Tribute Part 7

"And apparently so will I. I need to get back." She pushed to her feet. "Thanks for the beer."

"I'm thinking about tossing something on the grill in a bit." He rose as well, casually s.h.i.+fting in a way that boxed her between the porch rail and his body. "That and the microwave are my culinary areas. Why don't you have another beer, and I'll cook something up?"

He could cook something up, she thought, she had no doubt. Tall, sun-streaked and charming with a faint wash of nerd. Too appealing for her own good. "I've been up since six, and I've got a full day tomorrow."

"Ever take a day off?" He trailed his fingertips-just the fingertips- down her arm. "And this would be me officially hitting on you."

"I suspected that. I'm not actually scheduling any time off right now."

"In that case I'd better take advantage of the moment."

She expected smooth, a nice quiet cruise by the way his head dipped toward hers, by the lazy interest in those gold-rimmed eyes. Later, when she could think about it clearly, she decided she hadn't been entirely wrong. It was smooth, in the way a good shot of excellent whiskey, straight up, is smooth.

But rather than a nice, quiet cruise, she got a strong, hard jolt when his mouth closed over hers. The sort that bulleted straight to her belly. The hands that gripped her arms gave one quick, insistent tug that had her pressed against him. In another of those subtle moves, he had her back against the post, and her mouth completely captivated.

Zero to sixty, she thought. And she'd forgotten to strap in first.

She clamped her hands on his hips and let the speed take her.

Everything he'd imagined-and his imagination was boundless- paled. Her taste was more potent, her lips more generous, her body more supple. It was as if he'd painted this first kiss in the brightest, boldest colors in his palette.

And even they weren't deep enough.

She was a ride on a dragon, a flight through s.p.a.ce, a dive into the deep waters of an enchanted sea.

His hands swept up from her shoulders to her face, then into her hair to tug the band tying it back. He eased away to see her with her hair tumbled, to see her eyes, her face before he drew her back again.

But she pressed a hand to his chest. "Better not." She let out a careful breath. "I've already hit my quota of mistakes for this decade."

"That didn't feel like a mistake to me."

"Maybe, maybe not. I have to think about it."

He ran his hands down to her elbows and back up as he watched her. "That's really a d.a.m.n shame."

"It is." She took another breath. "It absolutely is. But ..."

At her light nudge, he stepped back. "Here's what I need to know. There's persistence, there's pacing and there's pains in the a.s.s. I'm wondering which category you'd consider it if I wander over to your place now and then or invite you over here, with the full intention of trying to get you naked."

The dog made an odd gurgling sound from under the chair, and Cilla watched one of those bulging eyes open. As if he waited for the answer, too.

"You haven't come close to the third yet, but I'll let you know if you do."

She sidestepped. "But I'm going to take a rain check on that offer of food and nudity. I've got a porch-veranda-to finish tomorrow."

"Oh, that tired old excuse."

She laughed, went down the steps before she changed her mind. "I do appreciate the Corona, the ear and being hit on."

"Come back anytime for any or all of the above."

He leaned on the rail as she walked across the road, returned the wave she sent him when she reached the open gates. And he bent and picked up the little stretchy band of blue he'd tugged out of her hair.

FORD DEBATED GIVING her some time, some s.p.a.ce. Then decided the h.e.l.l with that. His latest novel was on his editor's desk, and before he dove too deeply into Brid, he wanted some visual aids. Plus, since Cilla didn't appear to be put off by the persistent, he intended to be just that.

After he rolled out of bed at what he considered the civilized hour of ten, checked the backyard to see that Spock was already up and chasing his ghost cats, he took his coffee outside and watched her work on her front veranda.

He considered he could get some very decent shots of her, in action, with his long lens. But decided that edged over into the murky area of creepy. Instead, he poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and ate them standing up, studying her.

The body was great. Long, lean, lanky and on the athletic side rather than willowy and slight. Ca.s.s would be fit, he decided, but instinctively conceal her ... attributes. Brid, well, she'd be right out there.

The hair, that deep blond like shadowed sunlight, he decided. An easy transition there, too. Ca.s.s would habitually keep hers restrained; Brid's would fly and flow. Then the face. He wished he could see Cilla's now, but it was blocked by the brim of the ball cap she wore as she worked. He had no problem conjuring it in his mind, the shape, the angles, the tones. It would be a face Ca.s.s played down, one made quiet and intellectual by the gla.s.ses, the lack of makeup.

Beauty restrained, just like her hair.

But Brid, for Brid, the beauty would be bold, luminous. Not simply released but wild with it.

Time to get started.

Inside, he packed up his satchel again, hung his camera around his neck by its strap. He considered another token, and shoved an apple into the bag.

The sound of her nail gun peppered the air like m.u.f.fled gunshots. And made Ford think of battles. Brid would never use a gun-much too cra.s.s, too ordinary. But how would she defend herself against them? With sword and hammer, deflecting bullets like Wonder Woman's magic bracelets? Maybe.

As he walked closer, the echoey music from one of the workers' radio jangled out country. Why was it always country? he wondered. Was it some sort of construction law?

Country music (including selected crossover artists) must be played on portable radios on all sites.

He caught the buzz of a saw, the whine of what might've been a drill, and a.s.sorted bangs from inside. Adding them together, along with the decor of Dumpster, Porta Potti and pickups, he found himself grateful he'd bought his own place move-in ready.

Plus, he sincerely doubted any of the workers he might have hired otherwise would have owned an a.s.s like the one currently snugged into dusty Levi's and happily facing his way.

He could've resisted, but why? So he lifted the camera, framed her in and took the shot as he walked.

"You know why they have those calendars of scantily clad women holding power drills and such in mechanics' shops?" he called out.

