Dragging his attention back to the problem at hand, he poked a tipped-over box with his foot. "This the china?" he asked her.

"Sadly." She lifted one corner of it with effort, and he winced at the sound of loose pieces jangling. "I think it's probably pieces for a mosaic now, though."

"Didn't you wrap it?"

Her chin came up in self-defense, and she sniffed as she said, "I ran out of newspaper. I wrapped other stuff, though."

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. "I was trying to get it done quickly. My moving man, also known as my impatient brother, didn't have a lot of time."

"I can see he didn't exactly help you get this stuff organized, either," he said, pointing at a box marked "bathroom" which was wedged on the back of the sofa.

"Yeah, well." She'd perched on one of the sofa's arms to rub her injured foot, and stood up now, a sudden smile on her face. "So you're here! Beginning work on the shed, right?"

"You bet," he agreed, turning around slowly, glancing at the boxes stacked against the wall and lining the short hallway that led, he a.s.sumed, to the bedrooms. Stuffed laundry baskets and several black plastic garbage bags rounded out the wall of brown cardboard. "Although I could spare an hour if you want some help in here. I don't know how you're going to find anything until you get some of this into the right rooms."

She turned those huge brown eyes up to him in surprise. "No, that's okay. I mean, I know it's a mess, but you've got your own thing to do."

"What if I insist?" He hefted up a box marked "bedroom" and started down the hall. "Which room?"

"Mr. Dawson, really..."

"I thought you were going to call me Leo," he said, turning around to find her following him down the hall. She stopped short, her cheeks pointed with color and the beginning of a smile nudging her dimple into an appearance.

"Leo." She tilted her head, considering him. "And you'll call me Mackenzie?"

"I'll call you whatever you want if you tell me where to put this box," he said with a smile, shifting the box in his arms. "What have you got in here?"

She frowned, squinting at the lettering on its side in the dim light of the hallway. "I don't remember. And it's that room, on the end."

There was nothing in her bedroom but a rumpled double bed and a serviceable pine dresser, and a laundry basket piled high with clothes. The wood floor was bare, as were the old cas.e.m.e.nt windows. Wallpaper had been sc.r.a.ped away with what looked like effort, and the walls were rough with the remains of old paste and layers of paint.

"You take off that wallpaper yourself?" he asked, setting the box down near the wall. Pieces of tackless carpet strips meant wall-to-wall had been removed, too, and not professionally.

"It was awful," Mackenzie said, brushing a hand over the wall near the door. "I thought it would never come off, and I still have a lot of work to do before I can paint."

"That's an understatement." He crossed his arms over his chest, hearing the next words in his head before he uttered them, and wondering what the h.e.l.l was wrong with him. He had enough work to do, here and elsewhere. "I can help you out, if you need it. s.p.a.ckling isn't for everyone."

"You're beginning to seem too good to be true," she said, leaning against the doorjamb, her eyes thoughtful.

"You might not think so if I start unpacking your underwear."

She snorted, then bit her lip in embarra.s.sment. Her cheeks were bright with color again, but her eyes were sparkling. "I'll take care of the unmentionables if you do the heavy lifting."

"Just point me in the right direction," he said, but when he started into the hall, she was slow to move, and they wound up together in the doorway, her chest brushing his arm. "Sorry."

"My fault," she said, turning toward the hall.

Just then he stepped back into the room, which suddenly brought them chest to chest. Her hair smelled like spring, light and green and vaguely flowery, and her skin, where his hand brushed against her arm, was warm and soft.

"Sorry." He should have moved, he knew it, but he didn't want to. He wanted to breathe her in for a while, and then he wanted to touch her some more. In a lot more places. On purpose.

"We seem to be stuck," she said, looking up at him. Her eyes had gone even darker, and the pale gold of her cheeks was hot with color.

"We won't get much done this way," he agreed, letting his hand come to rest on her hip.

Her head tilted to one side, her lips parting, and he felt her move closer.

Oh yeah.Tasting her would be even better than touching.

He bent his head, moving in-and the phone rang, a shrill jingle out in the kitchen.

She jumped, b.u.mping against the doorjamb, and he stepped back.

"I...uh, I should..." She released a shaky, pent-up breath, and he nodded.

"Yeah," he agreed, and then she was off, running down the hall to answer the phone.

He leaned back against the doorframe as he heard her breathless "h.e.l.lo?" and drew in a deep breath. So much for resisting temptation. Christ, he'd practically asked for it.Can I help you move boxes? That translated pretty easily into:Can I hang around and look at you? What the h.e.l.l was he doing?

Helping her move boxes, he realized. There was no backing out now. And there was no denying that looking at her while he did was the payoff.

