waitress returned and took Whitney’s order and
her menu, leaving her nothing to do but watch people passing on the
street and fantasize about mouth-watering food. She would not think
about Chris and how hungry he might be. Not her problem.

“I don’t know where you’re keeping Mr. Maxwell these
days,” said an older woman as she stood in front of Whitney’s
table. Whitney recognized the woman from the indoor restaurant.
Chris had said her name was Mavis, and even if Whitney had
forgotten that, the embroidery on her oversized apron would have
enlightened her. Whitney had assumed Mavis was the owner last week
and she definitely wore the air of the woman in charge today. She
was the famous Mavis who made the chicken that had everyone on the
island addicted.

“Keeping him?” asked Whitney.

“Haven’t seen him all week, so I figured he must
have found something better to do,” said the older woman as she
appraised Whitney. “Good for him. That man works too hard.”

The woman’s face eased into a smile and Whitney
smiled, too, not knowing what else she could do. She was not going
to claim any responsibility for Chris Maxwell or his time or his
work habits. Still, this was interesting.

“Got a message for him if you’ll deliver it,” Mavis
said.

Whitney nodded.

“You tell him I’m mad as the devil at him.”

“Mad as the devil,” Whitney repeated in an even
voice. This
was
getting interesting. She was liking Mavis
more and more.

“About my hurricane damage. He knows what I’m
talking about,” Mavis continued. “Same story all over the
island.”

“Really?” Whitney asked. She tried to keep her voice
neutral, but this was really intriguing.

“You just tell’m,” the older woman said then
wandered away making a circuitous path through the cheerful outdoor
tables on the way back to her restaurant.

Whitney’s food arrived a moment later and she went
to work on the barbecued chicken and serious food for thought that
had arrived at her table. When finished, her waitress presented her
with a bag of takeout food instead of a bill.

“For Mr. Maxwell,” she said.

“But I—” Whitney began to protest. She didn’t want a
free lunch and she certainly didn’t want to have to take lunch to
Chris.

“Take it,” the waitress said. “Mama said to tell you
any friend of Chris Maxwell is a friend of ours.”

“Friend of Chris Maxwell? I thought your mama said
she was mad at him,” Whitney said.

The girl smiled coyly. “Nobody can stay mad at Mr.
Maxwell,” she said.

I’ll see about that
, Whitney thought.

In her Jeep, she set the bag of delicious smelling
food on the passenger seat next to her. She was tempted to throw it
in the harbor or hand it to one of the many homeless people living
on the side streets and alleys of Charlotte Amalie. The last thing
she wanted to do was drive back to East Pointe before the food got
cold and deliver it to Chris.

She took the road to East Pointe curving out of
Charlotte Amalie. She would head for home, but that was no
guarantee she’d hurry to Chris and sweetly hand over lunch. No
doubt the man loved to eat. And of course he was probably hungry.
He told her just a few days ago that he worked better on a full
stomach. How different things were now than they were a few days
ago. Still, if the man needed fuel to get the job done, maybe it
was smart to take him the food. It would result in less time lost.
Just business.

****

Chris could hardly believe the view from the roof of
the gazebo. The sun was in his eyes and he was tired and hungry as
hell, so he thought it might be a mirage. He blinked and shaded his
eyes. The vision was still there. It looked like Whitney standing
on the lawn below him holding a bag of takeout food. He could even
smell it.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to sit there and eat
that food right in front of me,” he said. He grinned down at
Whitney, hoping he might melt her heart a little and she would at
least share.

She cocked her head and gave him a cool stare, but
he could swear one corner of her mouth curved up just a little.

“Mavis sent this for you,” she said.

She held his glance for a moment, and then put the
bag on the newly finished gazebo floor.

“She said to tell you she’s mad as the devil at you
about her hurricane damage.”

Chris laughed. Right out loud. A deep, long laugh.
“Well, I guess she’s just going to have to stay mad,” he finally
said.

Whitney looked so incensed at his laughing that he
was afraid she was going to take back the food or punch him again.
He hurried down the ladder and grabbed the food, just in case. She
glared at him, turned on her heel, and headed for the house without
a word.

“Thanks for bringing lunch,” Chris called to her
retreating figure. He let her go a few feet and then he couldn’t
resist. “Could you bring me a beer?” he called.

Whitney stopped short and whipped around. She opened
her mouth, but nothing came out. He grinned at her and winked.
Again, he thought he saw just a little softening at the corner of
her mouth, but she turned back around and stalked into the
house.

“Worth a try,” he said quietly to himself as he
opened the bag and looked inside like it was a buried treasure.

****

Whitney needed to quiet her nerves. The tension of
making sure everything got done in addition to making sure she kept
Chris on his toes and off her mind was getting to her. She didn’t
know why she didn’t think of it sooner—what had she always done in
the past when she was upset about something? Her best friend
Taylor.

