“I can explain everything—eventually.”

“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

MILLS & BOON

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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?”

“Outlets and vents?”

“Those things you plug lamps and TVs into? The places hot air and cool air enter the room.”

He scratched his head. “Shoot. I must have covered them up.”

Unsure whether to laugh or cry at his perplexed frown, she pressed her palms to her forehead, hoping to ease the thump, thump building in intensity. “You’ll have to remove all the wallboard, cut out the electrical and vents, then nail them back in place. I doubt you’ll get that far by the end of the day, but if you do, find me.” She tapped her finger against a bent nail head. “You’re using the wrong-sized nails and they have to be pounded in straight.”

She snatched the hammer from his hand, then grabbed a nail from the pouch on her tool belt. “Do it—” with one blow, the nail went straight into the board “—like that.”

“Impressive.”

The compliment startled her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d awed a man. Oh, heck. She didn’t care what Smith thought of her. As long as he respected her authority—Then why did those clear blue eyes make her yearn to do something else to catch his attention?

Although she suspected the new employee had never worked construction until today, he intrigued her. But no good could come out of becoming better acquainted with Aaron Smith. Where men were concerned, especially anglo men, she no longer trusted her instincts. An anglo had burned her once and left her family devastated.

Troubled by the memories of her past, she cleared her throat. “Time to break for lunch.”

A few minutes later, Aaron left the house, went to his truck and removed a lunch pail. He returned to the front yard, pausing near the men sprawled across the grass. When no one in the group acknowledged his presence, he walked off and sat alone under a lemon tree.

Jennifer resisted the temptation to join Aaron. She’d survived being an outcast on more crews than she cared to remember—just because she was a woman.

By the end of the day, Aaron Smith was as good as gone.

“QUITTING TIME!” the boss lady shouted from somewhere outside the house.

Aaron rolled his shoulder, surprised at the bruised feeling in the joint. Evidently, three-times-a-week workouts at his fitness center were no match for hauling wallboard all day. Beginning at the front door, he counted the panels he’d taken down, cut out the electrical and vents and nailed back up. Eight. Crap. He had over half the room left to do.

“Smith, get out here!”

Jennifer Alvarado. Even her name sounded sexy. When he stepped outside, he noticed the rest of the crew had left the site. Except Juan, who lingered near his truck. In Aaron’s opinion, the right-hand man was a tad too overprotective of the boss.

“Here.” Jennifer shoved a piece of paper in his face.

“A personal check?”

“Why wait until next Friday to claim a day’s pay?”

“You’re really going to fire me because I didn’t finish putting up the wallboard?”

She planted her hands on her hips and glared. “You’re too slow, Smith.”

“I’ll stay and complete the job, and you won’t have to pay me overtime.”

“No. I want someone with more experience.” She gestured toward the front door. “We’re already behind schedule, and tomorrow the crew will have to waste precious time finishing your work.”

“But—”

“Smith.”

“Aaron.”

“Aaron.” The starch in her shoulders disappeared.

Interesting.

“I appreciate that you tried your best.” Her mouth twitched. “Had we met under different circumstances, I’d have pegged you for a businessman. I have a hunch you’d look right at home behind a desk.”

If you only knew, lady. He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off…again.

“I have to be at another site before dark.” Halfway to her truck, she stopped and turned. “You don’t live here in Santa Angelita, do you?”

“No.”

“Can you find your way out?”

“Sure.” Her concern for his welfare irked him. Reminded him of the lack of confidence his brothers and grandfather had in him. When she made no move to get into her truck, he said, “I’ll leave the hammer and nails inside the house.”

He returned to the yard, expecting the boss lady to be long gone. Instead, he spied her truck idling at the corner. Well, hell. He’d have to leave, then sneak back when the coast was clear. He got into his Ford and pulled away from the curb, heading in the opposite direction.

By morning, the feisty señorita would discover that Aaron Smith was no quitter.

“HEY, ALVARADO, over here,” Juan called from the porch of Mrs. Benitos’s home.

Each morning Jennifer and Juan arrived a half hour ahead of the crew. They used the time to check supplies, examine the previous day’s work for mistakes and decide if anything should be redone. She tossed the blueprint she’d been studying through the open truck window, then cut across the lawn. “Let me guess. A graffiti artist christened the inside of the house.”

