“Bee sting.” He ignored the look she gave him and tried to keep his focus off her plush, whiskey-damp lips. “You came all the way out here to give me your answer in person?”

“You gave me no choice. I’m a woman of my word, and I had promised that you would have my decision by noon. But you didn’t answer your phone or return my calls. I called the bar and was told by the person who answered that you hadn’t been in all day. There’s no email address on your business card. I didn’t know how else to reach you.”

She took another sip, then ran her finger ’round and ’round the rim of the mug. He felt that spiraling touch low in his belly and had to stifle the groan that tried to push its way from his throat. He told himself it was the booze hitting rock bottom on an empty stomach, but he knew better.

She was saying, “I don’t get the impression that you’ve been on tenterhooks to hear my decision. On the contrary, you’ve led me to believe that you don’t give a damn one way or the other.”

“Not really, no.”

She looked up at him with challenge. “You’re a liar.”

“Busted. It wasn’t a bee sting.”

“You’re lying about not giving a damn.” She indicated the table behind her. “These drawings are of my house.”

Going through his mind was a litany of military-born, illustrative obscenities. But he made a motion of indifference. “Couldn’t sleep last night. I did some doodling.”

She set the mug down with a thump on the most convenient level surface, which was his computer desk, then turned to the drafting table and began sorting through his drawings.

She selected two of them and positioned them side by side. “Variations on how to widen the upstairs hallway. This one, turning it into more of a gallery. Very detailed, down to the molding around the recessions cut into the walls.

“This,” she said, pointing to the other, “takes out a wall altogether, and, by doing so, opens up the extra bedroom and converts it into a sitting area/TV room. These aren’t doodles at all.”

She slid forward a sketch. “The front elevation. The windows enlarged. The porch expanded. Or, as you’ve designated it here, the veranda.” She looked at him for comment. He didn’t say anything, but she wasn’t deterred.

She pulled another drawing to the forefront. “Reconfigured master bath. There’s another for the layout of a modernized kitchen.” She ran her fingertips over the drawing, then faced him. “They’re brilliant.”

“Thanks.”

“When did you study architecture?”

“I didn’t.”

“Where did you learn to do this?”

“It’s just something I know how to do.” She was frustrated by his answer and showed it. “I see it in my head,” he said, not knowing how else to explain it. Motioning toward the computer, he added, “CAD helps.”

“Why are you repairing squirrel damage and getting closet doors to hang straight when you can do this?”

“Hanging closet doors is honest work.”

“Yes, but it’s also a waste of obvious talent.”

He picked up the mug she’d set aside and drained it. “How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

“Making yourself at home. Going through my stuff.”

“Why are you so angry?”

“I don’t like people meddling in my business.”

“Well, you’ve had a heyday meddling in mine,” she said loudly. “Imagine my surprise when I got back from Dallas this afternoon to find a locksmith’s van parked in my driveway.”

Shit. In light of everything else that had happened, he’d forgotten about that. He’d called a locksmith from his truck immediately after leaving the memory care center. It had scared him to think that if Rusty chose to, he could get just as close to Arden as he had to Henry. Not that door locks would protect her, but he’d acted on a compulsion to take at least one preemptive action.

But he’d gotten snagged by something else she’d said. “You made a round trip to Dallas today?”

“To talk over something with Lisa.”

“Something you couldn’t talk over by phone?”

“You’re getting me off the subject. Why did you take it upon yourself to order new locks for me?”

“Because you didn’t take it upon yourself. You needed stronger door locks, and now you have them.”

“He said you told him that it was an emergency.”

“If something had happened to you, at least I would have a clear conscience. I’d have done my best to protect you from an intruder.”

“The only intruder I’ve had was you.”

“And you should be damn glad it was me,” he shouted.

In the sudden hush that followed, he could hear her breathing as she forced it to slow down. Then, speaking quietly, she said, “He gave me a receipt. He had already charged your credit card. I’ll pay you back.”

“Whenever,” he mumbled.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

After another laden silence, she said, “It didn’t really qualify as an emergency.”

That’s what you think. Rusty fought guerilla-style. He struck without warning and in nefarious ways. Likely, she would never see him coming, and it sickened Ledge to think how creative Rusty could be, he who had no scruples.

She seemed a lot smaller here in his cavernous workshop than she had in her kitchen. The glow of the light fixture gave her a fairy-like quality. She looked even more delicate and vulnerable than she had in her insubstantial nightgown. Her hair looked softer, her eyes larger and more innocent.

But he realized that it wasn’t the setting or the lighting that made her look more fragile here and now. It was her contrast to him. Big and mean him, shouting, incautiously slamming back shots, trying to keep a leash on rampaging lust.

He needed to get her away from him. “What have you decided about the house?”

“Who is Crystal?”

He didn’t actually reel backward a step or two, as though he’d taken a blow right between the eyes, but that’s what it felt like. Vulnerable, fairy-like, fragile? Like hell. She was a steamroller.

He didn’t answer her question.

“The reason I ask,” she said, “is because when I called the bar, and you weren’t there, it was suggested by the person I talked to that I should check with Crystal, that you might be with her.”