Oh, yeah. He was in trouble.

By noon, every box in the compact little house had been moved to its appropriate room. The box of broken china had been set out on the back steps until she could deal with throwing it away.

Wiping a stray hair off her forehead, Mackenzie looked around the much tidier living room and beamed at Leo. He was slouched against the kitchen counter with a bottle of water, his eyes following her, a weary smile on his lips.

"I really can't thank you enough," she said. "I don't even want to think about how long this would have taken me without you."

"Especially since a few of those boxes were heavy even for me," he said. He was sweaty, the skin on his arms gleaming. Watching those muscles in action had been an unexpected treat. No matter what he said, he had toted the cartons from room to room as if they contained nothing but feather pillows, stopping only to ask her where to put things when he came across an unmarked box or a laundry basket of odds and ends.

That wasn't actually true, she thought, stepping around him to get herself a bottle of water from the fridge. He'd stopped to lift an amused eyebrow at her collection of snow globes. He'd shaken his head at the explosion of bath salts and lotions that tumbled out of a box with a weak bottom. He'd examined a few of her summer dresses with an appreciative eye when he lifted them out of a laundry basket and hung them in her closet.

And he'd looked at her. A lot. The heat in his eyes alone was enough to make her long for air-conditioning.

Of course, after the almost-kiss in the doorway to her bedroom, it wasn't as if she hadn't been looking right back. Leo Dawson was a huge, gorgeous, solid wall of man. But it was more than that. As often as she'd found herself admiring the play of muscles in his arms or his back, she'd caught herself gazing at his face.

That was where the "more" came in. It was in the lines on his forehead, the shadows in his eyes, a sense of melancholy that lurked behind his smile. Leo Dawson gave every impression of a man who had lived hard, but who was much more than the rough-around-the-edges man he presented to the world.

Even if that man was so hot, she'd been trying to turn off her imagination all morning. It was disconcerting to find herself fantasizing about a man who was actually in the same room.

Not that he'd be in the same room much longer. He was probably going to head outside to the shed any minute, since that was what she was actually paying him for. The idea caused an unexpected pang of loss.

"Can I get you some lunch?" she said suddenly, turning to look at him. "You deserve some nourishment after all that work."

Nice going, Kenz, she told herself when he lifted a curious brow at her.Not too obvious. Oh, no. Not at all.

"I should probably get to work," he said slowly, but as he stood up and stretched, his eyes took her in, head to foot, lingering in all kinds of places.

As if he were hungry for something she definitely didn't have in the fridge.

"A quick sandwich might do the trick, though," he added, setting down his empty water bottle. "What have you got?"

"Let's see." She opened the refrigerator, grateful for the cool rush of air on her hot skin, and glanced inside. "Not much, unless half of a day-old bagel with cream cheese is your thing. Or some Fresca. I can run out, though. The deli over on Stone has great subs."

He shook his head. "Not necessary."

"I insist," she said, straightening up and going toe-to-toe with him, which forced her to crane her neck to see his face. "You've been working like a pack mule all morning, and not even at the job I'm paying you for. Do you want an Italian or a roast beef? Or something else?"

"Nothing, I swear," he said. "You go get yourself something and I'll get to work." He didn't move, though, and she was suddenly aware of how close their bodies were, and how warm his was.

She swallowed hard, fighting the rush of heat in her cheeks. It was going to be a long two weeks.

Two weeks of looking at him, and of inviting him in for a cool drink, since that was the polite thing to do when someone was working for you in the summer heat. Two weeks of having him close enough to touch, but not touching him. Two weeks of the throaty rumble of his voice echoing in her head, of remembering the moment when he had almost kissed her...

She stepped backward, angling for a little distance, a comfortable separation between herself and the heated, masculine smell of him, and b.u.mped into the refrigerator.

d.a.m.n it. Why did the one contractor with time free have to be him? Why did he have to look like the embodiment of a fantasy bad boy?

And why-oh-why had she never realized shehad a fantasy bad boy before now?

He wasn't her type, really. He was too gruff. Too rough around the edges. Too...blatantly masculine. He could probably do a pretty fair caveman imitation.

When he's carrying you off to bed.

To stop that train of thought in its tracks, she drew in a breath, speaking before she even knew what she was about to say. "You're pretty easygoing for someone who won't even let me take his picture."

In the suddenly deafening silence, she had plenty of time to examine his furious scowl.

It wasn't pretty.

"I thought we agreed on that." It was practically a growl. And he'd leaned forward, his arms crossed over his chest, making her wish she could back up even further.

"We did! I was kidding," she said quickly, trying not to squirm under his glare. His green eyes had gone muddy and darker. "Kidding. Really."

