A High-End Finish(46)
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, good. Do you want to tell me where it is, or would you like me to carry you around the house until we find it?”
Yes, please, I thought, but said, “That won’t be necessary.” I struggled to stand and stopped him when he moved to help me. “I need to do this. It’s going to be fine; I’m just a little achy.”
“I admire your spirit, but I don’t believe you.”
“I’m trying to be optimistic here,” I said, making a face as I took a step toward the doorway.
“It would help if you didn’t limp.”
I laughed as I limped down the hall. “My office is right through here.”
I led the way to the alcove off the kitchen where I’d built a desk and shelves to fit the compact space. Pulling open the top drawer of my file cabinet, I took out a business-sized portfolio that held my résumé, a list of clients and projects, and several sheets of before and after photographs. “Here you go.”
He scanned the front of the professionally designed folder and opened it to the first page. He gazed at me and smiled. “So you’re Hammer Construction Company. Very nice to meet you, Shannon Hammer.”
I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you, too, MacKintyre Sullivan.”
“My friends call me Mac,” he reminded me as he shook my hand.
“It was kind of you to rescue me, Mac,” I said, and wondered when or if he would let go of my hand.
“I’m glad I found you,” he said warmly. His gaze was drawn to the kitchen window. “You have a garden.”
“I do.”
“It’s impressive.” He looked thoughtful as he glanced down at our hands. Finally he let mine go before walking over to the window to get a better view. “Do you take care of it yourself or is there someone else?”
“It’s all mine.”
He turned to me. “You have many talents.”
I happened to catch a glimpse of Wendell walking down the garage stairs and grimaced.
“What’s wrong?” Mac checked the window again. “Oh. Who’s that guy?”
“I rent my garage apartments to tourists. Occasionally I get one who’s a real pain in the neck.”
He glanced up. “Those are apartments?”
“They’re more like guest suites. They’re nice and spacious and the ocean view is wonderful.”
“That’s worth some change.” He tucked my business portfolio under his arm. “Well, I ought to let you get on with your day.”
“Okay.” I followed him to the front door. “Wait. I’ve got to get my bike out of your car.”
“Since you can’t ride it, anyway, I’d like to hold on to it for a day or two. Do you mind?”
“What are you planning to do with it?”
“I’ve got a buddy who’s ex-FBI. I thought I’d show him that brake line. See what he thinks.”
“That seems like a whole lot of trouble for nothing.”
“You think so? Then I won’t bother mentioning that I’m going to show it to the police, too.”
Somehow I made it up the stairs and started running the water for a bath. I was so shaky that I had to sit on the edge of the tub for fear of fainting dead away. I’d never fainted in my life, but, then, I’d never gone flying off a bike before, either. When I finally got a look at myself in the mirror, I wanted to cry.
“Way to make an impression, Shannon,” I muttered to myself. If only there were just grass stains, but no. My face and neck were streaked with brown mud and guck. A small clod of weeds and dirt was stuck in my hair. And speaking of hair, mine was no longer merely wavy, but had moved unswervingly into Bride of Frankenstein frizz. It wasn’t a good look for me.
Shaking my head in disgust, I moved away from the mirror and stripped out of my ruined clothing. Clipping my hair up off my neck, I poured half a box of Epsom salts into the stream of hot water and added a handful of girly bath salts for good measure. I stepped gingerly into the warmth and moaned out loud, it felt so good. I really needed to take baths more often, but who had the time?
Sinking down until the water covered me up to my chin, I closed my eyes and rested my head against the curved rim of the tub.
And thought of Mac.
MacKintyre Sullivan, my hero. Just wait until Lizzie heard about this one.
But now at last I could worry in peace. Would Mac really take my bike to the police? What would Chief Jensen say when Mac demanded that they check out the cut brake line and dust the whole thing for fingerprints? It wasn’t like someone had cut my truck’s brake line. It was just a bike.
Would Chief Jensen laugh him out of his office? I didn’t think so. In fact, maybe it was a good thing that Mac was the one taking my bike in. Chief Jensen would listen to him when he might not listen to me.
Of course he would listen to Mac. The man was awesome. An ex–Navy SEAL, a crime writer, a cool guy. A nice guy. He probably knew as much about police procedure as any officer on the force.
On the other hand, I wasn’t sure Mac’s theory was correct. First of all, why would someone deliberately try to hurt me? And second, if they really were out to injure me, why would they cut the brake line on my bicycle? It seemed like such a silly thing to do. At the most, I would call it malicious mischief. And who in my world was capable of doing something petty like that?