Page 7 of You Can Leave Your Hard Hat On
“My site foreman is missing in action—think you can track him down?”
“I’ll give it the old college try.”
“His name is Langtry. Gerald Langtry.”
“Got it. Where will you be?”
“At my condo.” She frowned at her ruined suit and shoes. “I had a little accident at the site.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, but my Dana Buchman suit and Judith Leiber shoes are in critical condition. I’m going home to shower.”
He groaned. “I’ll check to see if Manolo makes steel-toed stilettos.”
She laughed. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Oh, and your father called.”
Sam winced. “Did he leave a message?”
“He’s coming to town at the end of the month and wants to see you.”
Translation: Packard wanted to check out the Carlyle Library job site for himself. Just what she didn’t need—someone else questioning her design. “Okay, thanks,Price. I’ll be in the office tomorrow. Call me the minute you find Langtry.”
“Will do.”
She disconnected the call just as the cab pulled up to her building. The cabbie retrieved her carry-on suitcase from the trunk. She climbed out and handed him the fare and a hefty tip, grimacing at the grit in her shoes that chafed her feet. Hoping she didn’t run into any of her neighbors in the eight-story building, she entered the revolving door and practically ran through the lobby, past the concierge and onto one of the elevators. To her chagrin, she left a trail of dried mud behind her.
But when she reached the top floor and the elevator doors opened, the attractive attorney who had just moved in stood waiting. Sam bit back a groan—talk about bad timing. She frantically searched her memory for his name—Stanley? No, Stewart. Stewart Estes.
Stewart blinked at her appearance. “Samantha, what on earth—”
“Long story,” she said, sweeping by.
“Maybe you can tell me about it some time,” he called.
Remembering her vow to make an effort, she turned and tossed her mud-soaked hair behind her shoulder. “I’d like that.”
“I’ll call you,” he said, smothering a smile as the elevator closed.
She winced. The man probably thought she was some sort of mud-wrestler. She made a dash for her condo and opened the door to a world of soaring white walls, plushwhite rugs over white epoxy floors, sleek white leather furniture and gleaming stainless steel accessories, the wall of windows facing downtown free of drapes or other clutter. Clean and soothing, just how she liked it.
Sam removed her shoes and picked her way carefully across the entryway and down the hall to her bathroom, where she turned on the shower. A glimpse of herself in the mirror made her gasp in dismay—her face was spotted with dried mud, her pale hair matted. Her clothes and shoes were beyond saving. Damn Teague Brownlee! She withdrew a garbage bag from beneath the sink and peeled off her sodden clothes, stuffing them inside with jerky, angry movements. Even her underwear was ruined.
She stepped into the shower, hoping the water would wash away some of her tension, as well as the grime. But when she closed her eyes to lather her skin and hair, she kept replaying the scene over and over in her head—of Teague catching her, their moment of electric recognition, then his audacity to drop her in the mud in front of everyoneaftershe’d told him that it was her job site. Clearly he’d felt threatened by her authority. If she’d been a male architect walking onto that site, things would have ended very differently.
She was still fuming when she toweled off. Men like Teague Brownlee kept chauvinism alive in the building industry.
After slipping into black slacks and a slate-blue button-up blouse, she was compelled to pull her highschool yearbook from her bookcase. She bypassed the pictures of herself—her circle of friends were some of the most photographed and popular kids in school—and turned to the senior portraits. Most of the boys had worn formal jackets and tuxes for their portraits, their hair neat and stylish. But Teague stuck out in his battered leather jacket and T-shirt, his hair shaggy, his face lean and rawboned, his eyes full of rebellion.
His family had been large and troublesome, she recalled, and he had lived in a rural area of Gypsum where she’d never been. They’d had nothing in common, yet their gazes had caught often in the halls at school or in the cafeteria. There had been something challenging in his eyes, as if he wasn’t impressed by her daddy’s money or her brand-new car or her rich friends. And there had been something blatantly sexual in the way he’d looked at her. She’d never been afraid, only…intrigued.
When he and his buddies had crashed her graduation party, she’d been more amused than angry and had given in to the powerful chemistry between them that had never been explored. Dancing had led to kissing and kissing had led to petting and petting had led to the bedroom in the guesthouse. Her party forgotten, they had spent the night together, exploring each other’s bodies in what had been a sense-shattering experience for her. Teague had been her first lover, a tidbit that she’d kept to herself.
He’d been an intense, exciting bed partner, in tune with her desires and his own. When their lust had beensated, they had talked about things that were happening in the world and about their dreams. At the time, it had made her feel very philosophical and wise, but the next morning, reality had settled in. Her dreams had centered around success and career, his had centered around family and obligation. Her dreams would take her away from Gypsum. His dreams would likely keep him there.
She had also been embarrassed that after saving herself for so long, she had given her virginity to the most unsuitable man in her proximity. And, admittedly, she had been a little scared by the depth of emotion he had evoked within her—it had made her doubt her life plan, a plan she had already set into motion, a plan that didn’t have room for a rough-edged, unpredictable boyfriend. There were times though, when she’d wondered what Teague might have become with the love and support of a strong woman….
