Her Secret Longing

Released by Silhouette Romance

September 2001

Review

I enjoyed the banter and developing relationship. Grandma Brighton was a blast, adding spice and laughter in just the right. amount. Ms. Martin has a flair for light-hearted romance with satisfying endings.
Karen Larsen, Scribes World Reviews

Her Secret Longing (4) blends sibling rivalry with a few surprises for an enjoyable read by Gail Martin - Romantic Times

A "snuggle up in bed" book you must read (Platinum) - Bridges Magazine.

A fresh angle in his creative story - Romance Reader Connection

This first-time category romance by Ms. Martin is a charming, delightful story, and it’s very well done. There’s a sweetness to it that you don’t see a lot anymore. I welcome this author to the world of category romance and am patiently waiting for her next book - Melissa Huston, Old Book Barn Gazette

When uptight Kathryn Palmer hires laid-back Lucas Tanner to remodel the back rooms of her farmhouse in a rural town in the Detroit suburbs, she has no idea that he would also remodel her life. As a marketing research director, Kathryn focuses on her executive business career. Marriage and children have no place in her plans, that is, until Lucas Tanner hammers his way into her heart.

Excerpt from Chapter One

"Not according to plan," Kathryn Palmer muttered.

She gritted her teeth and looked into the distance at the medium-blue pickup sitting in her driveway—-a sure signal that she was late for her appointment. Being late was Kathryn’s pet peeve, along with traffic jams...which is why she was late in the first place.

She stepped on the gas pedal sending a spray of dust and dirt settling on the roadside foliage. Tooling into the driveway of her white sided farmhouse, her tires skidded on the gravel. Her car came to a sliding halt beside the late-model truck where inquisitive, deep-set eyes looked at her through the driver’s window.

Intrigued by the blatant fixed stare, Kathryn sat a moment before pulling the key from the ignition. Rather presumptuous of the man to scrutinize his prospective employer, she thought, withdrawing the car key.

Greeted by the unbearable Michigan humidity, Kathryn’s skin prickled as she pushed open the car door. It was only early May, and Kathryn wondered what the summer would hold. Unladylike perspiration formed beneath her jacket, rolled down her inner arm beneath the linen suit.

Her discomfort grew as she watched the carpenter step from his truck. Having envisioned an unkempt, beer-bellied laborer, she was thrown off kilter by the neat, well-built man who approached her, his sage-green work shirt stretching across broad shoulders and tucked beneath his belt.

He flashed a broad grin graced by deep smile lines.

With a quiet chuckle, Kathryn noted the laborer’s one imperfection. Fighting for recognition, an unruly tuft of sun-streaked hair jutted from his hairline like a young boy’s. She extended her arm. "Sorry I’m late. I’m Kathryn Palmer."

"Lucas Tanner," he said, shaking her hand. He broke into an even-toothed grin. "The traffic, I know. It’s a pain." His grin shifted from her face and followed a downward inspection as if she were the one needing remodeling.

Uncomfortable, Kathryn tugged at her suit jacket with her free hand and pulled it from her damp back. Extracting her fingers from his, she nodded and focused again on his face—-not one drop of sweat anywhere on it.

As nonchalant as possible, she brushed the beads that formed along her upper lip. "I moved to Metamora to escape the traffic. It was supposed to be my sanctuary from the city." She gave a defeated shrug.

A soft chuckle rose from his flat belly. "I hate it myself. I think the sports arenas are the problem. It wasn’t this bad when everything was in Detroit."

Staring into the late afternoon sun, he squinted, then shaded his glinting gray eyes. "How far away do you work?"

"Southfield. I’m with a marketing firm."

"Ahh," he said, and yanked open the truck’s passenger door and snatched up a clipboard.

Seeing his readiness, Kathryn seized her attaché case from the seat. "I suppose we can get started."

"Unless you want to wait for your husband."

Her chest tightened for a moment, and she wondered if he assumed women were incapable of handling business matters. The attitude permeated her firm. Slamming the door, she swallowed her frustration. "That would be a long wait. I’m not married."

"That makes two of us," he said, flashing a smile. "Then, I’m ready if you are." He swung his clipboard toward the door as if indicating for her to lead the way.

She sashayed past his broad shoulders and unlocked the house, then motioned him inside.

Her irritation fading, pride filled her as she stepped in behind him and viewed her home. She loved its charm and unique nooks and crannies. And best of all, the place was hers.

On occasion she wondered why she’d bought a big old house in the first place. Her career was enough challenge. A husband and children to help fill the space was as distant in her thoughts as living in Tibet. But now things were different.

"Nice house."

His voice pulled her from her musing. "Thanks," she said, following his admiring inspection.

