You Can Leave Your Hard Hat On Page 2

  But when she turned her head to look at the shirtless man who held her, her breath caught in her throat. Denial exploded in her brain, but there was no denying the taunting, impossibly green eyes under the brim of the hard hat. Teague Brownlee.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TEAGUE TOOK A DEEP BREATH and inhaled the enticing scent that had haunted him for over a decade—Spring Blush. He had seen the perfume bottle among Samantha Stone’s things when he’d spent the night in her bed. But even though she still wore the same perfume, Samantha had changed. Gone was the fringe of blond bangs that she had pushed back from her face as she’d walked through the halls of their high school. Now her long, pale hair was one length and fashionably straight. And the curves he felt beneath her finely cut suit were fuller, more womanly, than the last time he’d held her.

  It had been a magical night, one created by desperation on his part. Samantha Stone had been the only thing in high school that had held his interest. Born into wealth and privilege, Samantha had run with the cool kids and had enjoyed the fruits of her social status and beauty. He, on the other hand, had been born into hardship and had run with the kids spoiling for trouble. With her golden good looks and slender curves dressed in the best clothes that money could buy, Samantha had represented everything that Teague couldn’t have. And, despite the haughty looks she had cast in his direction, his desire for her had kept him awake too many nights to count.

  He’d known that Samantha was headed to college in Atlanta after graduation, so, aware that his window of opportunity to get her attention was closing, he and his buddies had crashed Samantha’s graduation party at her father’s mansion. She’d been amused by his actions and had not only allowed them to stay but had wound up spending the night with Teague in the guesthouse—an amazing night of sex and intimate pillow talk that was seared into Teague’s memory. Sometime between midnight and dawn, he had even started to believe he was in love with her. The next morning, however, Samantha was gone, leaving a note that read “Don’t track dirt on my carpet when you leave.”

  Humiliated to the core, Teague had vowed to himself that one day Samantha Stone would get her comeuppance. In truth, he was only mildly surprised at the identity of the woman in his arms. He’d always known that his and Samantha’s paths would cross again—he just hadn’t expected her to drop into his life so literally, while he stood ankle-deep in black mud.

  If he’d had any doubts that she would recognize him, they were erased by the look of pure mortification—and dismay—on her face. “Teague Brownlee?”

  He gave her a flat smile. “Samantha Stone. It’s been a while.”

  She frowned, clearly displeased to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m digging a ditch,” he said, stating the obvious. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is my job site.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Yours?”

  “That’s right. I’m the architect for the library. And for your information, this ditch you’re digging isn’t on the site plan.”

  “Really? Then it should be.”

  She narrowed her eyes. A crowd had begun to gather, with wolf whistles and halfhearted applause.

  “Good catch, Teague!”

  “Looks like you got your hands full, Teague!”

  Teague grinned, enjoying seeing her squirm. His sex hardened as she pushed against his bare chest, her soft fingers and biting nails bringing back vivid memories of the last time she had touched him, had coaxed him to the heights of physical release. Eighteen-year-old hormones were suddenly resurrected and raged through his body. Just like that, he wanted her…and he hated himself for it.

  Samantha glared at the jeering workers, then at Teague. “I’d appreciate it if you’d put me down.”

  Irritation barbed through his chest. “You’re welcome for keeping you from breaking your neck. I see you haven’t changed.”

  Samantha glanced at his sweaty, dirty arms, then arched a haughty eyebrow. “I could say the same thing.”

  He clenched his jaw—Samantha still knew his soft-tissue points. The moment was oddly reminiscent of the last time they’d been together—he’d been too dirty for her then, too. Teague tightened his grip on her, not caring that he was soiling her designer suit, then brought his mouth close to her ear. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t drop your ungrateful behind in the mud.”

  Cheers and jeers continued to sound around them. Samantha narrowed her blue eyes. “Because I’m your boss and if you value your job, you’ll behave accordingly.”

  Teague pursed his mouth and nodded slowly. “Okay.” Then he opened his arms and let her fall.

  She landed with a splat in six inches of goo. From her mouth came a startled cry of disbelief, her eyes wide as the mud enveloped her.

  The workers erupted in screams of laughter, and Teague experienced a flash of remorse—she looked like a drowned kitten. He leaned over and extended his hand, but Samantha slapped it away.

  “Don’t touch me!” Seeing the way she recoiled from him, his remorse vanished. He crossed his arms to enjoy the show.

  She flailed like a wounded animal as she rescued her briefcase and pushed herself up from the muck with a great sucking noise. She stood, mud-soaked from the waist down, the hem of her skirt dragging from the weight of the wetness that had soaked through the fabric, molding it to her shapely backside. She was a pitiful sight, her hair and face splattered, but her chin was high with defiance. The top of the ditch met her shoulder-level. She gave him a lethal glare, then tossed her briefcase up. A couple of grinning men standing above them moved to extend their hands.

  “Get out of my way,” she yelled, then proceeded to hoist herself up with her arms and lift herself out of the ditch with an impressive show of strength—and leg. Between the wiggle of her behind, the sight of her toned thighs, and the flash of brown leopard-print panties, Teague had to fist his hands to keep from reaching for her.