Cilla looked over her shoulder, sized Ford up through her safety goggles. "So men can imagine their d.i.c.ks as a power drill?"

"No, so we can imagine women imagine it."

"I stand corrected." She shot in the last two nails, then swiveled around to sit. "Where's your faithful companion?"

"Spock? He's busy, but sends his best. Where'd you learn to shoot that gun?"

"On-the-job training. I've got more boards to cut and nail, if you want a turn."

"Tragic and terrible things happen when I pick up tools. So I don't, and save lives." He reached in his bag. "Brought you a present."

"You brought me an apple?"

"It'll help keep your strength up." He tossed it to her, c.o.c.king a brow when she caught it neatly, and one-handed. "I had a feeling."

She studied the apple, then bit in. "About what?"

"That you'd field what comes at you. Mind if I take some pictures while you're working? I want to start some more detailed sketches."

"So you're going forward with the warrior G.o.ddess idea."

"Brid. Yeah, I am. I can wait until you take a break if the camera bothers you while you work."

"I spent more than half my life in front of cameras." She pushed to her feet. "They don't bother me."

She tossed the apple core into the Dumpster before stepping over to her lumber pile. Ford snapped away while she selected, measured, set the piece on the power saw. He watched her eyes as the blade whined, as it cut through wood. He doubted the camera could capture the focus in them.

But it captured the cut of her biceps, the ripple of toned muscle when she hefted the planks and carried them to the finished decking.

"Living in California, I expect you're a woman who spends regular time at a gym."

Cilla set the plank on her marks, braced the distance with s.p.a.cers. "I like a good gym."

"Let me say working out's worked out for you."

"I tend toward skinny otherwise. Rehab work helps the tone," she continued, driving in the first nail. "But I miss the discipline of a good gym. Do you know any around here?"

"As it happens, I do. Tell you what, you come on over when you're finished up for the day. I'll take you to see the gym, then we'll have dinner."

"Maybe."

"You're not the coy type. 'Maybe' means ... ?"

"It depends on when I finish up."

"Gym's open twenty-four/seven."

"Seriously?" She flicked him a glance, then worked her way down the board with her nail gun. "That's handy. I'll adjust the maybe to probably."

"Fair enough. On the dinner end, are you vegetarian or fruit.i.tarian or some other 'tarian that requires restrictions on the menu?"

Laughing, she sat back on her heels. "I'm an eat.i.tarian. I'll eat pretty much what you put in front of me."

"Good to know. Mind if I take a look inside, see what all the banging and sawing's about? It'll also give me the chance to rag on Matt about whatever comes to mind."

"Go ahead. I'd give you the tour, but my boss is a b.i.t.c.h about unscheduled breaks."

"Mine's a pushover." He stepped up, then bent down, sniffed at her. "First time I ever realized the smell of sawdust was s.e.xy."

He stepped inside and said, "Holy s.h.i.+t."

He'd expected a certain amount of chaos, activity and mess. He hadn't expected what struck him as a kind of maniacal destruction. There had to be a purpose behind it all, he thought, as Cilla struck him as firmly sane, but he couldn't see it.

Tools scattered over the floor in what hit his organized soul with dismay. How did anyone find anything? Cords snaked and coiled. Bare bulbs dangled. Sections of wall gaped where for reasons that escaped him someone had cut or hacked them out. The wide planks of the floor were patchworked with stained cloths and cardboard.

Baffled, and slightly horrified, he wandered through, observing the same sort of mad bombarding in every room.

He found Matt in one of them, curling blond hair under a red ball cap, tool belt slung, measuring tape at the ready. He gave Ford an easy smile, said, "Hey."

"You make this mess?"

"Pieces of it. Boss lady's got ideas. Good ones. That's a woman who knows what she's doing."

"If you say so. How's Josie?"

"Doing good. We got a picture of the Beast."

Ford knew the Beast was the baby Josie was currently carrying. Their two-year-old son had been the Belly.

He took the sonogram shot Matt pulled out of his pocket, studied it, turned it and finally found the form. Legs, arms, body, head. "He looks like the other one did. Midget alien from Planet Womb."

"She. We just found out. It's a girl."

"Yeah?" Ford glanced up at his friend's huge grin, found his own spreading. "One of each species. Nice going."

"She's not dating till she's thirty." Matt took the picture back, looked at it with love, then slipped it back into his pocket. "So, you up for poker night at Bri's?"

Ford thought he'd rather face a root ca.n.a.l than poker night. But he, Matt and Brian had been friends just about all their lives. "If there's absolutely no escape."

"Good. I need the money. Hold that end of the tape a minute."

"You know better than that."

"Right." Matt set the tape himself. "If you touch it, it's likely to explode in my hand. I could lose a finger. Have you been through the place yet?"

"I just started."

"Take a look around. It's going to be a h.e.l.l of a thing."

"It already looks like h.e.l.l."

Unable to resist, he backtracked, went upstairs. It didn't get any better. What had been a bathroom was now a bare box with stripped walls and skeletal pipes, with raw holes in the floor and ceiling. Two bedrooms stood doorless, their windows still bearing the stickers of the manufacturer, their floors covered with ratty carpet.

But when he opened the door to the next bedroom, astonishment clicked up to temper. What the h.e.l.l was she thinking? An air mattress and sleeping bag, cardboard boxes and an old card table?

"I take back the sane," he muttered, and headed back down.

He found her standing in front of the newly planked veranda guzzling water from a bottle. The warming temperatures and the labor combined to lay a dark sweat line down the center of the white T-s.h.i.+rt she wore with the jeans. It only added to his annoyance that he found a sweaty, possibly unstable woman so d.a.m.ned appealing.

"Are you crazy or just stupid?" he demanded.

Slowly, she lowered the bottle. And slowly, she tipped her head down until those glacial blue eyes met his. "What?"