“Baseball.”
“Oh, me, too!” Robin quickly responded, pleased to have found something in common. She walked into the foyer, her shorts forgotten. “I love the Astros—”
“No kidding?” he asked, obviously surprised. “I try to get to all their home games.”
“Really? I wish I could get to more of them, but I travel so much. I go every chance I get when I am in Houston. We have a box.”
“Lucky you,” he said, sounding truly envious. “Who do you like?”
“Moz,” Robin said, propping herself precariously on one rung of a ladder he had brought into the foyer.
“I should have known. All the ladies like Moz, huh?”
“He happens to be the best pitcher they have!”
“He’s too old and he’s overpaid, and that’s about the best you can say about him.”
“Ha! Shows what you know—he’s as good as any of those skinny little twenty-year-olds they have on the mound,” Robin said indignantly on Moz’s behalf.
Jake snorted. “Please. He’s a washed-up has-been and he’s ruining the salary caps.”
“Oh, so now I get it. You’re one of those guys who doesn’t like anyone to make more than he does, right?”
“Excuse me? Moz makes more than Midas, and he can’t even pitch his way out of a paper bag. You must be one of those who thinks money is an entitlement instead of, heaven forbid, earning your keep.”
That struck a raw nerve in Robin and she instantly retorted, “I do so earn my keep!”
Jake laughed. “Okay. But we were talking about Grandpa Moses, not you.”
Oh. Right. Robin’s face colored. Feeling terribly self-conscious, she jumped down off her perch on the ladder. Only she didn’t go very far—her running shorts caught on a screw or something behind her.
Jake laughed, which only made her face flame. “What is that?” she exclaimed, suddenly twisting and turning to dislodge herself, rattling the ladder in the process.
“Hey, what are you doing? You’re scarring the brick!” he warned her.
But Robin was too mortified to care about brick. “I’m stuck!”
“Serves you right, Hotpants,” Jake said. “Moz!” He put down his brush and stepped forward.
But when Robin realized he meant to help dislodge her, she panicked, and was suddenly twisting like a dervish, trying to free herself before he could touch her.
“Careful, Peanut, you’re going to scar that great brick. Just calm down and let me . . .” He leaned over her, clucked his tongue. “How did you manage to do that?”
Humiliated. That was the only word she could think of, and Robin squirmed again, wild to get off the ladder, but Jake put a steady hand to her hip to lean around her. Robin instantly froze, sucked in her breath, and held it—his touch was like the moment between the realization one has touched fire and is about to feel the burn—only this was a burn she wanted to feel. Unnerved by it, by the nearness of his body, she hung paralyzed, felt his hand at the base of her spine and on her hip, felt his fingers pull up and dislodge the fabric of her shorts, his knuckles kneading her flesh. And then she was free.
Jake stepped back.
Robin slid off the ladder—unthinkingly, her hand went to the spot he had touched her, her fingers feeling for the scar he had surely left behind.
Jake’s gaze followed her hand, then flicked back to her eyes, seeping right into her and filling her to the rim before he turned back to his work. He picked up a paint scraper and attacked the wall, muttering that he should get to work.
Robin stood there a moment, unable to move. “Thanks,” and walked blindly through the dining room, groping her way to her bedroom through a fog as dense as it was unfamiliar.
In the privacy of her bath, she wondered what in the hell had come over her. He was a man, just like dozens of men she knew. Why should his touch galvanize her so thoroughly? Whatever the reason, it made her feel a little shaky inside.
Robin finished her bath, dressed quickly, and stood looking at herself in the full-length mirror, thoroughly disgusted by what she was seeing. She had chosen a brand new pair of chocolate-brown Prada slacks and a crème-colored Christian Dior silk blouse. Okay, really, she had enough trouble without getting all dressed up to do her renovator, which was exactly where this was headed. What about the consequences? She would have to work in the same space with him for several months. What would she do then? Barricade herself in her bedroom? Had she not experienced the pain of working alongside someone she had slept with as recently as, oh say, last night? Stupid, stupid, stupid . . .
Still, Robin slipped on a pair of Ralph Lauren sandals, but paused when she heard the unmistakable sound of a woman’s laughter. She froze, tried to pin the sound down, until it hit her—that was Lucy Ramirez’s laugh.
And the thought of Lucy with Jake sent Robin lunging for the bedroom door and struggling with the porcelain handle, thanks to the sweet-scented Chanel lotion she had put on her hands.
Chapter Nine