“Yes, sorry,” she said, rushing into the hall that led from the parlor to the guest rooms. “I lost track of time. You must be DeclanZyler.”
“Yep.” He looked her over just as frankly as she was looking at him, though Leslie doubted he could see much beneath her coating of drywall and dust, baseball cap, and wornjeans.
How far I’ve come from the boardroom. She controlled a gleeful smile.And thankful for it everyday.
But that thought went out of her mind as quickly as it came, for it was followed by the realization that Declan Zyler lookedexactlylike she’d pictured a blacksmith to look…back when she had time to read those historical romance novels about young ladies of the gentry who fell for the inappropriate groom, tutor, or—most titillating of all—the muscular, sweaty, lowborn blacksmith. Forget the dukes and earls…she liked the stories about star-crossed lovers from different “sides” ofsociety.
Leslie just hadn’t expected a metalworker in the twenty-first century to look so…raw and wild. His hair was the color of mahogany—a dark, rich red that was nearly black—and he needed a shave, for gold and red stubble glittered over his chin and jaw. He had the build of her imagined blacksmith too, for he wore a white t-shirt, which clearly showed the muscles of his pecs, and an open red and blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The flannel shirt obstructed the shape of his biceps, but his golden brown forearms—freckled, lightly scarred and burned, and very powerful looking—werebare.
Those were not the kind of muscles a guy got from working out at Gold’sGym.
“Well? You going to show me the stairway?” Zyler was looking at her as if she were a toddler. Or a damned mess, which, in this case, wasn’t too far from thetruth.
“Of course.” She responded without flickering an eyelash. Working in a high-powered, fast-paced business world and interacting with her fair share of supposedly intimidating men (and women) had taught her how to turn on a dime, hide her feelings, and communicate clearly and effectively even when taken offguard.
So what if the man standing in her house was the most amazingly male creature she’d encountered in person in years? Leslie was cool and collected and businesslike as theycame.
A lesser woman might have taken off her ball cap and yanked the fastener out of her ponytail, or brushed off her shirt—a dirty, baggy tee—or even apologized for her appearance. But Leslie didn’t bother. He might look hot as sin and right out of her fantasies, but she wasn’t in the market for a man at the moment. Not only that, she had absolutely nothing to prove to anyone…except maybe the bank that had given her the small business loan to help jump-start theinn.
“You probably saw it when you came in—it’s the one leading to the second floor.” She gestured back down the hall, the obvious way from which he’dcome.
“Yep. But I didn’t want to go poking around till I talked to you.” From the tone of his voice, it was clear what he meant to say wasI didn’t want to waste mytime.
They were in the foyer now, and both looked at the grand, sweeping staircase that started on the right side of the wide, shallow entrance hall and ended up sweeping left across the way in a balcony-like swoon. Two hallways spiked out from behind the balcony, leading to what would become guest rooms. In 1920s art deco style, the balustrade was a design of perfect curves, finial-topped semicircles, and twists and turns. It was very complicated and extremelyelegant.
“Nice piece,” he said, though Leslie could hear something more like reverence in his voice. “Some cast iron here in the ornamentals, but the rest of it’s definitely wrought.” He glanced up. “The differencebeing—”
“Cast iron is poured into molds and wrought iron is pounded into shape in a smithy,” Leslie interrupted with a grin. “I did my research, Mr.Zyler.”
His lips moved briefly; it might have been a smile, but possibly a grimace. The corners of his eyes crinkled a little too. “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve been called to a place only to learn it’s castmetal.”
“My Aunt Cherry says you do a lot of restorationwork.”
“Cherry Wilder’s youraunt?”
“Yes. Do you know her well?” Leslie didn’t think he looked like a guy who’d spend a lot of time in a yoga studio, but then again…he’d have no problem balancing himself in Crow with those arms. She swallowed hard at the delightful mentalimage.
“Well enough. I just moved back a little more than two months ago—I grew up here—and ever since I mentioned in passing last week that she reminded me of Helen Mirren, she’s been on my case to come to one of her hot yogaclasses.”
Leslie laughed. Cherry was definitely a cougar on the prowl. “Well, she could be trying to get you into a belly-dance class, so be thankful for smallfavors.”
His eyes crinkled and those lips moved again. Definitely getting closer to a smile. “Excellent point. And yes, most of what I do is restoration. To comply with historical society requirements, if the iron was originally wrought rather than cast, it’s got to be replaced with same to keep the building’s designation historical. Keeps me busier than I need to be, but busy enough.” He stopped abruptly, leading her to believe he’d been about to saymore.
“Which is why I called you,” Leslie said. “Besides the fact that Orbra van Hest said I hadto.”
He exhaled a short laugh. “Ah. Orbra. I’ll remember to thank her next time I see her. She’s a piece of worktoo.”
“I’ve been kind of scared of Orbra since I was ten, so yes, Iagree.”
Declan glanced at her with a sudden, full-blown look. “I get the impression you’re not scared of many people, let alone a sixty-eight-year-old woman who serves tea andcrumpets.”
For some reason, Leslie felt her cheeks grow warm. “Well, Orbra or a big spider—either will do the trick. And then there’s Maxine Took…but we won’t even go there.” She gestured to the stairway. “So, I could replace the whole thing with wood spindles, or even the iron ones you get at Home Depot or—” She stopped, because she was fairly certain those broad shoulders had actually winced. She hid a grin. Sensitive about his work, washe?
He’d returned to his examination. “I’ve done hundreds of projects, most of ’em for historical buildings, and I’ve never seen anything like this. The workmanship is unique—gorgeous, in fact—but this rust…Wrought iron doesn’t just rust like this unless it’s exposed to the elements for a significant amount of time. Cast iron would rust easier, like—see those pieces over there? The—excuse me, but cheap—fleur-de-lis sort of caps on the wall sconces? They’re not rusting at all.” He was frowning now, looking back and forth between the sconces and the spindles. “Was this place ever roofless? Flooded? Destroyed by a tornado? Windowsbroken?”
Leslie drew closer, her hands on her hips. “No. The building’s been intact, as far as I know—it was even kept up after Alice ver Stahl moved into a nursing home five years ago. I tried to use a hard-wire brush to get rid of that stuff, but…it’s weird. I don’t think it’srust.”
He was standing at eye level to the bottom of a stretch of the square-on-square railing, about eight stairs from the ground. Silently, he examined the coppery damage that seemed to be growing up from the bottom of the mooring spikes like rusty moss. He scraped at it with a finger, then leaned forward to sniff at it. Pulling away, he frowned, dug in his jeans, and pulled out apocketknife.
