"You have kids?"

"Two boys. Ten and eight. You see, that's why this job is so perfect for me. I only live about a quarter mile away. I've been watching the new houses going up, and I noticed the carpenters stop work at three-thirty. My kids get out of school at three-thirty. I wouldn't have to put them in day care if I worked here."

He looked at her left hand. No ring. He was doomed. How could he refuse a job to a woman who was about to barbecue Spot to keep her kids from starving?

"I'm much bigger than I look," Lizabeth said. "And besides, that's another thing about the job that's perfect. It would get me into shape. And I would learn things about a house. I need to know about fixing toilets and roofs and getting tiles to stick to floors."

"How soon do you have to know all these things?"

"The sooner the better."

Matt grimaced. "Your roof is leaking? Your toilet has a problem? Your tiles are coming loose?"

"Yes. But it's not as bad as it sounds. I bought this terrific house. It was built at the turn of the century and has gingerbread trim and elaborate cornices and wonderful woodwork, but it's a little run-down…"

"You're not talking about that gray Victorian on the corner of Woodward and Gainsborough, are you?"

Lizabeth nodded her head. "That's it. That's my house."

"I always thought that house was haunted. In fact, I thought it was condemned."

"It's not haunted. And it was only condemned because the front porch needed fixing." She paused in her pacing and looked at him. "You don't think it's hopeless, do you?"

He wasn't sure if she was talking about her house or his life after this moment. It didn't matter. The answer would be the same to both questions-yes. But he lied. "No. I think the house has… possibilities. It has… character."

Lizabeth smiled. She loved her house. It had a few problems, but it was charming and homey and just looking at it made her happy. She'd bought it in January, the day after her divorce had become final. She'd needed to do something positive. Give herself a symbolic fresh start. "Maybe you could come over sometime and take a look at it. You could give me your professional opinion on it. I'm not sure which project I should start first."

His professional opinion was that the house should be burned to the ground. He wasn't able to tell her that, though, because his heart was painfully stuck in his throat. It had happened when she'd smiled. She had the most beautiful, the most radiant smile he'd ever seen. And he'd caused it just by saying her house had character. He wondered if she would smile like that if he kissed her-if he made love to her. He lounged against the unpainted wall, his arms loosely crossed over his bare chest, and he promised himself that someday he'd take Lizabeth Kane to bed, and when she awoke in the morning, she'd open her eyes and see him lying beside her, and she'd smile.

Lizabeth saw his eyes grow soft and sexy and worried that he'd misinterpreted her invitation. She hadn't meant to be so friendly. She didn't want to imply that she'd do anything to get the job. It was just that it was difficult for her to be less than exuberant when it came to her house. And in all honesty, she might have gaped at his body a tad too long. "I didn't mean to sound so desperate for the job," she said. "This is my first construction interview, and I think I got carried away. I don't want you to hire me because you feel sorry for me with my leaky roof and two hungry kids. And I don't want you to hire me because… well, you know."

He raised his eyebrows in question.

Lizabeth rolled her eyes and made a disgusted sound. She was making a fool of herself. She'd approached him about a job and had ended up telling him her life story, and now she was in the awkward position of establishing sexual boundaries. She'd been separated from her husband for a year and a half and divorced for six months, but she still wasn't especially good at being a sophisticated single. It wasn't a matter of time, she admitted. It was a matter of personality. She was an impulsive, let-it-all-hang-out, emotional dunderhead. "Look," she said flatly, "I'm willing to work hard. I'm smart. I'm dependable. I'm honest." She pulled a folded piece of lined notebook paper from her pocket and handed it to him. "This is my resume. It's not much, but it has my name and address and phone number, and if you ever need a laborer you can get in touch with me."

Matt unfolded the paper and studied it, trying to keep the grin from creeping across his mouth. "This is a spelling list."

Lizabeth snatched it back and winced as she looked at it. "I took the wrong paper. This is my son's homework assignment."

"Don't worry about it. I don't need a resume. And it so happens I do need a laborer."

"You're not hiring me out of pity, are you?"

"No, of course not." That was an honest answer, he thought. He was hiring her out of lust. He didn't think she wanted to hear that, so he decided not to elaborate. "You can start tomorrow, if you want. Be here at six o'clock."

She did it! She got the job! If Matt Hallahan hadn't been so overwhelmingly virile she would have kissed him, but she instinctively knew kissing Matt Hallahan would be serious stuff. It would start out as a spontaneous act of happiness and gratitude, and it would end up as pure pleasure. A fairy wouldn't have hesitated for a second, but Lizabeth Kane wasn't a fairy. She was a mother, so she gave herself a mental hug and smiled.

Matt couldn't help smiling back. Her joy was infectious. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep from touching her, and wondered what the devil he was going to do with a soft, gullible, 123-pound laborer.

Jason Kane looked at his mother with the sort of cynical excitement peculiar to eight-year-old boys. "Man, this is awesome. My mom, a construction worker. You're gonna bust your buns," he said gleefully. "Those construction workers are tough. They have muscles out to here. They chew tobacco, and they have tattoos. Are you gonna get a tattoo, Mom?"

Lizabeth paused with her knife in the peanut butter jar. "Excuse me? Bust your buns?"

"That's construction-worker talk, Mom. You'd better get used to it."

Ten-year-old Billy was less enthusiastic. "You sure you can handle this, Mom? You're pretty puny. And you're old."

"I'm not that old. I'm thirty-two!" She slathered peanut butter on a slice of bread. "I'm going to be fine. I won't be far away, and I'll have a good-paying job. You two can watch television until Aunt Elsie gets here."

Their eyes opened wide. "Aunt Elsie is coming?" they said in unison.

"She's agreed to come stay with us for the summer so you won't be on your own all day."

Jason sprang out of his seat. "Mom, Aunt Elsie is a hundred years old. She talks to pigeons."

"Aunt Elsie isn't a hundred years old," Lizabeth said. She wrapped her peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a plastic bag and dropped it into a brown paper sack, along with a can of root beer and an apple. "Aunt Elsie is seventy-two and she's almost as good as new."

"They keep her locked up in a camp for old people," Billy said.

Lizabeth tossed the rest of her coffee down her throat. "I have to go. I don't want to be late the first day. And it's not a camp. It's a retirement village, and the man at the gate keeps trespassers out. He doesn't keep Aunt Elsie locked in."

Billy and Jason looked at each other as if they didn't believe her.

Lizabeth stood at the front door. "You guys know the rules. Don't open the door to strangers. Call Mrs. Fee next door if there's a problem. My work address and phone number are posted on the bulletin board in the kitchen."

Billy put his arm around his little brother. "Don't worry, Mom. I can handle it."

"Mmmmm." They were great kids, Lizabeth thought, but Jason had his "ice cream for lunch" look. Good thing Elsie said she'd be there by ten. She kissed both boys and locked the door behind her.