Lucas tucked his fingers into his back pocket, tightening the denim across his backside. He meandered through the room, looking up at the high ceilings and crouching to eye the wide molding.

Since Kathryn had already noted the woodwork, she eyed his tight jeans, amazed. He then shrugged away her criticism. If the man wanted to wear trousers much too small for him, it was his business.

"This style is Adams," Lucas said, running his freed hand across the fireplace’s white-painted mantel. He glanced at her over his shoulder.

"Right," she mumbled, not wanting the carpenter to think she wasn’t educated. In honesty, she had no idea what style it was. When she bought the house, all she’d wanted was a chimney that didn’t billow smoke when she built a fire. She admitted the fireplace was elegant.

Distracted by a scatter rug out of place, Kathryn bent and straightened it, lining it parallel to the door.

"Interesting," he said, turning full circle. "You weren’t kidding about this baby. It is an old farmhouse."

Kathryn arched an eyebrow. "Did you think I lied?"

A deep-bellied chuckle rumbled from him. "No. But some people don’t know a replica from a quality antique."

He raised the clipboard and began making notes. "You have a good eye for quality." Peering at her, he grinned. "And blue ones at that."

His audacious observation hit her like a brick, and a humiliating heat rose up her neck. Her friend Amy, who’d recommended him, hadn’t warned her about his boldness. Kathryn harnessed the desire to point dramatically toward the foyer, telling him to never darken her door again. Instead she wrestled with an appropriate, less dramatic comment, but faltered when she noticed his obvious stare. "Is something wrong?"

"No, but you look uncomfortable in that suit jacket," he said. "I can wait while you take it off."

Wanting to tell him where to get off, she felt her eyebrows shoot upward. Instead, the words bunched in her throat. Kathryn slipped off her linen jacket in silence while pinning him with narrowed eyes.

"Sorry," he said, obviously noting her displeasure. "This is your house. If you choose to wear your jacket, I guess it’s your business." He shrugged and poked his fingers into his back pockets again, making a full pivot as he studied the room.

Comebacks about his tight jeans swirled in Kathryn’s mind, but she kept quiet. She’d put him in his place...if she decided to give him the job.

Then, Kathryn realized the bad attitude might be hers. All he’d done was suggest she would be cooler without a jacket. Her co-worker, Amy, had said nothing about poor manners...although she’d mentioned something. Kathryn’s memory failed her.

Lucas strode through the dining room archway, eyed it, then strutted into the kitchen. She followed him, gawking at how well he wore his jeans and listening to the heels of his boots thud against the flooring.

"Look at the width of the mopboard," he said, looking up in the center of the room. "You don’t see those very often."

She hadn’t seen a set of shoulders like his very often, either, but she refused to lower herself to his banter. Instead, she peered at the chipped molding, noticing that it needed painting.

Kathryn agreed the house had charm, but his appreciation for the chipped molding and high ceilings seemed ridiculous. She pondered what else he would find enchanting...to impress her.

"That’s a pity," he said.

Kathryn stifled her surprise. She followed his downward focus toward his boots and looked for a problem. "What’s wrong?"

"This linoleum. I’d bet there’s some fine hardwood underneath this. Maybe, a puncheon floor."

"Puncheon floor?" she echoed, having no idea what it was and not caring.

He squatted. "Hard to tell," he said, running his fingers along the flooring surface. "Feel here." He beckoned her downward.

She took a staggered step backward, noting his trim hips and muscular thighs against the denim.

He lifted his gaze and beckoned her down.

Making the best of the situation, she closed the distance between her body and his snug jeans and leaned over, tapping the linoleum with her finger tips.

"No. Down," he said, gesturing his head toward the flooring. "Run your hand over here."

She crouched beside him, feeling ridiculous and wallowing in his spicy musk scent.

"Feel this." He grasped her hand and ran her fingers along the linoleum surface.

She felt nothing on the floor, only the warmth of his palm against her hand and the closeness of his body to hers. The nearness awakened an old longing she’d hoped to forget.

"We’ll know better when I pull this up," he said, rapping his knuckles on the linoleum.

Pull it up? She gasped and rose like a missile. "I have no intention of pulling it up."

He shot upward and gaped at her. "If you want the kitchen remodeled--"

"It’s not the kitchen...I have in mind."

Mortified, she eyed the too-high cabinets and old-fashioned countertop. "I suppose it could use some work," she muttered, then refocused in mid-thought. "I’m interested in redoing the back of the house."

How had she lost control of this interview? She pictured herself at work: delegating tasks, overseeing co-workers and preparing detailed reports. Today, she was as clear as pea soup.

He turned toward the farthest doorway. "You’re looking for a laundry room?" He ran his fingers through the crown of his short, sandy-colored hair dragging them down to the nape, then lingered there, massaging the cords in his neck.

