Turn My World Upside Down: Jo's Story Read online

  “Thanks for the news flash,” she muttered. God, that she had come to this. Actually hiring Cash Hunter. But with her sisters Mike and Sam both too pregnant to be any help whatsoever, she’d had to hire on extra hands. Even if they were attached to the one man in the world who pushed all her buttons the wrong way.

  “I really think you’re starting to like me, Josefina,” he said, his boot heels thumping on the hardwood floor as he headed for the kitchen door.

  “And I think you’re delusional,” she said. “Wonder which one of us is right.”

  His laughter floated back to her as he stepped out of the room and it took Jo an extra minute or two to convince herself that she was not affected by that low, rich sound.

  She wasn’t.

  She was almost sure of it.

  Michaela “Mike” Marconi Gallagher pushed herself into a sitting position, then scooted her heavily pregnant bulk to the edge of the sofa. Bracing her hands on the highly polished coffee table, she gave a mighty heave and . . . nothing.

  She glared at her belly and muttered, “You know, before you guys settled in down there, I could actually get up off a couch anytime I wanted to.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Apparently,” she snapped, lifting her gaze to her husband, “not a damn thing.”

  Lucas Gallagher scowled at her, set down the tray of cookies he was carrying on the table and then loomed over his wife. “The doctor said bed rest. I compromised with the damn couch. But you said you wouldn’t get up.”

  Mike tried smiling at him, but her husband was no pushover these days. He watched her like a mother hen chasing its last chick. And while she appreciated the loving concern, the lack of mobility was making her nuts. Which, for her, translated into crabby.

  “Damn it, Lucas,” she blurted, when his features remained stony, “I can’t just sit here.”

  “You’re right,” he said, stepping around the table. Lifting her legs, he swung them back up onto the couch, then dropped a colorful crocheted afghan over her. “You’re going to just lie there.”

  “Like a beached whale,” she muttered, looking down at her huge belly.

  He dropped one long-fingered hand onto the mound of their children and gave her skin a slow stroke. “The mother of my kids is not a whale.” He paused, said, “A hippo, maybe.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Kidding, kidding,” he said, laughing.

  “You’re either very brave or very dumb, Rocket Man,” Mike muttered, willing herself not to chuckle as she covered his hand with hers. “Teasing a cranky woman with access to power tools is perhaps not your best move.”

  “I’m not worried,” he said, and gave her that crooked smile that had first attracted her. “My wife loves me.”

  “Yeah?” Mike asked. “And why’s that?”

  “Because,” he said, leaning down to stroke one hand across her swollen belly, “I happen to think my very pregnant wife is the most beautiful, the sexiest, the most incredible female on the face of the planet.”

  God, he could turn her to goo in no time at all. “Well, you’re right. There is that.”

  “You’re doing great, Mike,” he said, and grinned again when one of the twins kicked at his hand.

  “Oh yeah, great. I haven’t been out of the house in weeks.” She waved one hand at the high, arched window behind her. “Look. It’s April. It’s beautiful out there.”

  “If you’re a good girl,” Lucas said, straightening up again, “maybe I’ll carry you out to the patio later.”

  Oh, Mike really hated it that he was being so nice. Took all the fun out of whining. “You gonna have Jo bring the crane over?”

  “Just a dolly,” he said, and bent down to plant another kiss on her forehead.

  “Oh, that makes me feel way better.”

  The front door opened and her sisters’ voices piped into the stillness.

  “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Samantha—“Sam”—was saying. “You’re not the one tossing your cookies every twenty minutes.”

  “Yeah,” Jo countered, “I’m just the one left holding the bag while you and Mike gestate.”

  “Okay,” Lucas said, as the two women stalked into the room. “I’m out of here. You guys have a good meeting.”

  Then he disappeared. Like any smart man, he knew when to make himself scarce.

  Jo carried a cardboard tray holding three cups of coffee and Sam held a bag with the Leaf and Bean logo on the front of it at arm’s distance.

  “Oh, at last. My daily dose of caffeine,” Mike moaned.

