A Difficult Woman

“I want to apologize for last night.

I was rude and ungrateful. I’m sorry.”

Her words came out in a staccato rhythm, sounding more rote than sincere.

“You haven’t apologized much, have you?”

Tara frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re not very good at it.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“You have most of the words right,” Matt explained, “but the delivery’s wrong. You see, you’re supposed to sound like you mean it, not like you’re saying whatever’s necessary to get me to do what you want.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Well, guess what? At this point I would say whatever it took to get you to do what I want.” Her voice was low. “I was afraid—”

“Yeah.” She’d been afraid he wouldn’t come back. Probably because he’d told her he wouldn’t. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” Her expression grew serious. “As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

Dear Reader,

Building and rebuilding—isn’t that what life is all about? I’ve lived in many old houses, and therefore I’ve worked on many old houses. I am a renovator and builder at heart and it seemed natural to incorporate these aspects of my life into my debut book.

When I first got the idea for this story, I envisioned an independent woman who does things on her own because she’s always had to. She’s never depended on anyone, except for a few close childhood friends, until she’s forced to by situation. My hero, on the other hand, is in the process of rebuilding. His career has been shattered by a devastating revelation and he is determined to make things right again, regardless of personal cost. He, too, is learning to reach out and accept help. While they work on their lives, they’re also renovating the kind of house I’ve always wanted to live in. And they do it well.

I hope you enjoy my book as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would love to hear from you. Please contact me at [e-mail].

Happy reading,

Jeannie Watt

A Difficult Woman

Jeannie Watt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jeannie Watt lives with her husband in rural Nevada. She collects horses, ponies, dogs and cats. Her son and daughter both inherited the math gene that skipped her generation and are studying to be civil engineers. When she isn’t writing, Jeannie likes to paint and sew and work on her house. She has degrees in geology and education.

To my parents, for their love and support over the

years, and for teaching me the meaning of tenacity.

To Gary, for believing in me and for cooking

when I was busy writing.

To Jamie Dallas and Jake, who grew up with their

mother writing—and rewriting—and encouraged her

to venture beyond Chapter Three.

To Mike Allen and Charlie Hauntz,

who always asked, “How’s the book?”

To Roxanne, Tim and Echo—

the best proofreading team ever.

To Victoria Curran and Kathleen Scheibling,

without whose direction and help this book

would not have been possible.

My heartfelt thanks.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

TARA SULLIVAN, as a rule, did not watch men, but this one was proving to be an exception. She leaned her shoulder against the kitchen doorframe and, for the umpteenth time that morning, paused to watch her carpenter nail the front porch back together. It had been a while since she’d had someone capable working around the place, and somehow she felt compelled to keep an eye on him.

Probably because I half expect him to disappear.

Tara smiled grimly, as she pushed off from the doorframe and crossed the worn linoleum to the pantry, where she still had half a dozen shelves to wash before she could paint.

If he quit, he quit. There wasn’t much she could do about it. Luke had said his friend would stay for at least two weeks or until Luke’s shoulder healed, whichever came first. Tara sincerely hoped that was true because it was the only way she was going to get this place done in time for the reunion.

She sloshed her sponge into the soapy water and started to scrub. At least this man was from out of town, so Martin Somers had no influence over him.

When she was done with the shelves, she carried the wash water to the big kitchen sink, awkwardly dumping the basin before turning it over to dry. She glanced at the clock as she wiped her hands on a towel and realized she didn’t have much time before her appointment. It was a routine matter, just a few signatures to finalize things, but routine or not, Tara was in no hurry to get to the bank. Too many bad memories.

She went through the door to the mudroom, hung the apron she’d been wearing on a hook and then carefully made her way out onto the side porch, where the sun tea was brewing. The boards creaked under her feet, but she knew the safe spots and managed to retrieve the jug without crashing through the old flooring. The carpenter continued to work, keeping his head down, concentrating on the boards he was hammering into place. Muscles flexed beneath his thin white T-shirt with each blow.

“Hey,” Tara called. The dark head came up. Sunlight reflected off his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Want some?” She hefted the jar a little as she spoke. It was getting hot outside and she didn’t want the man passing out from heatstroke.

He hesitated, then nodded, getting to his feet.

“I’ll bring it to you,” Tara said. She nudged the side door open with her toe and disappeared into the mudroom. Her reluctance to have him in the house drinking tea with her had nothing to do with fear or caution, and everything to do with boundaries. Because Tara had boundaries. And she let very few people cross them. It seemed that whenever she did, pain and disappointment ultimately followed.

