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“Doesn’t matter, Aaron. We’re too different.”
“I assume you don’t have a problem with my being white.”
“I don’t.”
“Then…”
“We come from such different backgrounds. I don’t have any idea what line of work you were in before you hired on with my crew, but you sure as heck must have made good money to buy the entire twentieth floor of a building.”
“I’m not a drug dealer. You have to believe me, Jennifer. I’d never do anything illegal.”
“I do believe you.”
“Then give me the opportunity to prove myself. Help me, Jenny. Help us. Tell me what to do to win your trust.”
The lump in her throat made swallowing impossible. Trusting Aaron wasn’t the issue.
It was trusting herself…
Dear Reader,
In 1992 America experienced one of its worst riots of the twentieth century, near the intersection of Florence and Normandie in south central Los Angeles. Spurred by the acquittals of most of the policemen accused of beating Rodney King, the riot left fifty-four dead and about $1 billion worth of buildings and merchandise torched or plundered.
As one who watched the horrific images on TV, I assumed that the residents who had suffered through that traumatic event would sell their homes and move to a safer neighborhood. Surprisingly, most of the people there stayed.
The human spirit is an amazing thing. The residents of south central L.A. neighborhoods face challenges unheard of in other communities across America. Yet the media and popular culture have distorted the image of the area, drawing a bleak, despairing picture of the neighborhoods and communities, when in truth, the areas exhibit unique, rich cultural histories that reflect the residents who live there—African-Americans and Latinos. Today, largely due to the pride and determination of their residents, these neighborhoods in south central L.A. once again flourish.
I hope you enjoy Aaron McKade’s story as he experiences this unique area of L.A. and falls in love with a Latino woman, whose spirit of giving inspires him and many others.
I love to hear from readers. Please visit me at www.marinthomas.com or e-mail marin@marinthomas.com.
Happy reading!
Marin
Aaron Under Construction
Marin Thomas
www.millsandboon.co.uk
To Associate Senior Editor Kathleen Scheibling and Editor Beverley Sotolov.
Thank you for making The McKade Brothers series a reality. Your support is deeply appreciated.
Books by Marin Thomas
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
1024—THE COWBOY AND THE BRIDE
1050—DADDY BY CHOICE
1079—HOMEWARD BOUND
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
What the hell am I doing here?
If his grandfather hadn’t lost his mind, Aaron McKade wouldn’t be stuck in Monday-morning bumper-to-bumper Los Angeles traffic. Instead, he’d be managing the West Coast branch of the family business—McKade Import-Export, an office that served as an agent for companies seeking Latin American markets for their products.
Perturbed with the recent turn of events in his life, he clenched his jaw and studied his surroundings—his new place of work. Santa Angelita, the South Central Los Angeles barrio, was worlds away from the affluent Bunker Hill District where he lived in the famous Bradshaw Building.
Rows of Spanish-style stucco houses painted in vivid blues, greens and purples lined the side streets, giving the residential area energy…hope. A few homes showed off neatly trimmed lawns and masses of fuchsia bougainvillea, but most of the dwellings required major renovations—and some even a wrecking ball. Sensible compacts or junkers sat parked in one-car-garage driveways. The BMWs and Lincoln Navigators of the drug dealers were nonexistent, and the small bikes and toys cluttering the yards suggested more and more young families were moving into the barrio.
The commercial boulevards, on the other hand, struggled to survive. Boarded-up buildings covered in colorful murals depicting religious scenes and festive celebrations, along with vacant lots, broke the line of nail-care salons, auto parts shops and storefront churches comprising the core of the business district. He hadn’t seen one chain supermarket or drugstore in the past eight blocks, only liquor depots and a mom-and-pop market.
The light switched to green, but traffic remained at a standstill while commuters boarded a city bus a block ahead.
What had Pop been thinking? Aaron loved his grandfather more than anything, but now wondered if dementia had finally gotten the best of the old man. Patrick McKade had dropped a bomb during last week’s phone chat. The conversation had switched from the Yankees spring-training schedule to a more alarming topic. “Aaron, I neglected to teach you a very important lesson—responsibility,” his grandfather had said.