"I hope so," he said. "I'll be outside."

And with that the screen door banged shut behind him, his boots thudded down the wooden porch steps, and he was gone.

Four.

For a Sunday night in early June, Buddy's was packed. Shouldering her way through the crowd with two fresh beers for herself and Susannah, Mackenzie wished for at least the dozenth time they'd found somewhere quieter to meet. She wasn't in the mood for noise, and the jukebox had been blasting since they'd arrived.

Susannah was loving it, though. She was perched on a stool, moving to a Gwen Stefani song and flirting with a guy across the room, who very clearly appreciated her moves. One more bounce from her and his jaw was going to drop open.

"Oh, thank G.o.d," she said when Mackenzie handed her the icy Corona. "I'm parched."

Mackenzie nodded, settling onto her stool and staring at the lime wedged into her bottle's neck.

"I'm beginning to get the feeling you're not having a good time," Susannah said, leaning closer to be heard over the music. "Are you still stewing over your hunky carpenter?"

"I'm not stewing," Mackenzie protested with a frown. "And he's notmy carpenter."

"Semantics," Susannah said fondly, nudging her with one bare shoulder. She was wearing a sleeveless red blouse that set off her early tan, and her fingernails were painted to match. "You like him, you almost kissed, and then he bolted. So tell me the rest."

"There's nothing to tell," Mackenzie said, running a finger along the side of her cold beer. "I haven't seen him since."

"But he's been there working, hasn't he?"

Mackenzie nodded, fighting the cold knot of unhappiness in her chest. "Friday and Sat.u.r.day, as planned. But I left Friday before he showed up, and I had to leave Sat.u.r.day while he was out-I think he had to run to Home Depot. And both days he was gone by the time I got home."

Which was fine, really. He was working for her, after all, despite the almost-kiss. And he was working hard. She'd wandered out to the shed today, his day off, to find that he'd already torn away the rotted siding, replaced it with fresh lumber, and started preparing for the plumbing and electricity hookups. Then there was the small fact that for a photographer like her, it probably wasn't the brightest idea to get involved with a man who seemed to be pathologically opposed to cameras.

But she couldn't help wondering what he was hiding. And there had to be something. Every time she remembered the guarded sadness in his eyes, not to mention his entirely negative reaction to the possibility of having his photo printed somewhere, she came to the same conclusion. And she'd been letting herself remember his face an awful lot over the past few days.

"Maybe he's in the witness protection program," Susannah offered, her eyes wide. "Maybe the mob is after him!"

"You've been watching too much HBO," Mackenzie told her, rolling her eyes. "Real world here, remember?"

"Hey, the mob is part of the real world," Susannah argued. "So are other criminals. And murderers! Oh G.o.d, what if he killed someone? What if he's on the lam?"

Mackenzie spluttered beer on the table, narrowly missing her shirt, and sighed. "I don't think crazed killers 'on the lam' establish carpentry businesses and come with good recommendations."

"Well, you never know," her friend sniffed. "Truth is stranger than fiction, and there has to be some reason this guy doesn't want you to take his picture. Either way, you should talk to him. Just ask him, for heaven's sake. What's he going to do?" She considered her words for a moment, and added, "If he's not a murderer, I mean."

Mackenzie laughed and took another swallow of her beer, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter. I mean, yeah, I'm curious, but it's not really my business, is it? And he's not even my type."

Susannah didn't bother disguising her snort of disbelief. "For someone who's not your type, he's definitely managed to work his way into your imagination. h.e.l.l, he's working his way into my imagination, and I've never even met him."

Mackenzie restrained the urge to glare at her friend, but she couldn't help frowning at the ship's lantern hanging on the wall opposite her. Leo was clearly hiding something-or maybe protecting something?-but he wasn't a criminal. He certainly wasn't a murderer. It didn't matter how little she knew about him, she knew that much, deep down. Crazed killers didn't help you move overstuffed boxes and hang up your dresses. They didn't gently tease you about your collection ofLittle House on the Prairie books, or admire photographs you'd taken of your family. There was something soft under Leo's crusty exterior, all right.

It was a shame she'd probably never get to it.

"What is your type, anyway?" Susannah asked, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head. "I'm trying to work it out based on Peter and Tom, but they're nothing alike."

Mackenzie definitely didn't want to talk about ex-boyfriends, especially Tom. The big, s.h.a.ggy blond jerk. He'd been more attached to his PlayStation than he'd been to her.

"They're not the same physical type, no," she said, thinking about the two men with a grimace. "But they're both the kind of guy I think I'd like. You know, if they hadn't turned out to be totally wrong for me."

Susannah frowned. "And the kind of guy you'd like is...?"