Curveball (2 page)

Cody “Psycho” McMillan’s doorbell rang, the tones playing thirty seconds of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’s “I Won’t Back Down.” Barefoot and bare-chested, his jeans unsnapped, he jabbed in the code to disengage his security system. After hearing three clicks and a beep, he opened the heavy oak door, then leaned negligently against the jamb.

“Cody McMillan?” A slender woman with delicate cheekbones and a dimple in her chin stood outside. Her deep blue gaze was as cautious as it was curious.

His eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?” He lived on the outskirts of Richmond, in a gated historic district. Yet time and again fans and groupies landed on his doorstep. Her car wasn’t parked in the driveway, which meant she’d walked onto his property. Walked, or climbed the stone wall surrounding his Colonial. The lady didn’t look like a rock climber.

The afternoon sun struck her from behind as she stood beneath the columned portico, surrounding her in a halo of light. Dressed in a wrinkled blue suit and worn-down heels, she looked like an angel down on her luck. He glared at her darkly. “You’re trespassing.”

She took him in, from his narrowed eyes and naked chest to his bare toes. She blinked twice, then said, “I’m here on business.”

“Insurance, encyclopedias, vacuum cleaners—I’m not buying.”

“I don’t do door-to-door. I’m here to offer my services.”

“Do those services include your sweet mouth?”

Her lips parted, and her eyes went wide.

Crude and rude, he’d rendered her speechless. He was acting like a jerk, but didn’t give a damn. Since he’d been suspended from the Rogues, he’d lit into anyone who’d crossed his path. This woman had picked a bad time to
offer him a service.

She swallowed hard, took a step back, only to catch one navy pump on an uneven brick. She wavered, nearly lost her balance.

His reflexes sharp, Psycho snagged her wrist, righted her. He noted her smooth skin. Delicate bones. He ran his thumb over her palm. Soft, but sweaty. She was nervous.

So nervous, the black leather portfolio pinned beneath her arm slid down her side. Heat colored her cheeks as the broken clasp flew open and a map of Richmond, a blank notepad, and a box of tampons landed at his feet.

Psycho hunkered down beside her. Blushing profusely now, she quickly scooped up the map and notepad. He handed her the box of tampons. Closing the portfolio, she got to her feet, ran one hand over her hip. The skirt pulled tight against her hipbones, the fabric worn thin at the seams. A row of staples hemmed the skirt to just below her knees. She wasn’t dressed for success.

“I’m Keely Douglas, from Gloss Interiors,” she introduced herself.

Gloss Interiors? Who was she kidding? Psycho crossed his arms over his bare chest. Studied her. Her portfolio was empty of prize-winning photographs and decorating plans. He was not in the mood to be played.

“I’ve met with three interior designers today. I wasn’t scheduled to speak with a fourth,” he stated.

“Your secretary worked me in. A last-minute appointment.”

She didn’t give up. “You spoke with Mrs. Smith?”

She looked relieved. “Yes, Smith, that’s correct.”

Busted, sweetheart.
Psycho had a financial adviser and a sports agent. An attorney on yearly retainer. A part-time pet sitter. But no secretary. He rubbed his knuckles along his stubbled jaw. Wondered how much rope it would take for her to hang herself. “Mrs. Smith didn’t mention you,” he said. “She’s old and forgetful. After this incident, due to be fired.”

Keely looked horrified. “Please don’t let her go
on my account. I may have written down the wrong day and time.”

“Maybe you did.” He took a step back, one hand on the door, ready to close it.

She didn’t take his hint to leave. Instead, she straightened the lapels on her blue blazer, along with the decorative gardenia pin that drooped over her right breast. Teacup breasts, Psycho noted. He preferred a handful.

“Have you already contracted with a design firm?” The woman was persistent.

He shook his head. “I’ve yet to commit.”

He never would have begun the project if the Daughters of Virginia had not badgered him to restore Colonel William Lowell’s childhood home. A home Psycho had purchased without ever considering its heritage. All he cared about was that the Colonial gave him privacy in a world where everyone wanted a piece of him. The estate now stood in near ruins after having been gutted by an ambitious previous owner who never got beyond the demolition stage.

No matter those who came before him, the Daughters blamed Psycho for the Colonial’s distressed state. They demanded he restore its integrity. Their weekly visits, letter writing campaign, and constant phone calls had prompted him to start the restoration.