Responsibility. The word made Aaron shudder.
“Son, it’s my fault that you’re immature. I should have demanded more from you.”
Aaron’s gut had tightened with humiliation, hurt and resentment. Immature? He was thirty-three years old!
The bus pulled away from the curb, belching black exhaust. Traffic inched forward as Aaron studied the map spread across his lap. Riker Avenue had to be somewhere in the vicinity. Frustrated, he shoved the directions aside and glanced up just as a little old lady stepped in front of the truck. He slammed his foot on the brake, wincing when the seatbelt bit into his shoulder. The front bumper stopped a foot from the woman’s wire pull cart.
Pursing her lips, the granny glared at him through the windshield. Aaron unrolled the window and stuck his head out to apologize, but the words froze in his throat when the old biddy flashed her middle finger. Stunned, he watched her baby-step across the street, forcing cars in all lanes to stop for her and the dirty lump of fur curled up at the bottom of the basket.
“You must stand on your own two feet, Aaron, and assume responsibility for yourself and your future.”
First the crazy cart lady, now the voice of his grandfather refusing to get out of his head. What was this—revenge-of-the-geriatric-set day?
“I’ve been too wrapped up in expanding the company all these years, or I would have noticed that your brothers have been picking up the slack for you.”
There were times when Aaron wished with all his heart that his parents and grandmother had survived the private plane crash that had taken their lives when he was a year old. Widowed and burdened with raising three grandsons, Pop never noticed the way Aaron’s brothers lorded over him. In truth, Aaron had become accustomed to allowing his family to influence his decisions, solve his problems and instruct him on what to do and where to go.
After the sting of his grandfather’s words had subsided, Aaron had fumed. If Pop expected him to toe the line, then his brothers, Nelson, who ran the Chicago office, and Ryan, who managed the New York City branch, had to loosen their choke hold around their baby brother’s neck.
Aaron didn’t agree with his grandfather’s methods, but he hoped that seeing this foolhardy mission through to the end would prove to his family that he was a grown man capable of functioning on his own. Capable of making decisions for himself. Capable of choosing his own path in life, damn it!
“I’ve contacted a business associate and he’s secured a temporary position for you on a construction crew for a non-profit organization.”
Aside from resenting the fact that his grandfather believed he had to teach him a lesson, Aaron wondered how the old man believed swinging a hammer would make him more responsible.
When he’d posed the question, Pop had further insulted him. “Physical labor builds character, and helping those less fortunate will force you to appreciate what you have.”
Guilt that he’d neglected to properly express his gratitude for all Pop had done for him and his brothers over the years didn’t make agreeing to this crazy scheme any easier.
The construction job had come with two conditions. One, he use an alias and under no circumstances divulge his name. He’d assumed Pop had been worried for his safety, yet he doubted his new coworkers would recognize the McKade name or even have time to peruse the business section of the Los Angeles Times each morning. But safety hadn’t been the main concern. Pop had insisted that Aaron earn the respect of others through his own hard work and not because of the family name. The second required that he remain on the job for three months or he’d lose his inheritance and his position at McKade Import-Export. Not that he cared about his job. Although he’d never admit it to his grandfather, Aaron found his work responsibilities cumbersome and boring.
Aaron gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles threatened to pop through the skin. Half of him wanted to return to his office, box up his things, then call his grandfather and tell him to hell with the inheritance. The other half was determined to demonstrate that he was mature enough to accept this latest challenge and succeed on his own.
His failed attempts to make light of the situation and convince himself that a temporary construction gig wouldn’t be all that bad—no suffocating piles of paperwork, no suit, no tie, no colored socks for three months—proved that falling short in his grandfather’s eyes unsettled Aaron more than he cared to admit.
When he’d pressed his grandfather for more details about the job, the old man had been mute. With more prodding, Patrick McKade had admitted he’d made a sizable financial contribution to a political cause that his longtime buddy supported.