  “Thank God Shelly didn’t pull you off the stuff cold turkey,” Jo said as she handed over one of the tall cups. “As it is, you’re a pain in the ass. Without caffeine, you’d be—well, unimaginable.”

  “I’d be insulted at that if it weren’t true,” Mike said, taking her first, glorious sip. “The good doctor said she didn’t want to be responsible for all the resulting dead bodies that would no doubt surround me if she cut me off,” Mike said, then asked, “Are those muffins?” as she reached for the bag.

  “Blueberry,” Sam said, through gritted teeth.

  “Gimme.”

  Jo shook her head. “You keep eating like this and you’re going to weigh three hundred pounds by the time you deliver.”

  “What do you mean, going to?” Mike asked, opening the bag and grabbing one of the still warm muffins. Greedily, she ripped off a chunk of the crunchy top and popped it into her mouth. She sighed as she chewed. “God, Stevie’s the best.”

  Stevie Ryan Candellano, wizard of espresso machines and baker extraordinaire, owned the Leaf and Bean, and as far as Mike was concerned, the woman should be president.

  “How can you eat like that?” Sam whispered, her face going pale as paper.

  “Hey, the kids’re hungry,” Mike whined. When she’d first found out she was pregnant, she’d laughingly teased Lucas by saying she was going to have twins. As it turned out, she was right. Now she was just eight weeks from delivery and felt as big around as she was tall.

  “Just last night I forced Lucas to call Terrino’s and get me a large pizza with double anchovies.” Mike shook her head in fond memory as she chewed. “I swear, even now, I can still taste the little fishies.”

  “Oooh, God . . .” Sam clapped one hand to her mouth and bolted for the guest bathroom off the kitchen.

  Mike shrugged and took another bite.

  “You don’t even feel guilty, do you?” Jo asked, shaking her head at her youngest sister.

  “Why should I? I already survived the pukey thing.”

  “Yeah,” Jo said, leaning forward and glancing over her shoulder to make sure Sam was still out of hearing. “But she’s like five months into it now. Shouldn’t the hurling be over?”

  “What am I?” Mike asked with a shrug. “The baby expert? Sam’s the one who’s done this before.”

  “Man,” Jo said, grabbing her coffee and leaning back into the dark green sofa opposite the one Mike lay stretched out on like the Queen of Sheba. “Can’t see why anyone would want to do it more than once.”

  “I can,” Mike said, rubbing her belly. “It’s great. Well, except for the whole ‘lie down and shut up’ thing.” She paused for a minute, then, delighting in a fresh audience, she launched into a whine about feeling like a prisoner.

  While her sister complained, Jo tuned her out and glanced around the living room of the Gallagher house. It was a great place, she had to admit. Shining tile floor, arched windows and doorways, and a kivashaped fireplace on one wall.

  Less than a year ago, Lucas Gallagher had moved to Chandler to build this house exactly where Mike had planned to build her own dream house. Mike, being Mike, had driven the poor guy nuts, hanging around, changing things, reworking his plans to fit her vision. And instead of strangling her, which Jo had been half expecting, Lucas had fallen for the youngest Marconi.

  Apparently, true love could bloom in even the rockiest ground.


  Though she had to hand it to Mike. The woman had great taste. The house was beautiful, and because a Marconi had been involved in the building of it, Jo knew the place was built to last.

  She and her sisters had been working in the family construction business since they were old enough to swing a hammer and hit the target. Their father had trained them, taught them, and together, they’d built Marconi construction into one of the top outfits in Northern California.

  “So how’s Cash working out?” Mike asked.

  Speak of the rocky ground.

  “Fine,” Jo snapped, studying the lid of her coffee cup as if trying to figure out how it was made. That’s what she got for having warm fuzzy thoughts about her sisters.

  “Oooh,” Mike said, gleeful. “Nerve touched and I wasn’t even trying.”

  Jo glared at her.

  Mike ignored her.

  “Thinking about giving Cash a whirl?”

