Trouble in Paradise - Hatcher, Robin Lee Page 0,3
dirt road to the highway, head south, then turn into the well-marked driveway. True, the driveway was two miles long, but it wasn’t as if she couldn’t see the big house from the road, set as it was on the hillside.
He frowned. Maybe she’d had a flat tire. Or maybe she’d had an accident. There were some bad boards in that deck of hers. If she’d broken through one of them, she could be lying there, helpless. If she had no telephone, as he suspected, she couldn’t call for help if something was wrong.
He’d almost convinced himself to go look for her when he heard the whine of a compact car’s engine as it raced into the yard. A moment later, a cloud of dust whirled past his living room window. Then he heard the slam of a car door.
He stepped onto the porch in time to see Shayla checking her reflection in the side-view mirror. And an attractive reflection it was, too. Unconventional, perhaps, but appealing.
She’d applied some makeup before coming over—shadow and mascara to her eyes, pink lipstick to her mouth—and her wild curls had been tamed a little, though not much. She’d also changed from her extra large T-shirt and frayed cutoffs into a silvery gray blouse and a pair of jeans. Very appealing indeed.
Get a grip, O ’Connell. She’s not your type.
She straightened, and that’s when she noticed him watching her. Twin patches of pink dotted her cheeks. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Car trouble?”
“No.” She grew more flushed. “I lost track of the time. That happens to me when I’m writing. I get so involved in the story that I forget to look at the clock.”
At least she hadn’t tried to make up an excuse or sound as if it wasn’t her own fault. He appreciated honesty.
“I would’ve called once I saw the time, but my phone isn’t working yet.” She walked toward him. “The telephone company told me it wouldn’t be until week after next. Why it takes so long I’ll never understand. Aunt Lauretta had a phone. The place doesn’t have to be wired or anything.”
“Things move a bit slow around here.”
“Me included.” She revealed an apologetic grin. “I am sorry for making you wait.”
“No problem.” He was the one not being honest. It was a problem. He had a dozen unfinished chores that had to be done yet today. “Come inside and see what you’re getting yourself into.” He held open the door and waited while she passed by him.
She paused in the parquet entry. “Wow!”
He didn’t know if her one-word exclamation referred to the design of the house or the clutter and disorder she saw everywhere. He preferred to think it was the former.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked.
“All my life. I was born in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Doctor got here about ten minutes after I did. Or so my mother likes to tell folks every chance she gets.”
“Really? How interesting. Hmm …”
Nat couldn’t help noticing the way her eyes seemed to glaze over. He had the distinct feeling she was no longer with him. “Miss Vincent?”
“Chet’s mother …” She pursed her lips and nodded as she looked up the staircase. Then she whispered, “Of course. How perfect.”
Oh, brother. Now she was talking to herself. “Miss Vincent?” he said again, louder this time.
She blinked, shook her head, looked at him. “Yes?”
“Let me show you around. Maybe, after you see what a disaster it is, you’ll decide you don’t want the job.” At this point, he didn’t know if that’s what he hoped for or not. He needed someone he could depend on. He wasn’t convinced that someone was her.
“Good idea. I’m dying to see it.” She looked toward the room to their right.
A good idea? Maybe. Maybe not. But he had little choice except to follow through with it now. “My mother called this the great room.” He motioned for her to enter ahead of him.
A stone fireplace was the focal point of the large room. An oil painting of Rainbow Valley as it looked in the early 1900s hung above the mantel, and like many others before her, Shayla was drawn toward it.
“O’Connell,” she said, reading the signature in the bottom right comer. She glanced over her shoulder. “Did you do this? It’s magnificent.”
“No.” His answer was clipped. “I don’t paint.” Even after ten years, he found it uncomfortable to talk about Joanne and her art.
Shayla continued to look at him. He figured she was the type who would