Talk about messed up—Aaron had to earn respect without using his name and money, yet his grandfather hadn’t hesitated to offer the McKade name and bank account to accomplish his goal.
“You report to the job Monday, April first.”
April Fool’s Day. Aaron hadn’t known whether to laugh or shake his fist at the phone. A high-powered executive moonlighting as a construction worker. He pondered who the joke was on—him or his new boss.
His stomach roiled, and he blamed it on the greasy smell of cooked chorizo that seeped through the air-conditioning vents as he drove by street-corner vendors. He turned off the main thoroughfare and stopped at the next intersection. Who to ask for directions…? He’d been instructed to report to the job site no later than 7:00 a.m.—more than a half hour ago. He’d allotted extra drive time, but hadn’t anticipated losing thirty minutes waiting for a fender-bender to clear the intersection outside his apartment. Arriving late his first day on the job wouldn’t sit well with his grandfather.
A group of Hispanic teens, dressed in all black, loitered on a corner, puffing cigarettes. A few houses down on the right, an old woman stood on her front porch, safe behind decorative iron bars. A school bus pulled up next to the teens and opened its doors. One kid got on; the others cut through a hole in a neighbor’s hedge and disappeared.
Aaron followed an ’83 gold Monte Carlo low-rider as it bounced down the street, its supersized sound system blasting a Los Lobos song. After three blocks, he spotted a mini food market and parked in the loading zone at the curb. Even though he wore the garb of a blue-collar worker—T-shirt, jeans and work boots—as an Anglo in a predominantly Latino neighborhood, he stood out like a banana in a bunch of grapes.
“Good morning,” Aaron greeted the clerk at the checkout counter, who squinted through one-inch-thick glasses. “Can you tell me how to get to Riker Avenue?”
“No habla inglés.”
And I don’t habla español. Aaron motioned out the store window and repeated, “Riker Avenue?”
Pointing to the back of the store, the clerk answered, “Sí, señor. Riker.”
“Thank you…I mean, gracias.”
“No problema.” The proprietor grinned, showing off wide gaps between his few remaining teeth.
Back in the truck, Aaron turned right at the next corner and drove east. He’d gone less than a mile when he noticed several older-model pickups and clunker cars parked in a cluster. As he drew nearer, a work crew came into view. He squeezed the truck in between two others, then headed across the street.
Pausing at the curb, he surveyed the home under construction. Plywood had been laid down on the roof, and stacks of shingles sat in the front yard. Several men were busy wrapping the house with weather-resistant Tyvek paper, while others unloaded a delivery of wallboard.
“Excuse, me,” Aaron hollered at the man who came out of the house. “Is the foreman here?”
“¿Quién?”
“Habla English?” Aaron asked.
The worker shook his head.
Aaron swept a hand out in front of him. “Barrio Amigo?”
“Sí.”
Bingo!
Just then a husky feminine voice hollered in Spanish from somewhere above him. Aaron glanced heavenward. Tool belt slung across curvy hips and a hammer in hand, a woman balanced on the edge of the roof. The hard hat blocked his view of her eyes but not her strong jaw. She wore a white T-shirt with the words Barrio Amigo stamped across the front in bold red letters.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Where can I find the foreman?”
“Who wants to know?” she snapped in perfect English.
“Aaron Mc—Aaron Smith!” When she didn’t budge from her spot, he added, “I’ve been assigned to this crew!”
“You’re the new replacement?” The disbelief in her voice carried all the way down to the sidewalk where Aaron stood.
Hiding his self-consciousness behind a smile, he admitted, “Yeah, I’m him.”
“Be right there.” She scrambled up the roof and disappeared over the peak.
His lips stiffened as the crew’s guarded stares burned holes through his T-shirt. What did they think he was going to do—walk off with a load of shingles?
The woman rounded the corner of the house and fired off a barrage of commands that sent the men scurrying back to their jobs, which only confirmed Aaron’s earlier suspicion; the little dynamo headed in his direction was the forewoman.