  Her insides lit up, but she dismissed that as just hormonal. After all, the man was really built. And really sure of himself. “Please. Cash Hunter is a cautionary tale to women everywhere.”

  “Are we talking about Cash again?” Sam asked as she came back into the room, looking a little paler than before, if that were possible.

  “Not me,” Jo said, pointing at Mike. “Her.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who goes all defensive the minute the man’s name comes up.”

  “Who’s defensive?” Jo winced at the screech in her own voice.

  “Right. Nothing to worry about there,” Sam said, and filled with regret, reached for her cup of tea. Coffee just wouldn’t stay down.

  “Does pregnancy short out brains?” Jo wondered, glancing from one sister to another. “I’m so not interested in Cash.” She shifted on the couch. “Hell, I don’t even want him around. But with the two of you letting me down—”

  “Pardon the hell out of us for getting pregnant,” Mike said.

  “You know, there are other carpenters in town,” Sam pointed out, grimly taking a swallow of her tea.

  “Yeah, but most of them are lined up to work at Grace’s place this year.”

  “Thank God that’s not our problem,” Mike said solemnly.

  “Amen,” Jo said.

  Every year, Grace Van Horn ran the construction crews in and around Chandler nuts. She had more money than sense and the decision-making abilities of a three-year-old. And every summer, the construction companies took turns being at her disposal. The Marconis had been up to bat the summer before, which meant they were in the clear this year. And with most of the crews working for Grace, Marconi Construction would be picking up all the other available jobs.

  Great for business.

  If she only had her sisters to help.

  “So, the Dailys want us to paint the interior of their house,” Jo said, reaching for the binder she’d brought into the house with her. “Seems the Money Fairy showed up last week.”

  “Ah, he strikes again!” Mike crowed.

  The Money Fairy was legendary in Chandler. Always popping up with anonymous gifts of cash when it was needed most. Whoever it was had excellent sources, because the money that showed up was always just the right amount at just the right time. For more than a year now, people had been trying to unmask the mysterious benefactor—so far, with no luck. It was a nice little mystery that kept everybody guessing.

  “I figure I’ll get Kyle Hinckey and Fred Soames for the painting,” Jo said. “They’re good and pretty fast.”

  Sam winced. “Wish I could do it,” she said, frowning at her tea before setting it aside. “I’ve always wanted to get my hands on their family room.”

  Jo frowned. Sam was the best painter/faux finisher in the business. Hurt like hell to farm jobs out and only claim a commission, but there just wasn’t any choice. “Maybe when you’re back up to it, you can talk ’em into a mural or something.”

  Sam smiled.

  “The Caseys’ roof needs replacing and we’ve almost finished the Barclay kitchen and porch.”

  “That was fast,” Mike said. “Who handled the repair of the gingerbread trim on that porch?”

  Jo scowled. “Cash.”

  “Hmmm . . .” Mike slid the tip of one finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “And was he good?”

  “Does everything that comes out of your mouth have to sound sexual?”

  “Only to the cranky and horny,” Mike said, grinning.

  “What about the Santoses’ new bathroom?” Sam asked, reaching for the binder that Jo had color-coded and cross-referenced.

  Jo snatched it away. “We start that next week. We’ll need to use a different plumber since ours”—she looked at Mike pointedly—“wouldn’t fit into the bathroom itself, let alone under the sink.”

  “No need to get nasty.” Mike pouted.

  “That’s what you think,” Jo said.

  “You could call Andy Bremer,” Sam suggested, making another grab for the folder. “His wife’s expecting number four. He’s looking for extra work.”

  Jo shook her head. “What is up with this town? It’s like a major population explosion all at once.”

  “Hey,” Mike said, “cold winter nights equals cuddling equals sex equals babies.”

  She wouldn’t know about that.

  “Will you hand over that binder for a damn minute?” Sam snapped, and made a lunge for it, prying it out of Jo’s determined grip.

  Jo frowned at her. “Don’t mess it all up. I’ve got everything lined up according to dates and cross-referenced by customer names.”