Unfortunately, his contact with architects had proven disastrous. Their vision of his home was much different from Psycho’s own.

Not one of the reputed designers had im
pressed him. Once they identified him as a Rogue, they’d seen him as the Bank of Psycho. A man with limitless funds and little taste. Not one of the decorators asked him what he wanted. Each told him what he needed.

Their designs resurrected the Classical American Style, complete with carved moldings, mullioned windows, and plaster ceiling medallions. Lacquered walls and stenciled floors. Their discussion of antiques had drawn his yawn.

He’d seen enough fabric swatches and handpainted Chinese-patterned wallpaper to last him a lifetime. All he wanted was to restore enough history to the Colonial to get the Daughters off his back. It was late afternoon. His priorities lay in a workout, a run, and reflection on his suspension. Not dealing with Keely Douglas.

“Do you have a business card?” he finally asked her. “I’ll have my secretary give you a call. We can set up an appointment for later this week.”

She bit down on her bottom lip, looked up at him with those deep blue eyes. “My schedule is full. It would be weeks before I could work you in.”

Yeah, right. Psycho didn’t believe her for a second. “We’ll connect next month, then.”

She looked so disheartened he almost gave her thirty minutes of his time. Almost. The cavalcade of Cadillacs creeping down his driveway drew his attention to the Daughters of Virginia and their untimely visit. Didn’t these women have anything better to do than uphold their southern pride?

“Shit,” Psycho swore beneath his breath as one car door opened and the first of four Daughters stepped out. The president, Rebecca Reed Custis, led the way. The women marched on the house with the precision of Confederate militia. All silver-haired and dressed in gray linen suits with platinum Daughters of Virginia brooches pinned at their throats. He half expected them to shoulder rifles and bayonets.

“Mr. McMillan.” Rebecca offered Psycho a tight-lipped, cultured greeting.

“Hello, Becky.” He kept his tone casual.

She looked him up and down, shuddered. “Don’t you own a shirt? A pair of shoes?”

He scratched his bare belly, then jammed his hands in his jeans pockets. The worn denim pulled low on his hips. So low the
Stands on Command
tattoo at his groin was visible. “I’m a nudist, Bec. I could have answered the door with my bat and balls showing.”

She paled at the thought. “We’ve come to see what progress you’ve made on the Lowell House.”

A silence settled as the Daughters stared him down. The atmosphere was as combative as a battlefield prior to the first shot. He needed a delaying tactic—

“Mr. McMillan has hired my design firm—” Keely Douglas’s voice rose from behind the matrons. “We’ve spent the afternoon together, exchanging ideas. I was just leaving when you arrived.”

The lady should have been long gone. Psycho felt immediate relief she’d chosen to linger. She’d saved his butt. “Keely Douglas of Gloss Interiors, meet the Daughters.” Psycho introduced each one.

Rebecca looked down her nose at the young blonde and sniffed. “Your firm is not recognized by the Richmond Historical Society.”

“My heritage interested Mr. McMillan more than my experience.” She modestly dipped her head. “Keely Douglas
Lowell.
Fifth-generation grandniece to the colonel.”

Psycho stared at Keely, as transfixed as the Daughters.
Grandniece, my ass.
Rebecca Reed Custis could trace the lineage of every Confederate leader who’d fought in the Civil War. Lowell’s family tree didn’t include Keely Douglas. He waited for the Daughters to chastise Keely for defaming the Lowell name.

Rebecca turned on the designer, studied her so closely that Psycho pressed between the women and moved to Keely’s side. “Problem, Becky?” he asked.

“She’s illegitimate,” Rebecca stated.

Keely sighed, her shoulders slumped. “Embarrassingly illegitimate,” she confessed. “My heritage lies with Marshal Cutter Lowell, Colonel William’s brother. Marshal had relations with a tavern wench in 1862, and the bastard side of the family was born.”

“Good heavens!” Rebecca slipped a lace handkerchief from her gray clutch purse and fanned her face. “A blight on the Lowell name.”

A blight called bullshit, Psycho thought.

“Marshal could never measure up to William,” Keely said, so sincere she made Psycho blink. “The colonel was a man revered. William Lowell graduated from West Point without demerit. He possessed every virtue of other great commanders without their vices.”