Stopping a few feet away, she sized him up. He grimaced when her mouth puckered. Obviously, she found him less than acceptable—something he didn’t often encounter with the opposite sex.
“Aaron Smith reporting for duty.” He held out a hand.
Her eyes widened as she stared at their entwined fingers. Then she flung her head back and laughed. The throaty sound surprised him; he’d expected a squeaky noise from such a petite body. “What’s so funny?”
“Jennifer Alvarado, the site foreman,” she said, introducing herself, then quickly added, “and I specifically remember requesting someone with experience.”
“I have experience.” That is, if constructing Lego buildings as a tyke counted as experience.
She removed her hard hat, and a long, inky ponytail fell down her back, stopping a good three inches below her shoulders. She had almond-shaped brown eyes framed by sooty lashes, and a wide generous mouth that showed off bright white teeth. Bold, black brows arched above her eyes, hinting at arrogance. Without a trace of makeup, the lady was more stunning than any female he’d ever dated. And Aaron had to admit that the tool belt around her well-rounded hips made for an intriguing fashion accessory—one every woman ought to add to her wardrobe.
One haughty eyebrow arched higher than the other. “You’ve worked on a construction crew before?”
Sweat popped out across his brow. “Yes,” he lied. He doubted he and his brothers qualified as a crew, but the three had assembled several play forts at their grandfather’s home in Edgartown, Massachusetts, on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. One weekend they’d attempted a whaling boat. At the time it had seemed appropriate, since their grandfather’s house was a fully restored whaling captain’s residence dating back to 1790. The finished craft had resembled a misshapen box and had sunk on its first voyage in the water.
“Doesn’t matter.” She curved her thumbs around her tool belt. “You’re fired.”
“Fired?” Pop’s face flashed before Aaron’s eyes as panic sent his heart banging against his rib cage. “You can’t fire me.”
She checked her watch. “It’s eight o’clock. We start at seven sharp.”
“I got lost. Ask the man at the grocery mart a few blocks from here. He’ll tell you that I stopped for directions.” When her eyes narrowed to mocha-colored slits, he pointed to the corner, where the street name had been torn off the top of the signpost. “This isn’t an easy place to locate.”
“You’re not from around here and—”
“Ma’am, I want this job. Give me a chance to prove myself.” To Aaron’s way of thinking, he’d need a heck of a lot of chances to survive three months on this woman’s crew. Determined to make this work, to prove once and for all that he didn’t need anyone to rescue him, Aaron held steady under the forewoman’s assessing glare.
She thrust her chin forward, no doubt hoping to add another inch to her height. “No.”
He admired the way she kept eye contact with him—not a simple task when the top of her head barely met his shoulder. At six-one, he towered over her.
“First, I’m the only person who speaks fluent English. Second, I’m not always at the site the entire day.” She counted off on her fingers—fingers unadorned with rings or acrylic nails and polish. “And third, I can’t afford any mess-ups because of miscommunication.”
“The language barrier won’t be a problem.” Hell, when it came to building homes, Aaron was clueless in any language.
“Sorry. You’re fired.”
Now what?
Although the crew appeared to be working, each man was keeping a watchful eye on the boss lady, convincing him that this forewoman had more than earned the group’s respect and loyalty.
Time to pull out the big guns. “If you fire me, I’ll sue your organization for discrimination.”
“¡Está loco!”
“You called me crazy, didn’t you?” When her expressive brown eyes widened, he grinned. “I understand more than you think.”
“If you need this job as badly as you claim, then I doubt you have the means to pay for a lawyer.”
“There are plenty of free legal clinics in the city.”
“You’re bluffing, Mr. Smith.”
Lowering his voice, he asked, “Are you willing to put your job on the line to find out, Ms. Alvarado?”
She settled her hand over the hammer dangling from her tool belt. He suspected she’d like to pound his head with it. The boss lady was one-hundred-percent miffed female.
“How about a second chance?” He pressed his lips together to keep from chuckling at the dark flush stealing across her cheekbones.