Taylor picked up on the first ring. “Whitney! I’ve
been hoping you’d call.”

“Wondering about the wedding plans?”

“And you. How are you? I hope you’re not running
ragged worrying about every little detail.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just the wedding of my
best friend in the universe. Why should I care that it’s
perfect?”

“Just having you and my family there and marrying
Jackson will make it perfect,” Taylor said.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Yep, just starting to feel like a watermelon. I’m
glad we arrive two days before the wedding so I can rest up from
the flight.”

“I can’t wait to see you.”

“And I can’t wait to see what you’ve done with East
Pointe. Since the hurricane damage was already repaired, you’ve
probably been lining up chairs and bows using a computer program
for accuracy. Right angles and neat rows everywhere.”

“If you only knew,” laughed Whitney.

“I’ll bet you have a killer tan, too. You’ll be
gorgeous in that strapless dress.”

Whitney felt her stomach sink for a moment. Tan.
Hmmm. Talk about a farmer tan. She had been out in the sun plenty,
but wearing a short sleeved shirt. The lines were not going to be
pretty.

“Ummm, speaking of tans,” Whitney said, “I’d better
get out there and work on it some more. I’ll be there at the
airport to pick you guys up the day after tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about it, we’re renting a car. Just
relax and enjoy the peace before we all come flying in like a pack
of loud seagulls.”

“I will,” said Whitney.

She snapped the phone shut, went upstairs, and dug
through the drawer where she unpacked all her vacation clothes. She
knew what she was looking for. It was going to take steely guts and
determination, but she’d done harder things in her life. She was
going to put on a tiny strapless bikini and make every effort to
erase her tan lines from working in the sun.

She wouldn’t be alone. The one person on earth she’d
like to be able to forget right now was right between her and the
beach. Well, they were both going to have to tough it out. And if
he couldn’t handle it, then he’d have to keep his eyes on his work.
The work, she bitterly reminded herself, he’d been paid months ago
to complete. He didn’t have to be in this situation. It was his own
damn fault.

Chapter Twenty

Chris wanted to look the other way. He tried to. He
even went home for an hour right after Whitney paraded in front of
him in her bikini and sarong. She was so relaxed on the beach she
probably didn’t even notice when he quietly put down his tools, got
in his truck, and left.

He went home and took a cool shower. He slept only a
few hours last night. The giant lights allowed him to work late
into the night. When he couldn’t work anymore, he went down to the
beach and slept on the lounge where Whitney was now sunbathing. At
first light, he was back at it.

He needed a change of clothes and something cold to
drink. It was almost over. He would finish her work, satisfy the
East family, and get his company off the hook. No way was he even
going to think about the alternative.

The only thing, the major thing, he could not fix
with backbreaking work was his relationship with Whitney. Lucky he
was standing in a cool shower as he let himself think of her. His
chances of ever touching her again were absolutely zilch. She may
not take down his company in the end, but she would never take him
back, either. That was the price he was going to pay.

Chris put on fresh work clothes and packed a cooler
with drinks and food, and then he drove back to East Pointe. He was
only gone about an hour, but the break did him good. His body at
least, was a little better for it, but his heart was just as
tight.

He parked his truck in the pristine driveway and
grabbed his stuff, ready to face whatever he had to when he saw
Whitney again. The first thing he noticed, though, when he came
around the house was that Whitney had not moved a muscle. She was
right there on the lounge on the beach as if time had not
passed.

He stowed his cooler on a worktable set up under a
tree and climbed a ladder to finish nailing a board in place on the
gazebo roof. The gazebo was nearly done, but it would need to be
painted. He glanced over and noted that the pavilion was only about
seventy percent painted, too. He still had thirty-six hours, and he
needed every minute of them.

Even his hammering caused no movement from Whitney.
She must be fast asleep. Chris had put on a clean shirt, even in
this heat, to avoid a nasty burn, and he wore a Blue Isle
Construction hat. He knew the back of his neck was getting red, but
pretty soon he’d be under cover of the pavilion taking advantage of
the speckled shade to try to finish the painting. Much longer for
Whitney in the sun with her fair skin, and she’d be burned to a
crisp.

Chris glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes and he
was going to do something to wake her up. He set up his ladder,
found the paint can and brush where Whitney left it earlier, and
got ready to paint. He looked at her again. No movement.

Doing the right thing rather than the obviously
smart thing had gotten him in trouble more times in his life than
he wanted to count. It looked like he was going to add one more to
the list. He walked out to the sand and stood next to Whitney’s
lounge chair. She was stretched out fully with one arm over her
head and one arm by her side. Her breasts rose and fell slowly and
steadily with the quiet rhythm of sleep.