“Mary Chestnut, the Richmond diarist, called him ‘the portrait of a soldier,’” Rebecca praised.

“He bore himself with remarkable distinction. Erect as a poplar with his shoulders thrown back,” Daughter Helen Adler Paine commended.

“Lowell was dignified and cordial. His aura of infallibility drew the unconditional trust of his soldiers.” This from Daughter Olivia Morris Tuthill.

“My family has an original oil painting of Lowell on his warhorse Ranger.” Keely spoke with reverence. “He’s impeccably dressed in his Confederate uniform, projecting unconscious dignity as both soldier and gentleman.”

The Daughters were immensely interested in the oil painting. They wondered which master had created the work, deciding it must be Winslow Homer, and Keely concurred it was.

Psycho couldn’t believe his ears. The lady had stones. Keely stretched the truth like a rubber band that would eventually snap her in the ass. He shot her a warning look, which she totally ignored.

“Though I’m not outright related to William,” Keely humbly continued, “I do have a very personal interest in retaining the history and American spirit of Lowell House.”

“Would you return the colonel’s painting to its rightful place above the mantel?” Rebecca inquired of Keely.

“If Mr. McMillan so wished.”

“Definitely my wish,” Psycho said.

Debate ensued as Rebecca quietly consulted with the Daughters. Keely didn’t appear the least bit fazed that they spoke behind her back. She looked calm. Downright serene. Her thickly lashed blue gaze shone clear. Her lips curved in an unconcerned smile. She gave nothing away, as if lying was second nature.

Psycho often lied to get himself out of trouble or to get a woman into bed. He made promises. Broke them. He had to admit Keely knew how to twist words to her benefit. Damn impressive.

Several minutes passed before Rebecca once again faced Keely, interest in her eyes. “Tell us your plans, Miss Lowell. How do you envision the restoration?”

Psycho shook his head. Keely was no more a Lowell than he was. Yet she’d penned her name in their family Bible. On the bastard side.

Allowing the Daughters and Keely entrance, he crossed to the fireplace, which was big enough to swallow a Volvo. He watched as Keely took in the twin staircases to the second floor and the large landing at the top, along with the stretch of center hallway that led straight through to the back door. She looked oddly in her element among the rotted wood, chipped plaster, and sagging ceilings.

“In every renovation, my design firm retains the history of the Colonial while unobtrusively modernizing the home,” Keely began.

“How much modernizing?” Concern pinched Rebecca’s lips.

“Only as far as updating the plumbing and heating systems. The lighting and appliances,” Keely returned.

“How many Colonials have you renovated?” Psycho asked, just for the hell of it.

Keely met his gaze squarely. “Enough to know you’ll need a respirator to breathe life into your home.”

“Well put, my dear,” Rebecca applauded.

Psycho couldn’t believe Keely had won over the Daughters. The women had hounded and chastised him for months. Yet the mere mention of her being Marshal Lowell’s illegitimate grandniece, and the suggestion that she possessed an antique oil painting had landed Keely in their good graces.

She’d also inserted herself into his life without his permission. Psycho didn’t like anyone to have the upper hand. Though she’d saved his ass, it was time to put her in her place. Just so she knew where she stood with him.

Pushing himself off the fireplace, he sauntered toward Keely. “Take us room by room and lay out your plans.” He put his afternoon run and workout on hold. “I’m damn curious.”

Keely sighed. “We’ve all ready discussed the restoration at length. Surely you’re tired of the conversation.”

“Never tired,” he returned. “I want the Daughters to be certain I’ve hired the best possible designer.”

“The remainder of our afternoon is free.” Rebecca spoke for the group. “With the recent death of my dear husband, I’ve time on my hands. A short tour of the house would be delightful.”

“Let’s tour,” Psycho agreed.

Keely Douglas inwardly cringed. McMillan’s expression told her she had no wiggle room. Hard and intimidating, he knew she’d lied about her heritage and the oil painting. He’d yet to discover she didn’t know the first thing about design. She hoped to keep him from making that discovery.

Keely needed this job. At twenty-seven, she still didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life. She was considered an adult, but without a grown-up job. She’d been both a waitress and a dog walker. Ticket taker at the movie theater. She’d sliced bread at a bakery. No employment had lasted more than six months. She wanted a job that ran a full year. Her rent was due. She didn’t want to be forced to live out of her grandfather’s station wagon.