“Mr. Delaney—”

“Cliff,” he corrected.

She smiled, telling herself to relax. “Cliff. We seem to’ve gotten off on the wrong foot for some reason. Maybe if we concentrate on something that interests us both—my land—we won’t keep rubbing each other the wrong way.”

He found it an interesting phrase, particularly since he was imagining what it would feel like to run his hands over her skin. “All right,” he agreed as he straightened from the counter. He crossed to her, wondering who he was testing, himself or her. When he stopped, she was trapped between him and the stove.

He didn’t touch her, but both of them could sense what it would be like. Hard hands, soft skin. Warmth turning quickly to heat. Mouth meeting mouth with confidence, with knowledge, with passion.

“I consider your land a challenge.” He said it quietly, his eyes on hers. She didn’t think of mists now but of smoke—of smoke and fire. “Which is why I’ve decided to give this project quite a bit of my personal attention.”

Her nerves were suddenly strung tight. Maggie didn’t back away, because she was almost certain that was what he wanted. Instead, she met his gaze. If her eyes weren’t calm, if they’d darkened with the first traces of desire, she couldn’t prevent it. “I can’t argue with that.”

“No.” He smiled a little. If he stayed, even moments longer, he knew he’d find out how her lips tasted. That might be the biggest mistake he’d ever make. Turning, he went to the back door. “Call Bog.” He tossed this over his shoulder as he pushed the screen door open. “Your fingers belong on piano keys, not on putty knives.”

Maggie let out a long, tense breath when the screen door slammed. Did he do that on purpose, she wondered as she pressed a hand to her speeding heart. Or was it a natural talent of his to turn women into limp rags? Shaking her head, she told herself to forget it. If there was one thing she had experience in, it was in avoiding and evading the professional lothario. She was definitely uninterested in going a few rounds with Morganville’s leading contender.

With a scowl, she dropped back to her knees and picked up the putty knife. She began to hack at the tile with a vengeance. Maggie Fitzgerald could take care of herself.

Chapter Three

For the third morning in a row, Maggie was awakened by the sound of men and machinery outside her windows. It occurred to her that she’d hardly had the chance to become used to the quiet when the chaos had started.

The bulldozer had been replaced by chain saws, industrial weed eaters and trucks. While she was far from getting used to the early risings, she was resigned. By seven-fifteen she had dragged herself out of the shower and was staring at her face in the bathroom mirror.

Not so good, she decided, studying her own sleepy eyes. But then she’d been up until two working on the score. Displeased, she ran a hand over her face. She’d never considered pampering her skin a luxury or a waste of time. It was simply something she did routinely, the same way she’d swim twenty laps every morning in California.