MATT CONNORS hadn’t been certain what to expect the first day on this job, but he had not expected his new boss to be beautiful. Even dressed in baggy jeans and a loose tank top that read Night Sky Night Hawks across the chest, and with a smear of pale blue paint across her forehead, there was no denying her beauty. Her long, very dark hair was pulled back into a thick braid, accentuating the shape of her face, the slightly aquiline line of her nose, the high cheekbones. Her eyes were startlingly blue and more businesslike than friendly, so he had been surprised by the offer of tea. She’d given him a cool nod as she delivered the icy beverage, complete with lemon wedge and sprig of mint, and Matt accepted the tall glass with an equally impassive expression. He’d made a perfunctory stab at conversation when he first arrived that morning, more to try to regain a sense of normality in his daily life than for social reasons, but the boss had quickly made it evident that she wasn’t looking for pleasantries. She wanted her porch rebuilt and that was just fine with him.

Matt studied her striking profile for another moment as she inspected his work, and then he took a long, grateful drink of tea. It was hot for the end of May and it had been a while since he’d put in so many hours under the Nevada sun. Ten years, in fact, since he’d worked his way through college on his stepfather’s construction crew before attending the police academy.

“How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. I reinforced the two bad joists, but I have some work ahead of me here.” He gestured to the boards he was replacing.

“Another day on this porch?” Tara asked.

“Probably more like two.”

Disappointment crossed her face.

“All right,” she agreed, as if she had a choice in the matter. She pushed the long braid over her shoulder. “I have to go to the bank. Do you mind being here on your own?”

“No.” To him the bigger question would have been, did she feel comfortable leaving him alone at her house? She must’ve guessed the direction of his thoughts.

“Luke trusts you.” The simply stated fact seemed to be enough for her. “Did you bring any water?”

“In the truck.”

“Good.”

Her very blue eyes held his for a moment and then she turned and went back inside, the old wooden screen door banging shut behind her.

Matt took another swallow of tea, his eyes still on the door. Tara Sullivan was a woman of few words. He set down the glass and picked up his hammer. It didn’t really matter to him—if anything it made things easier. He was not there to make friends with her. He was there as a favor to his uncle, his former construction boss, a man who thought he was saving Matt’s life.

TARA ALWAYS HAD the feeling when she crossed the threshold of the bank that every eye in the place was on her. The problem was that it wasn’t entirely her imagination.

The manager of the Night Sky branch of U.S. Trust and Savings had been one of the tellers on duty at the Reno branch when her father had made his brazen attempt at easy money fifteen years ago. He never let her, or anyone else in Night Sky, forget it.

Damn but she wished that when her aunt Laura had finally realized the house was falling down around her she’d applied for the renovation loan with an out-of-town bank. But no. She’d conducted her business locally and Tara had inherited both the house and the debt to a bank she never wanted to set foot in. And it was a huge debt. Tara’d been astounded by the amount, wondering at first how her aunt had managed to secure it at her age on such a dilapidated house. But then she’d realized just how much property values had gone up over the past decade, and decided that maybe it was the land and not the house the bank had counted on for security. The only blessing was that the interest rate had been low enough to make the payments manageable, and after today Tara hoped to continue with her low-interest payments for a very long time.

“Miss Sullivan. Have a seat.” The manager pulled his gold pen a little closer as he spoke.

“You are here regarding the balloon payment on your loan, due October first.” The manager raised his eyes from the paper to meet hers. Tara did her best to look friendly. He did not.

“I met with the assistant manager last week. We talked about refinancing the last payment. I submitted my request in writing.”

“Yes. I have it here.” The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, giving Tara the feeling that this was not going to be the slam dunk the assistant manager had indicated it would be.

“He said that it was very common to refinance a balloon payment. Practically expected.” His exact words had been “just a technicality.”

“That is if circumstances are the same as when the loan was secured.”

“The circumstances can hardly be the same, since my aunt is now deceased,” Tara pointed out.

“Exactly,” the man said. “And according to the information here, you are not currently employed.”

His information was correct, thanks to the statewide cut in the education budget. The Elko community college now had one less English instructor on its payroll. But that didn’t mean she was without income.

“I’m freelancing. Technical writing. I have two projects scheduled to begin next month. I’ve brought you copies of the budget. I’m certain I’ll have more work after that.”

The manager barely glanced at the papers she set on his desk.

“Freelancing.” From his tone, she may as well have said she was panhandling.

“Yes. And as soon as the funding situation at the college is rectified, mine will be the first position hired back. It’s written into my contract, which I have right here.” She pulled a paper out of the stack on her lap.

“And when might that be?”

Tara sucked in a breath. “The HR director expects it to be within the year.”

“I see. And, when you get your job back, is there any guarantee that it would not again be downsized in the next round of state budget cuts?”

“No, but I will be getting another job as soon as my house is refurbished and the reunion is over.”

“Here in Night Sky?”

“I hope.”

“Then you have nothing lined up.”

