‘I like them too. All this . . .’ He pointed to the woodworking tools. ‘All yours?’
‘Yep. I inherited it from my grandfather along with the Tank. The Land Cruiser,’ she clarified. ‘I was the only one of his grandchildren that showed any interest in woodworking. It helps me vent off stress when I have a bad day at work.’
He picked up a finely turned wooden spindle that would eventually end up in a chair. ‘You make furniture?’
‘Some. I fix a lot. Sometimes people throw away stuff that’s still good. It just needs a little TLC. Some sanding, a new leg or some upholstery. A coat of paint or varnish. Then it’s good as new. Better, even.’
‘What do you do with the furniture you rescue?’ he asked.
‘Donate it, mostly. I keep some. Give a few pieces as gifts.’ She pointed to an old-fashioned roll-top desk that had been stripped and sanded, the drawers freshly stained. ‘That’s going to be a wedding present for Deacon and Faith. It’ll look nice when it’s done.’
‘Faith will love it,’ he said, knowing his cousin’s fascination with antiques. She had spent the past nine months inventorying then selling off many of the best pieces she’d inherited from her grandmother, putting the money in a fund for the victims of the killer who’d taken Mikhail’s life and the lives of so many others. ‘She’ll treasure it because you put so much time into it.’
Shrugging self-consciously, Scarlett reached up to pull the string on the overhead light bulb, illuminating the garage before pulling both outer doors down. Marcus considered helping her, but he was enjoying watching the movement of her body as she stretched and turned and flexed. She came to her feet after pulling down the second door and stared at him, clearly seeing the appreciation on his face.
‘It’s not a crime scene,’ he said, looking his fill. He’d seen her shiver before when he’d dropped his voice deeper, so he did that now, shamelessly enticing her with any tool at his disposal. ‘And we are definitely not in public.’
‘No,’ she said huskily, sending every drop of blood from his head to his groin.
He moved toward her, but she sidestepped him. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I have to walk the dog.’
Marcus exhaled heavily and followed her from the garage into her laundry room, closing the door behind them. ‘You’re trying to kill me now,’ he muttered, then smiled when he heard her chuckle.
‘Maybe just a little, but you can take it.’ She dropped to one knee at the sound of pattering of dog claws, their rhythm staccato. ‘Hey, boy,’ she crooned as a three-legged bulldog came around the corner. Her hands gently cupped the dog’s jowly head, her thumbs scratching his ears. ‘Fooled you, didn’t I? I came in a different door than I left this morning. Made you work to find me.’
The dog looked up lazily and uttered a token growl at Marcus, making her laugh. ‘He’s not much of a watch dog, but that’s okay. Zat, this is Marcus. He’s okay.’ She looked up at Marcus over her shoulder. ‘He won’t bite you.’
Marcus hadn’t thought he would. He’d been too absorbed in watching Scarlett’s face as she talked to the dog to even care if the dog had bitten him. She was softer, gentler than he’d ever seen her. And suddenly he envied the dog, who was the current recipient of that gentle touch. Slowly he eased down on one knee beside her, so close that their hips bumped and her cheeks colored the prettiest pink.
‘You adopted him from Delores’s shelter, didn’t you?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Not the first time I went out there, or even the second. But he was still around the third time I visited her. I kept thinking that a family with kids would take him and give him a good home, but nobody did. So I did.’ Her voice softened to a croon again. ‘Idiots didn’t know they’d passed over the best dog in the shelter, did they, Zat? So I’m the lucky one.’
Marcus’s throat tightened as he wondered if she knew how much she’d just shared with him. This woman fixed broken things. He wondered if she saw him as broken too. He didn’t want to think so, even though he knew it was true. ‘Why do you call him Zat?’ he asked as he scratched behind the dog’s ear, for the simple pleasure of brushing against her hand as he did so.
‘It’s for the movie – Zatoichi. He’s a blind swordsman.’ She shrugged. ‘Japanese martial arts movies are a thing with my brothers. Phin especially. I sent him a picture of Zat when I adopted him, hoping it would bring back some good memories of our Zatoichi movie marathons, but I haven’t heard a word.’
‘How long has it been since you sent it?’
‘A month.’
‘Send it again,’ he suggested softly. ‘He may want to reconnect but not be able to. Yet. He can always say he didn’t get the first text. Or the first twenty. Just don’t give up on him.’
‘I haven’t. I won’t.’ She met his eyes. ‘You haven’t given up on Stone.’
‘No. I can’t. He . . . needs me.’
‘Why?’
Marcus hesitated. ‘That may be a story for another day.’ He waited for her to get angry, but she surprised him again, nodding sagely.
‘I get it. Some secrets are yours to tell. Others aren’t.’ She stood up quickly and walked into her kitchen, done in classic 1970s. But it wasn’t retro, it was original, the wallpaper bright enough to make his eyes bleed. ‘It’s on my list of things to do,’ she said apologetically. ‘But the stovetop and the microwave both work, so I can eat until I can afford the oven I really want.’
‘What do you really want?’ he asked, curious now.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a catalog. ‘This.’
Marcus whistled at the six-burner, two-oven Viking range. ‘That’s a monster. Do you cook, too?’
‘I was one of seven kids and my mom worked a full-time job. We all can cook.’ She paused, lifting her brows. ‘But I can cook.’
‘I have one of these,’ he said, pointing to her dream oven. ‘In my apartment. It’s never been used.’
Her eyes widened. ‘That’s a crime.’ She took the catalog and put it away. ‘Speaking of crime, I need to walk Zat, get you back to your job and get back to mine.’
No, not yet. Just a few more minutes. His mind scrambled, then remembered. ‘What about my head? You were supposed to fix it.’
She blinked, startled. ‘I forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll walk him and then tend to you. Come here, Zat. Let’s go outside.’
His gaze dropped to her ass when she bent over to fix a leash to the bulldog’s collar, and he shoved his hands back in his pockets when they itched to touch her smooth curves.
‘Just make yourself at home,’ she said. ‘But don’t sit on anything but the blue couch or the rockers in the living room. Everything else I’m still fixing.’
Marcus followed her to the back door, watching as she patiently waited for the three-legged dog to hop down the steps. Then he watched her pull her cell phone from her pocket as she walked with Zat around her backyard, where the dog proceeded to water every blade of grass he could.
‘You’re letting out all my AC,’ she called over her shoulder, not turning to look at him. ‘Close the door or you’ll air-condition the whole damn neighborhood. I’ve got to check my mail. I’ll be in soon.’
He complied reluctantly, not wanting to miss a moment of their time together. Which made him sound all touchy-feely, he thought, but he didn’t care. Now that he’d decided to go for this relationship, he didn’t seem to be able to slow himself down. He wanted her – all of her. And he wanted her now.
She, however, seemed to be wanting to slow things down. He’d have to follow her lead on this one. There was no way he was forcing her to do anything. Even if it killed him. Which it just might.
Reining in his desire, he went into the living room to sit on the blue couch, but stopped short in the doorway. The room resembled a furniture store more than a living room. There were desks and nightstands and even two twin-sized headboards leaning against a wall. Chairs of all shapes and sizes were clustered in groups. Some, like the desk in the corner, were clearly broken, some were works in progress, and others appeared pristine. There were upholstered chairs, desk chairs, dining room chairs . . . and three brand-new rocking chairs.