“On one condition.”
Conditions, again? His grandfather. Now her. “What?”
“Finish installing the wallboard in the living room and entryway by the end of the day.”
“Or else…?”
“Or else you’re unemployed.”
Chapter Two
Jennifer strolled past the corner of the house, then collapsed on a stack of roofing shingles. She breathed deeply, hoping to settle her rising frustration—if she could call the jittery feeling in her stomach frustration.
The new crew member, Mr. Smith, hadn’t fooled her. A construction worker…yeah, right. And she was a runway model. If his brand-new jeans, sparkling-clean work boots and the absence of a tool belt and hard hat hadn’t given him away, his hands would have. Clean, well-manicured nails and slight calluses—the kind a person gets from working out at the gym. The guy was a fraud. A heck of a handsome one, but a fraud nonetheless.
Barrio Amigo usually employed only local Latino men. Why would her boss send her someone who—she’d bet her best Bosch drill on this—had never even driven through Santa Angelita before today? And why hadn’t Louisa, Barrio Amigo’s secretary, notified her that the new replacement would be starting this morning?
She’d been hoping for a man with more experience, one who could do the work of two men each day. Due to the unusually rainy weather, the crew had fallen two weeks behind schedule on Mrs. Benitos’s home. Jennifer had promised the older woman she could move in by the end of May and today was April first.
April Fool’s Day. She smacked her open palm against her forehead. Louisa had sent Aaron Smith as an April Fool’s Day joke. I wish. Louisa was too flighty and self-absorbed to carry out such a scheme.
“Who’s the new anglo?” Juan, Jennifer’s second-in-command, shimmied down the ladder propped against the back of the house. He spoke fairly good English—when he wished to—and supervised the crew if she had to leave the site.
“His name is Aaron Smith. Ricardo’s replacement.” Ricardo had slipped a disc in his lower back a week ago and had gone out on medical leave.
“Doesn’t look like a construction worker.”
“I doubt he’ll last the day.” She peered around the corner just in time to witness the new employee stagger under a thirty-five-pound sheet of wall-board. Returning her attention to Juan, she asked, “Will you keep an eye on this guy while I run to the office?”
“Sí.” Juan climbed back up the ladder and disappeared from sight.
Five minutes later, Jennifer hopped in her truck and headed to the nonprofit organization’s headquarters. Traffic north on Wilshire Boulevard had slowed to a crawl, but at least vehicles were moving. She should have waited until Louisa entered the office at noon to hear the scoop on Aaron Smith, but Jennifer wanted to know more about the new guy ASAP.
The headquarters for Barrio Amigo sat in a strip mall that had seen better days. A Closed sign hung in the window, so Jennifer let herself in with her own key and went straight to the metal filing cabinet against the far wall. She skimmed the employee records but found none marked with Aaron’s name. Next she rifled through the secretary’s In basket but again, nothing. Did Aaron Smith even exist? She scribbled a note, asking Louisa to call her cell phone later, then locked the door and left. By the time she’d returned to the site, the crew was breaking for lunch.
“Don’t go in there,” Juan warned, blocking the front door of the house.
Her stomach clenched. “I thought you were keeping an eye on him.”
“One of the trusses had to be adjusted. I just now got off the roof to check on his progress.” He shook his head in disgust and mumbled something about having to repair the damage the anglo had caused.
When Jennifer entered the house, whistling sounds greeted her ears. From the snappy tune to the jig in his step, Aaron appeared to be enjoying himself. No wonder—he’d gone loco!
“Hey, boss.” He flashed a charming grin.
She scowled.
“I’m making good progress.”
Inching closer to one wall, she examined his work and shuddered. He’d used the wrong nails, and most of them had been pounded into the wallboard at odd angles. She turned slowly in a circle and surveyed the entire area, unable to prevent her mouth from dropping open.
“What’s wrong?” He joined her and together they twirled like a couple of toy tops.
“Where are the outlets? The heater vents? The air-intake vents?”