For Richer for Poorer (2 page)

              There was something about him she trusted. She reached her hand out and let him pull her up.  In her effort to keep the bag of ice on her head, she almost toppled both of them over. But Hamilton caught her and held her in his arms, letting the flashlight fall to the floor. Her soft body was hot against his massive chest as the ice bag fell to the floor. She felt her breasts swelling as his arms swooped to the small of her back and pulled her tight against him. She felt the pressure of his groin between her legs through her Lycra shorts.

              "Are you alright?" he asked, not wanting to let her go.

              "I think I dropped my ice," she said, conscious of his scent, his touch, his strength. Her arms were locked tight around a neck that felt like concrete to keep from falling through the ceiling floor.

              "I've got you," he said in a raspy voice.

              "I know." Her voice was almost a whisper.  Hamilton felt his pulse rising as her soft, hot body dangled from him. 

              A phone could be heard ringing. They stood there, in the darkness, in each others arms.

              "I think it's your phone," Miranda said, after the third ring. 

              Neither of them wanted to move. "I think you're right." Hamilton sighed and pulled the cell phone from the holder on his belt.  Miranda let him go and eased down to grab the flashlight from the floor between his legs.  She pointed it in the direction of the chimney. 

              Hamilton checked the missed call.  "It was a client, Ms. Elliott," he said. I'll call her back when we're done up here." 

              He took the flashlight from Miranda and guided her to the chimney, pointing out where the moisture was coming in. He said it was likely the sheet metal cap or flashing. He said he'd have to get on the roof to check it out.  Hamilton was pleasantly surprised to learn she knew exactly what he was talking about.

              After a few minutes, they were back downstairs in the living room. Neither of them could get the closeness in the attic out of their minds.

Chapter 2

             
Hamilton sat on the couch in the living room. He wanted to take a few notes before calling his client back. But the phone rang again. 

              "Yes, Ms. Elliott," Hamilton said into the phone. Miranda could hear panic in a woman's voice on the other end.   

              "Just calm down, yes ma'am, I know, calm down," he said to the client. He gestured to the phone and apologized with his eyes for having an interruption in the middle of their meeting.

              "It's okay," Miranda mouthed and went into the kitchen. She put the ice bag in the sink and plugged in the same old-fashioned percolator her father had used when she was a girl growing up in the North Georgia Mountains.   She knew she had a long day ahead and the coffee would keep her awake as she geared up for more unpacking when the inspection was done.

              Hamilton sat on the couch and scribbled on his clipboard as he talked to the client.

              "Yes, the basement, near the hot water heater. Yes, now flip the lever," he said into the phone. "No, the other one," he said. "Ms. Elliott?" he said louder.  "Can you hear me now? Yes, yes, I'm on the way," his voice was loud. "I'm on the way. That should hold it for a bit until I get there. Yes, about twenty five minutes. I'm over in Harper's Grove." He hung up.

              "Ms. Colbert," Hamilton said, exasperated. "I'm so sorry."

              "
Miranda
," she said. "You can call me Miranda. Ms. Colbert sounds like an old lady."

              "Well,
Miranda,
you're certainly no old lady," he said looking into her eyes.

              "Thank you," she tried hard not to blush as he stood there looking at her.  "You were saying?" she chuckled after a few awkward seconds.

              "Yes. I have an emergency call. One of my senior clients has a water issue.  Can we reschedule, to finish the walkthrough?"

              "Certainly," Miranda said. "No problem at all."

              "I can come back in a few hours -- if that works for you?" Hamilton asked, remembering her irresistible body against his just a few moments ago. 

              "Today is just the estimate, no work is being done," she said.  "You can make it another day, if you'd rather. It's fine." Miranda wanted him to come back later that day. She wasn't ready for him to leave.

              Hamilton knew Ms. Elliott's job could take him well into the early evening, and it would probably be best to reschedule for the next day, but he wanted to stop back by her place, no matter how late it was. And it had nothing to do with the inspection of her home.   Something felt right about his woman, and he wanted to inspect her more. 

              "No, no. I can stop back by today. Let's see, it's almost 1:30. Why don't we say between 5:30 and 6:00, to be safe? Will that work for you?"

              "I'll be here, buried under some boxes or bubble wrap, I'm sure," she chuckled and waved her hands back toward the explosion of boxes he'd witnessed at the back of the hallway.

              "Thank you for understanding," he said as he gathered his clipboard and flashlight from the coffee table. The pot whistled from the kitchen.

              "Can I pour you some coffee for the road?" she asked. "I always make too much."

              "That would be great," Hamilton said. "Let me grab my thermos from the truck."

              Miranda smiled as she went into the kitchen to pull down the cream and sugar. She didn't have a lick. She had forgotten she needed to make a Wal-mart run to get some food and supplies in the house. Tonight would be her first night in the place and she didn't have the basics.  The little stone cottage was a far cry from her historic Roxbury home in the Camp Creek area. She loved the three-story, white-columned, plantation-style property, and would miss it very much. She'd enjoyed the six years she was there. But the little stone cottage was home now, and she knew she needed to start settling in so it felt like home, sooner rather than later.

              She was lucky she'd negotiated and bought the plantation-style home so low. When the bottom dropped out of the market and she had to sell, she sold at a loss, but did not leave owing a penny because she came to the closing with funds.  The fifteen thousand she used to make up the shortfall all but wiped out her emergency savings, but she didn't owe anybody a dime, and that almost made it worth it.

              "I hope you like your coffee black," she said as Hamilton came back into the house. "I haven't made my grocery store run and don't have cream or sugar."

              "Perfect," he said as he slid the Army green thermos on the counter toward her.

              "Haven't seen a coffee pot like that since my grandpa's house years ago," he said, admiring the working antique.

