Too Good to Be True(43)

“Nope,” came his answer. “Is that a proposal?”

Margaret grinned wickedly. “Maybe,” she murmured.

“Margaret! Leave him alone.”

“How much time did you actually serve, Al Capone?” Margs asked. “God, his ass in those jeans,” she whispered to me, not taking her eyes off his backside.

“Stop it,” I whispered back.

“Nineteen months,” Cal answered. “And thanks.” He winked at Margaret. My uterus twitched in response.

“Nineteen months on three-to-five?” Margs asked.

“Yup. You’ve done your homework,” he said, smiling at my sister. My beautiful sister. Beautiful, red-haired, smart as a whip, razor-witted sister in a high-income bracket and a size four to boot.

“Well, Grace asked me to check you out, being that you’re a threat to her security.”

“Shut it, Margaret,” I said, blushing.

“Any other questions?” Cal asked mildly.

“Have you had a woman since you got out?” Margaret asked, studying her fingernails.

“God’s nightgown!” I yelped.

“You mean did I swing by the local whorehouse on my way into town?” Cal asked.

“Correct,” Margaret affirmed, ignoring my offended squeaks.

“No. No women.”

“Wow. How about in the big house? Any girlfriends?” she asked. I closed my eyes.

Callahan, however, laughed. “It wasn’t that kind of prison.”

“You must be so lonely,” Margaret said, smiling wickedly at Cal’s back.

“Are you done interrogating him?” I snapped. “He has work to do, Margaret.”

“Party pooper,” Margaret said. “But you’re right. And I have to go into the office. I’m a lawyer, Callahan, did Grace tell you? Criminal defense. Would you like my card?”

“I’m completely reformed,” he said with a grin that promised all sorts of illicit behavior.

“I know people in the parole office. Very well, in fact. I’ll be watching.”

“You do that,” he answered.

“I’ll help you get settled,” I offered, hauling Margaret out of her chair and grabbing her suitcase. “You can’t have an affair with him,” I hissed once we were upstairs. “You will not cheat on Stuart. He’s wonderful, Margaret. And he’s heartbroken. I saw him at school the other day, and he looked like a kicked puppy.”

“Good. At least he’s noticing me now.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. You’re so spoiled.”

“I have to go to the office,” she said, ignoring my last comment. “I’ll see you for dinner, okay? Feel like cooking?”

“Oh.” I took a deep breath. “I won’t be here.”

“Why? Date with Wyatt?” she asked, raising a silken eyebrow.

I reached up to smooth my difficult hair. “Um, no. Well, yes. We’re going to Nat’s for dinner. Double date.”

“Holy Mary the Eternal Virgin, Grace,” my sister muttered.

“I know, I know. Wyatt will end up in emergency surgery, bless his talented heart.”

“You’re an idiot. Hey, thanks for letting me crash here,” Margs said at the door to the guest room, vaguely remembering that she should be grateful.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Leave Callahan alone.”

For the next few minutes, I found things to do upstairs, away from my neighbor. Took a shower. As the warm water streamed over me, I wondered what would happen if Callahan O’ Shea walked in. Tugged his shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt, slid out of those faded jeans and stepped in here with me, enfolding me in his brawny arms, his mouth hot and demanding, his—I blinked hard, turned the water to cold and finished up.

Margaret headed into her office, calling out a cheerful goodbye to Callahan and me, seeming rather depressingly chipper about leaving her husband. I wrote up a quiz on the Reconstruction for my seniors, using my laptop and not the larger computer downstairs. Corrected essays from my sophomores on the FDR administration. Downstairs, the whine of the saw and thump of the hammer and the offhanded, tuneless whistle of Callahan O’ Shea blended into a pleasant cacophony.

Angus, though he still growled occasionally, gave up trying to tunnel under my bedroom door and lay on his back in a puddle of sunlight, his crooked bottom teeth showing most adorably. I concentrated on my students’ work, writing notes in the margins, comments at the end, praising them lavishly for moments of clarity, pointing out areas that could’ve used some work.

I went downstairs a while later. Four of the eight downstairs windows were already in. Cal glanced in my direction. “I don’t think I’ll have to replace those sills. If the windows upstairs are as easy as the ones downstairs, I’ll be done Monday or Tuesday.”

“Oh. Okay,” I said. “They look great.”

“Glad you like them.”

He looked at me, unsmiling, unmoving. I looked back. And looked. And looked some more. His was a rugged face, and yes, handsome, but it was his eyes that got me. Callahan O’ Shea had a story in those eyes.

The air seemed to thicken between us, and I could feel my face—and other parts—growing warm.