  When she finally stood above him, her generous chest rose and fell from exertion and, he suspected, anger. “May I have my shoes, please?” she asked in a regal voice.

  Teague pondered her request but conceded that she’d have a hard time getting home without shoes. He leaned over and fished her high heels out of the mud, turned them over until the goop stopped running out of them, then reached up to set them on the ground. She slipped her stocking feet inside the shoes, picked up her briefcase, then latched on to him with blazing blue eyes. “You. Are. Fired.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A few chuckles and guffaws sounded around them as her words vibrated in the air.

  Chest heaving, Sam stared down at the unwelcome blast from her past as white-hot anger whipped through her. As if the shock of seeing Teague again wasn’t enough, the nerve of the man to humiliate her in front of everyone on the job site was unforgivable. She’d had no choice but to fire him.

  He stood looking up at her, his green eyes mocking beneath his hard hat. He was still tall and lean, but his body had filled in with solid muscle. His broad, bare chest was slick with perspiration, highlighting a long, angry scar on his shoulder and flattening the dark hair that converged over the planes of his stomach and disappeared into the waistband of his raggedy, faded jeans.

  She held her breath, waiting for him to respond. Moving with languid indifference, he reached over to pick up the shovel he’d dropped, propped it on his thick shoulder, then touched his hand to his hard hat. “No offense, ma’am, but you can’t fire me.”

  She lifted her chin. “Yes, I can.”

  “No, you can’t,” he countered quietly. “Because I quit.”

  Soft laughter sounded around them as he climbed out of the trench with the ease of an athlete. He walked by her without a sideways glance, so close that she could feel the heat rolling off his half-naked body. He whistled and out of nowhere a chocolate-colored Labrador appeared and fell into step next to him as he strode toward a black king cab pickup.

  Sam straightened her shoulders and ad
dressed the frowning workers standing around. “Now, can anyone tell me where I can find Mr. Langtry?”

  Finally a young woman removed her hard hat and stepped forward. “He didn’t show up today, ma’am.”

  Sam nodded curtly. “Thank you. Listen up, everyone. Until Mr. Langtry can be located, I’m in charge. My name is Samantha Stone—I’m the architect for this building and I’ll be overseeing the excavation.” She scanned the workers, a bit dismayed to see that no one seemed particularly impressed or attentive. Admittedly, though, she probably looked ridiculous covered in mud. She took a deep breath and summoned strength, pointing to the deep, wide channel that Teague had been digging. “I want that ditch filled.”

  The workers looked at each other, then back to her.

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” one of the workers said, “but Teague said that’s where one of the retaining walls should be.”

  Sam bit the inside of her cheek, then gave the worker a flat smile. “Well, Teague was wrong. Fill it in.”

  She turned and made her way back across the job site with as much dignity as she could muster. Teague’s truck was gone, and just the thought of him filled her with fury all over again. What ghastly luck to cross paths with him again on this, the most important project of her career. Tears pressed on the back of her eyes, but she clenched her jaw to keep them at bay. She had vowed never to cry on the job, and she wasn’t going to start today.

  When she reached the taxi, the driver jumped out. “What happened?”

  “I fell.”

  “I have a tarp in the trunk,” he said, then sprang into action. After he spread the blue plastic tarp on the back seat, Sam crawled in, feeling utterly miserable. How had this day gone so badly, so quickly?

  Teague Brownlee, that’s how.

  She leaned her head back on the seat and exhaled. Good grief, where had he come from? The man was like a bolt of lightning, striking without notice and leaving her scorched—again. She still tingled from their encounter and wondered crazily if she had conjured him with her wayward thoughts on the return flight from New York.

  She dug her cell phone out of her waterlogged briefcase and dialed the number for Mr. Langtry. When he didn’t answer, she dialed her assistant.

  “Samantha Stone’s office, Price speaking.”

  “Price, it’s Sam,” she said, squeezing the bridge of her nose where the pressure of a headache had begun to throb. “I’m back.”

  “Hi, boss. How was Manhattan?”

  “Let’s just say I wish I’d stayed there.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I just stopped by the Carlyle site, and it’s chaos.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Don’t say anything to anyone,” she warned. “The last thing I need is for everyone at the firm to think things have started badly.”

  “What can I do?”

  “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, plush white 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 everyone after she’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 high school 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 been sated, 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….

  Sam sighed and shook her head. It was silly to conjure up fantasies of what might have been—they each had chosen their own path. Such a shame that the man was digging ditches for a living…although wasn’t it exactly what she’d expected him to do with his life?

  Her cell phone rang, breaking into her nostalgic musings. She connected the call. “Hello?”

  “Samantha, hey, it’s Price. I found your foreman, Mr. Langtry.”

  She smiled in relief. “Great.”

  “Um, not really. He’s in Central Hospital with mono.”

  “Mono?”

  “Yeah, says he’s going to be out of commission for at least six weeks.”

  Her shoulders fell and worst-case scenarios ballooned in her mind—missing the excavation deadline, having the project yanked, embarrassing her firm, facing her father.

  “But don’t panic,” Price added quickly. “I have him on the line and he says he can recommend a replacement.”