              "It was my father's," she said. "I had my first cup of coffee at six years old from this pot. Course, mama didn't know anything about it. My daddy was a country man, North Georgia Mountains. He let me do anything he said he would have let a son do, including sneaking coffee and gnawing tobacco when mama wasn't looking."

              Hamilton laughed. "Somehow I can't quite picture you chewing tobacco.

              "Well I did," she laughed, too.

              "Your parents still live in the mountains?" Hamilton asked.

              "No, they passed away years ago. She reached up and touched the locket around her neck. But they're with me always. He saw her eyes grow misty.

Chapter 3

              Hamilton thought about his own parents. He'd had a good life growing up. He came from a family of means. And even though he'd struggled in the market, he didn't have to. He had an inheritance -- an inheritance an important stipulation: he'd have to marry and produce a child before he could touch one penny of the monetary legacy that would come to him. 

              The money was always in the back of his mind, and he knew he'd marry one day, and have children, when he met the right woman.  But marriage was nowhere on the radar after graduating from college. He knew he was an entrepreneur and could make his own way in life. His father gave him that confidence, and many more lessons, before he passed. 

              Steele, Sr. taught his only son to work hard and earn his own way.  His inheritance was there for the taking, when it was time.  He'd planned it that way, just as his father and his father's father had done.  But his son would first have to become a man; stand on his own two feet.  When he did that, he'd be ready for a wife, and then a family. And only then would he be ready to claim his inheritance. 

              Hamilton's father's lessons built character, and he liked that about himself, liked the kind of children he'd raise -- with the right woman -- one day. 

              He'd made some business decisions that landed him in a mess, and he vowed to work his way out -- so next time he'd make better choices. Yes, he'd invested too aggressively when the market was burgeoning. This second time around, he had to be smarter. And that's just what he intended to do. He knew he was one good deal from being back on top.

Chapter 4

             
"Husband, boyfriend?" Hamilton asked Miranda out of the blue as they were standing in the kitchen. He didn't see a wedding ring on those pretty fingers, but he knew that didn't always tell the story these days.  He was traditional. If he were married, he'd wear a ring and so would his wife. Period. But not everyone did, so no ring did not necessarily mean she was a free woman.   But he also saw no signs of a man in the house.  Upon their interior walk-through of the home, so far, he hadn't seen anything masculine.

              Caught off guard, she hesitated. "Married? Why do you ask?" She unscrewed the cap on his thermos, rinsed it out and filled it to the top. She couldn't believe he was asking her that.

             
"Just curious." His eyes bore
into hers and held them before he took the thermos from her hands and screwed the little circular cap on.   He was conscious of her soft hands on his as he took the thermos.

              "Curious, huh?" she asked, aware of his eyes studying her face. "If this is a proposal, I barely know you, Mr. Steele," she flirted.

              He laughed heartily, revealing beautiful  white teeth.

              "Why do you ask?" she pressed, a playful smile on her face.  He made her feel good, forget everything she was worried about. 

              Hamilton knew he was treading in dangerous waters, but he couldn't help himself. And they had been flirting harmlessly back and forth. More than that, he had to know if she belonged to another. She was a captivating woman, and he wanted to know more about her. But he'd stop dead in his tracks if she had a man.  The businessman in him also knew he had to be careful to not cross the professional line though. She was a client, and he was in her home, for the first time. So he backtracked in his mind, ran his hand through his hair, and cleared his throat.

              Not looking at her, he tightened the lid on the thermos and said, "I want to know so your husband, or your boyfriend, and I can sit down together, look over the list and discuss what needs to be done first when I finish the inspection," he lied. 

              Agitated, Miranda pushed the little plastic cup with the handle that belonged on top of the thermos toward him.
Men!
Why is it just because she was a woman they assumed she didn't know anything about the interior workings of a house.

              "I understand
repair talk
just fine, Mr. Steele," she said, jaws clenched. 

              Ever since she'd gotten into real estate investing, men assumed she was at meetings representing a firm, or at  inspections in a husband's or male partner's stead. She'd had had her fill of workmen and  subcontractors treating her like she didn't know the right end of a hammer.  And here was another one, in all of his seductive glory.  She could just scream.

              Hamilton wasn't sure what he'd said wrong, but she had changed from a sweet little darling to a woman throwing daggers right before his very eyes.

              "And another thing," Miranda said. "This little woman can read and write and do
'rithmetic
, too, in case you're wondering."

              "I'm sorry -- I--" he started. "I didn't mean--" he sighed. The look on his face said, "Oh, Lord, what have I done?"

              "Oh never mind," she said. "Never mind, just go." She was sick of men like him.
All of them!

              With the thermos in his hand, Hamilton nodded and thanked her as he headed to the front porch.  Miranda reminded him of his younger sister Gabrielle. She was the same way. Hot-headed, smart, proud. Though Gabby really could pretty much out-perform him on any construction task.

              Miranda's temper tantrum made him like her even more. He decided to pretend nothing had happened. He'd leaned how to handle women over the years. Though Hamilton hadn't found the perfect mate, he'd had lots of experience with women.  His daddy taught him at an early age how to keep peace with the opposite sex:  smile, give in, and let them have their way, to a point, especially when it was not a serious issue. 

              "I'll see you at --" he started, a twinkle in his eye, as he reached the front porch. The phone rang. It was Ms. Elliott again. "Yes, yes ma'am, I'm on my way. Less than five minutes. No, don't touch the lever anymore. Yes, yes, on the way." 

              When he turned back around to confirm the meeting time to finish the inspection work for later that day, Miranda let the door slam in his face. 

              Hamilton looked at the red door, inches from his nose, and smiled, fully realizing why she'd gotten so upset.  He sighed, hopped in his pickup truck, and backed out. He fully intended to keep his appointment with her that evening.