Kathryn cringed, hating his discerning eye and despising her lack of direction. "That’s another idea...but I’d like something done with the summer kitchen and the enclosed back porch." Scrambling for a hint of executive authority, she marched past him, beckoning him to follow.

Since Kathryn bought the old house, besides wondering where her head had been, she also pondered how she could utilize this useless space. Now, as if her question had been answered, she’d found a purpose for it. Her grandmother.

She paused between the vast porch and the large summer kitchen, both in dire need of tender, loving care. "I’d almost considered having these rooms pulled off to add a large office area, but--"

"No, you couldn’t do that."

She jolted at his forcible remark. "Well, I could," she said, not liking his tone, "because I own the place. I can do anything I want."

He faltered as if realizing he’d overstepped his boundaries, again. His tone softened. "But it would be a shame to ruin the structure’s authenticity. The charm."

She eyed the thin, drab walls that caused her gas bill to soar during the winter months and shook her head. "Somehow I’m missing the charm."

His serious expression shifted to amusement. "Well, it’s in the mind’s eye. But it has potential."

"Potential is what I need." She rallied with her moment of wit. "I’d like these two rooms turned into living quarters for my grandmother."

His grin faded. "Grandmother? Is she ill?"

His sudden concern surprised her. "She’s not ill," Kathryn said, "but she’s getting up in years, and since my grandfather died, she’s alone. She could use the company, and I could—"

She slammed her mouth closed. Why in the world was she about to tell this man that she was lonely sometimes? "So what do you think?"

"I suppose you’d need...." he turned a full circle, eyeing the area "a bedroom, bath, and sitting room for Granny, is that it?" He scanned the area, again. "Nice of you to take her in." Though his expression seemed sincere, humor flickered in his eyes. "But I’d suspect, after rambling around this place, Granny will give you some company."

He’d noticed her faux pas. Heated frustration rose up Kathryn’s neck, and she squinted. "Do you have a license?"

His forehead wrinkled in deep creases. "You mean journeyman’s card?" He reached into his back pocket, adding another measure of tension to the already cramped area. "Sure."

She wondered if he could pull anything out of that pocket. Entranced again, she shifted her gaze. "I mean your counseling license."

He withdrew his hand, letting it fall to his side empty. "Ahh...well spoken." He studied her a moment. Then, with a shake of his head, he continued. "Okay, so I got the picture. I’ll stick to remodeling."

"Thank you," she said with a huffed.

He mulled over the rooms once more, then hoisted the clipboard and scribbled notes. "I see the summer kitchen working as a bedroom with enough space for a compact bathroom, right about here." His sweeping gesture defined the area.

With one fluid motion, he withdrew a giant-size tape measure clipped to his belt. "Grab an end," he said.

Amazed at his command, Kathryn stepped back. She was the boss in her house. But reining her irritation, she followed his instructions while he measured.

Finished, he flicked the tape, and like a lizard’s lightning-speed tongue, it vanished inside the metal container. Then, moving in one broad step, he poked at the wall. "Plumbing from the kitchen probably runs through here."

She nodded, noting that he definitely had a vivid imagination. She had no picture of how these grim surroundings could become a cozy bedroom and private bath.

Businesslike, he strode past her, his steps slapping against the planks. He stopped in the middle of the room and stomped his foot. "Good pine flooring. By the way, I’ll need to have your foundation inspected."

Wondering if her plan was a mistake, she sighed. After going through all this trouble, she had no idea if she could ever convince Grandma Brighton to move in.

"Although," he added, "from all I’ve seen, your foundation looks pretty good to me." His attention was directed at her legs. As his gaze inched upward an amused grin danced across his lips.

She ignored his innuendo, assuming he was suffering from an excess of testosterone. "The foundation was inspected when I bought the house."

"It’s for the building permit."

"But I’m not building. It’s only remodeling," she reminded him.

Running his fingers through his hair, he shook his head. "Any remodeling needs a permit. Trust me."

His "trust me" set her on edge. And the project already seemed too complicated. She’d heard so many horror stories of single women being swindled by bogus contractors. She swallowed her growing concern.

Lucas hesitated. "Something’s wrong."

"No, I’m having second thoughts."

Shrugging, he stuck the pencil in his pocket and dropped the clipboard to his side. "You called me, remember?" His gaze pinned her to the spot.

"I’m sorry," she said, and immediately wondered why she had apologized to him. He was the one strutting around like a peacock in full show.

A hint of guilt nudged her. Wasn’t she doing the same? She tallied it up to her lack of social life. She didn’t trust the men at work. Their attention seemed aimed at getting her into bed or stealing her job.

Still, if she were honest, he intrigued her. But a carpenter? A match made in hell: his blue collar, her business suit. Who’d believe it?

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