The Renegade (The Moorehouse Legacy #3)(27)

“I was way out of line. I’m sorry.”

She pulled on a parka, juggling the clipboard between her hands. “So you said. Are we done?”

He stepped in her path. “You’re still angry.”

“Yes, I am. Now get out of my way.”

“Cassandra—”

“I am not a problem,” she snapped.

“What the—what are you talking about?”

“As you left on Monday you said I wasn’t your problem. Well, you’re right about the first part. I’m not your anything, not your friend, not your colleague, certainly not someone you need to worry about. But I’m also not a problem. I take care of myself, I always have, ever since I was sixteen. Hell, even while I was married to Reese, with all his money, I paid my own expenses. So I am no man’s problem, got it?”

Alex dragged a hand through his hair. “Ah, hell—”

She propped her clipboard on her hip and leaned against some exposed wall studs. “You know, I’m curious. What exactly do you think is so awful about me? Just be honest. I mean, after I leave this job, I’m never going to see you again, so why don’t we let it all out. I’d like to know why you’ve always disliked me.”

Alex cursed, a low, vile word that made her laugh harshly.

“Not up to it?” she said in a brisk tone. “Funny, I always assumed you played honest. Big tough guy like yourself. Not afraid of anything.”

“Damn it, woman, will you give me a minute to collect my thoughts?”

“Oh, so there’s a list.”

As he blew out his breath, she shook her head.

“God—” She stepped around him. “—Goddamn you, Alex.”

He put his arm out, stopping her. “You’ve got it all wrong, Cassandra. About you and me.”

“How so? Are you going to tell me you haven’t avoided me all these years? That you haven’t glowered every time you saw me on a dock waiting for the two of you to come in? You jumped ship to get away from me, remember? On that cruise through the Bahamas. You couldn’t wait to get off that boat, and don’t pretend I wasn’t what drove you away.”

Alex clamped down on his molars. He was an inch away from letting the whole sordid mess fly. His obsession, his love, his hunger. But it wouldn’t be fair to burden her with all that. Like she needed to know he was crazed for her. And had…

Killed her husband.

He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting her to read the sins in his stare.

“At least you don’t deny it,” she said softly.

He listened to her leave: the footsteps, the flapping of the plastic, the Range Rover’s engine turning over.

He didn’t open his eyes until he was all alone.

*

The next morning, on Saturday, Cass headed to the site. She was going back to Manhattan for the holidays early the following day and she wanted to put in another good bunch of hours before she left.

Plus she had a lot of frustration to work off.

As she got out of the Range Rover and walked over to the house, she didn’t bother looking at the shop. She wasn’t going to look at it again.

Not anymore.

For too long she’d been determined to bang her head against the wall that was Alex Moorehouse. And it was hard to own up to the fact that yesterday she really had wanted him to tell her she’d read him wrong. She’d honestly hoped he’d say there was no basis for what she believed was true.

When he hadn’t been able to, she’d been stupidly hurt. Again.

Enough was enough. Alex’s particular brand of disapproval triggered every need-to-please strand in her DNA. But they were going in circles and she wasn’t a masochist. At least not an infinite masochist. She was giving up. Letting go.

Stamping a big WHATEVER on the situation and walking away.

She went into the house, turned the heater on, started the generator and headed upstairs. The bathrooms were essentially cleared out. All she wanted to do to them today was remove the molding around the windows and doors and take off the wainscoting on the walls. It was the perfect kind of small job for her. She just needed a hammer, a chisel for leverage and time.

She picked the biggest of the baths to begin with. After turning on a space heater, she took off her parka, put her bag of lunch down and started in the left-hand corner of the room. Finding a rhythm in her work was a blessing, and as it always was when she was alone at a site with nothing but boards and tools and quiet, the hours flew by. Toward the end of the day, she’d gotten so much done she thought she might as well take up some of the tile on the floor, as well.

The sun was setting when she decided to call it quits. Her shoulders were sore, her back stiff and the satisfaction of looking over the piles of boards she’d taken off wiped away all of the discomfort.

She’d done a good job. Made progress.

Downstairs, she shut off the propane heater and the generator. As she lifted the plastic to leave, the cold rushed in and reminded her that she’d left her parka up where she’d been working. She ran back to the bathroom and grabbed the jacket. Just as she was leaving, the scorched particleboard under her feet let out a shriek. She looked down at a section where she’d removed some tile.

It happened so fast. One moment she was fine, the next, her foot broke through the board and she was through the floor up to her thigh.