Tara pressed her lips together and shook her head. Her sense of foreboding intensified.

The manager smiled with mock regret, paused a beat, and then pushed Tara’s papers back toward her with an air of finality.

“I don’t want to appear harsh, Miss Sullivan, but I do not believe it would be in the best interest of the bank to extend this loan under such tenuous circumstances.”

Suddenly numb from head to toe, Tara forced herself to speak.

“You’d get your money back, plus more interest—”

“Your aunt got a lower interest rate by agreeing to the balloon. That was the arrangement she made, the contract she signed. When one enters into a balloon mortgage, it is with the understanding that refinancing is not guaranteed and that the entire loan balance is due on a particular date.”

“Look—” Tara pulled in another breath, tamping down cold panic “—can’t you give me a break here? I mean, this bank loans money.” She gestured at the plastic banner stretched over the tellers’ windows, advertising second mortgage rates, just in case the little worm in front of her had forgotten. “I’m current on my payments. I’ve proven I’m trustworthy, in spite of being laid off…. I’ll pay higher interest if you’ll refinance the balloon. I don’t care. I just need to make payments.” She paused before adding with the utmost sincerity, “It will be very difficult to make the payment and keep my brother in college.” More like impossible, but he didn’t need to know that. “I can do it if you extend the mortgage.”

The bank manager merely blinked at her, obviously unmoved.

Tara swallowed hard. “I would really appreciate it if you’d help me with this.”

It killed her to beg, but she’d crawl on the floor if that was what it took.

“It might be good for your brother to go to work for a while and then continue his studies.”

“No,” Tara replied firmly, making a supreme effort to keep her temper in check. “It might be good for him to continue his studies right now. He’s completed his sophomore year at UNLV and has just been accepted into a prestigious engineering internship program in California. It’s a private college and highly competitive. He needs to go right after summer school or he’ll lose his slot. He has financial aid, but it won’t be enough to cover both schooling and living expenses. If we could refinance this for even a few years…” Tara lifted her chin. “I want Nicky to have a decent shot at life.”

The manager shook his head, making no attempt this time to feign regret. “I’m sorry, Miss Sullivan,” he said in a “business is business” tone. “Payment is due October first.”

“So I have to chose between my brother’s education and the balloon payment.”

“If that is your situation, then, yes.”

“And if I can’t make payment at that time?”

“I believe you will eventually lose your collateral.”

There was no mistaking his meaning.

The bank would take her house—the house her great-grandfather, one of Night Sky’s founders, had built for his growing family over a hundred years ago. The house that had been the one source of constancy in her turbulent life.

Tara hitched her chin up a notch.

“Not if I go to another bank and take out a loan to pay off your loan.”

The man fiddled with the gold pen for a moment before he said, “You may find it difficult to get a loan in your current situation, unemployed and with your only collateral already tied up as a lien on another loan.” He raised his beady worm eyes to meet hers. “Practically impossible, I would guess.”

This guy was playing hardball.

“If it looks like you will not be able to make this payment—” the worm’s voice broke into Tara’s thoughts “—for the sake of your credit rating, you might want to sell the house first and use the money to settle this loan.”

Sell the house….

The words echoed in her head as she slowly raised her gaze to meet that of the man across the desk from her.

Her jaw tightened as she suddenly understood exactly what was happening. This man had been well aware of the fact that she was going to have to choose between Nicky’s education and making the payment, and he was going to take advantage of it—most probably for one of his best customers. The Somerses would like nothing better than to get their hands on her house, for both punitive and economic reasons. Tara’s property abutted the rear of theirs and provided the perfect opportunity for them to expand their empire of vacation retreats for the rich and semifamous.

The manager met her gaze blandly, with just the barest hint of smug satisfaction.

Tara narrowed her eyes slightly as the comforting calm of battle settled over her, a calm that, from the man’s subtle shift of expression, was being misread as acceptance.

“Sell my house….” Tara spoke the words thoughtfully as she gathered her purse and papers. She rose to her feet.

“Sell my house,” she repeated matter-of-factly. She didn’t speak loudly, but she did speak clearly, and the manager’s eyes darted around the room, as though trying to ascertain whether she was attracting attention. She was. He cleared his throat.

“Just a suggestion for your own financial—”

“I will sell my house when hell freezes over.” Tara raised her eyebrows as she politely inquired, “Does that time frame work for you?”

“Miss Sullivan…” the manager protested as two customers, whose fathers had presumably not tried to abscond with federally insured funds years before, sent curious looks their way.

“I can promise you two things,” she continued. “First, your bank will get its money. Second, Martin Somers will not get his slimy hands on my house because the bank is not going to foreclose.” Tara allowed herself a grim smile. “And you can tell him that.”

“Miss Sullivan, I have no such intention—” But Tara simply raised her fingers to her lips.