  “Of course you do,” Sam muttered, shaking her head as she glanced over the first of the job orders. “Why are you so damn territorial about our files, anyway?” she demanded, leaning back in the cushions to study the work orders that were neatly tucked into their own manila envelopes.

  Mike laughed. “You know how she is with paperwork. Like foreplay or something.”

  “True,” Sam agreed solemnly.

  “Is everything about sex to you?” Jo demanded, glaring at Mike while taking a slug of her still hot coffee. Inevitably, talks with her sisters turned to the glories and wonders of sex. And since Jo couldn’t really identify, she usually just changed the subject.

  “Better than nothing being about sex.” Mike shook her head sadly and reached for another muffin, dropping crumbs onto the floor as she shifted her girth. “God, Jo, do everybody a favor and take Cash out for a test-drive, will ya?”

  “Not gonna happen,” she said firmly, despite the flash of heat that swamped her in a quick and thorough wave.

  “Then stop torturing yourself and tell him that.”

  She looked at Sam. “Don’t you think I have?”

  “Not clearly enough, apparently.”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “You’ve never had trouble getting your point across—even if it meant using a hammer! So if you’re not being clear, maybe you’re not as disinterested as you think you are.”

  Oh crap.

  That was a helluva thought.

  Two

  Cash Hunter focused his frustration and funneled it into his work. Hell, no wonder people called him a master craftsman. With this kind of energy pumping through him, he could probably tear down and rebuild the Louvre inside a week.

  A tall man, with black hair that always needed a good trimming, he had shoulders broad enough to carry the chip that had been lodged there since he was a kid. His dark eyes promised pleasure and guarded secrets. His smile charmed, but didn’t necessarily welcome.

  He liked his privacy, and there was nothing wrong with that. He preferred keeping a distance between himself and the rest of the world and figured that it saved a lot of trouble—both for him and everyone else.

  But then he’d gone and shattered his nice, easy life by running into Josefina Marconi.

  No matter how many times he told himself to steer clear of her, he somehow ended up wandering back into range. The woman had a temper that could melt steel at a hundred yards and a di
sposition better suited to a pit bull.

  And, she had blue eyes that looked like a cloudless summer sky and lips full enough to tempt a man to taste them, despite the danger involved.

  “Damn it.”

  Shaking thoughts of her out of his mind, Cash gathered his focus again and concentrated on the work in front of him. His hands gripped the planer tightly, until his knuckles stood out white against his darkly tanned skin. He regulated his breathing, steady, even, fighting for control over the roar of aggravation within. But he’d had years to practice. Years to refine his technique for mentally compartmentalizing whatever happened to be bugging him. This he knew. This he was good at.

  Over and over again, he stroked the precision tool over the edges of the rich teak wood. Inch by painstaking inch, he shaved away the excess, smoothed the rough edges. Small curls of wood rose up and dropped away, littering the workshop floor and the toes of his battered boots.

  Aerosmith pumped from the radio, the clashing instruments jangling along his nerve endings, soothing in a weird sort of way. Afternoon light slid through the open double doors and lay in a long rectangle of gold across the brick-colored concrete floor of the massive workshop behind his house.

  Immune to the beauty around him, Cash centered his mind and tried to tuck all thoughts of Josefina Marconi into the tidy little compartment he’d reserved for her in his brain. Unfortunately, though, thoughts of Josefina just wouldn’t be contained.

  The woman irritated him on every possible level and attracted him on even more. Hardheaded and funny, generous and loyal, she snarled at him every time they crossed paths and had a body that kept him locked in sweaty dreams night after night.

  The woman was wound so tight, she practically gave off sparks. She vibrated with energy even when she was still—which wasn’t that often. She kept her long, thick dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail that never failed to capture his attention.

  He’d even been watching that fall of hair to judge her moods. It measured her emotions like a damn metronome did music. When she was angry, it flew around her head in vicious swings. When she was thoughtful, she tipped her head to one side, letting that fall of hair hang there, like string dangling over a playful kitten.