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 impressed 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.”