The man hushed, probably because he didn’t want to risk having her stay a second longer than necessary. She held his beady gaze for a moment, then turned and stalked out of the bank.

It wasn’t until the door swung shut behind her that she indulged in several deep shaky breaths. Her heart was pounding. What? What on earth was she going to do now?

Tara strode to the Camry, yanked the unlocked door open and dropped behind the wheel, slamming the door shut behind her.

Nicky needed more money than she’d ever made in a year, including salary and freelance work….

Tara leaned her head back and closed her eyes, fighting tears of frustration. She should have known it wouldn’t be easy. Nothing ever was. She opened her eyes, determined.

No financial institution was getting her family’s house. It wasn’t going to happen. Nicky was taking his internship and she was going to make the balloon payment. On time.

Now, all she had to do was to figure out how.

TARA HAD BOTH a throbbing headache and a sketchy idea of what to do by early evening. She stood for a moment at her bedroom window, watching as Matt got into his old, but meticulously cared for, Ford pickup—almost a twin to her own old truck—and drove away, leaving a rooster tail of dust in the red light of the setting sun. The dust slowly settled and Tara turned to lean against the windowsill.

Her finances hadn’t seemed that bad prior to her visit to the bank that morning. She wasn’t rolling in dough, but she’d had enough money to meet her monthly bills, including the mortgage she’d inherited, and she had Aunt Laura’s life insurance to pay for Nicky’s college expenses. But now, even if she cashed out her meager 401K and added it to Aunt Laura’s life insurance, she still didn’t have enough.

Damned bank manager.

She’d sunk too much money into the house; most of the remaining supplies and furniture were either already purchased or contracted for, and sitting in storage, or were awaiting pickup. Even if she returned what hadn’t been used, it was only a drop in the bucket. No, she had only one direction to go. Forward. She’d put this house together and do her best to get a loan or grant or private money before October 1.

She let out a sigh and then realized she’d been sighing way too much for one day. It smacked of defeatism. She’d had to be tough for herself and Nicky while they were growing up. She wouldn’t let herself break down now.

She crossed the room to the staircase, running a hand over the stripped banister as she descended. She’d been trying to decide between dark oak or walnut stain. It looked as if she’d better decide soon.

The clock chimed six as she went to the kitchen to get her paintbrushes. She’d be able to get in at least five more hours and still be in bed before midnight, which was about the time Nicky would be getting home. He planned to stay for ten days and do what he could to help with the house before heading back to Vegas to finish his last classes during the summer session. She hadn’t told him about the balloon payment and she wasn’t going to, because she knew he’d postpone school in a heartbeat if he thought she were going to lose her house.

But she wasn’t going to lose the house.

Not without a fight, anyway, because if there was one thing Tara knew how to do, it was how to fight.

HOW DO YOU SAY no to a man who’d been more of a father to you than your father or your stepfather had been?

You don’t, Matt thought as he strode up the walk to his temporary home. At least not right off the bat…especially when the guy was trying to help.

The Anderson house, as it was known to the locals, was more of a cottage than a house, built after World War II as housing for a tungsten mine and then moved in to town when the mine closed down in the early 1960s. A living room, two bedrooms, a kitchen and a bath—more than enough room for a man trying to put his life back together. It was one of Luke’s rentals and Matt had it to himself, since the old man had figured he’d want privacy. He’d been correct. Matt did not want to wake up thrashing from some nightmare with Luke in the house. Some things were private.

The backyard of the house opened onto an alley. On the other side of it across a gravel parking lot, was the back door into the Owl Club, Night Sky’s only casino. It boasted twenty-four-hour fun and sometimes it lived up to its reputation, despite the fact that Night Sky’s population hovered around the 1,200 mark, which included the outlying county.

Matt took a quick shower, changed into jeans and a T-shirt and headed across the alley to meet Luke for dinner. A fat cat waddled out from under the back porch and threw himself lovingly against Matt’s legs. Matt gently eased the animal aside and kept walking. The cat seemed to have come with the house and he drove Matt crazy, staring at him through the window with its huge yellow eyes.

When Matt came in, he saw Luke seated in one of the red vinyl booths, cupping a tall glass of iced tea in both hands and passing time with a buxom waitress. The waitress smiled at Matt and shook back her blond curls. Matt gave her a nod as he slid into the booth.

“How’d it go?” Luke asked.

“I think the work’s going to take longer than she wants it to.”

“But you’ll be able to get it done.”

“No problem,” Matt said as he reached for a glass of ice water.

Luke glanced up at the waitress, who was watching Matt with unabashed interest. “Becky, this is Matt. He took my place at Tara’s today. I was supposed to work on that porch of hers, but my shoulder’s acting up so bad I couldn’t hammer.”