Chuckling, Juan shook his head.

Jennifer stepped through the doorway and gasped. The entire living-room area and entryway had been wallboarded—with the correct nails pounded in only a little crooked. Every outlet and vent was now visible, though the edges of the cuts were jagged. Juan tugged her across the foyer to the coat closet. A pair of men’s work boots, suspiciously clean boots, stuck out of the doorway. Holding her breath, she peered inside.

Sitting propped against the wall, neck tilted at an awkward angle, Aaron Smith slept like a baby. Beard stubble darkened his cheeks and the corners of his mouth curved as if he were in the throes of a pleasant dream.

Good Lord, the man must have worked into the wee morning hours to finish the room. In a world where loyalty was never part of the job description, Aaron was a breath of fresh air. A small part of her wished he’d stayed at the site not for the money, but because he’d wanted to impress her. Shaking her head, she chastised herself for the adolescent thought.

Juan nudged his foot against the oversize droplight Aaron must have used to provide enough light to work through the night. “It’s not perfect, but it’s done.”

“Let him sleep until the crew arrives.” After they left the house, she searched the street for Aaron’s truck and was surprised to find the Ford parked beneath a neighbor’s partially collapsed carport at the end of the block.

When Jennifer had left the site yesterday, Louisa from the main office had rung her cell phone. The secretary knew nothing about Aaron Smith other than that the organization’s head honcho had assigned him to Jennifer’s crew for three months and Aaron had given a P.O. box as his address.

Juan followed her gaze to Aaron’s truck. “Does he stay?”

She couldn’t explain the urge inside her to keep Aaron around awhile longer. Urge or not, how could she fire him after he’d busted his backside? “We’re short a man. What do you think?” She trusted Juan’s judgment.

“The anglo deserves another chance. And we’re behind on the roof.”

“He’ll require a lot of supervision.”

“Pedro can help me keep track of the guy.”

A vision of Aaron’s happy feet dancing off an edge of the house flashed before her eyes and she winced. The last thing Barrio Amigo desired was another Workmans Comp case. But Juan had a point. They had to complete the roof as soon as possible. If the supplier hadn’t delivered the wrong shingles two weeks ago, the roof would have been on by now. Still…Aaron might be more harm than help.

Reading her mind, Juan assured her, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to your hombre.”

My man? Good grief, was her interest in Aaron that apparent?

Before she had time to ponder Juan’s comment, the rest of the crew arrived and Jennifer assigned duties for the day. After the group split apart, she walked into the house to wake Aaron.

She stood over his sprawled body, listening to the quiet snores escaping his slightly parted lips. What was it about this man that drew her?

Her fiancé had played her for a fool, pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Unbeknownst to her, he’d coaxed her brother to join in his illegal activities. Soon after, her brother had angered her fiancé and he’d retaliated by shattering her family’s life.

Never again would she allow a man to get close enough to hurt her or her family. Which made her attraction to Aaron, the mystery man, confusing and frustrating.

Aaron was a man of secrets. Secrets ruined lives and hurt people. What did she care? In three months he’d be gone for good.

But he has the nicest smile….

Keeping her distance was one thing; convincing herself to not like him was another. Just because he wore a borrowed tool belt and figured out how to pound in a nail semistraight didn’t make him Mr. Construction. Buried beneath the hard-hat image, she sensed a sophisticated, educated man used to working with his brain, not his hands. Definitely not your average Joe from the barrio.

Jennifer belonged in the barrio. Aaron didn’t.

She prodded his boot, then braced herself in the event he scrambled to his feet and knocked her flat on her butt.

Slowly, very slowly, he opened his eyes and stared straight at her. He smiled—a sleepy, half-awake grin, that made her insides quiver and jump.

“Buenos días.”

“You’re not a dream?”

What a flirt. “I’m no dream, buddy. I’m your worst nightmare.”

His grin widened. “You can darken my doorway anytime.”

Flustered by his sexual banter, she snapped, “I thought I fired you yesterday.”

A tinge of red crawled up his neck as he scrubbed his hands across his face. “Let me explain.” He shifted position, then grimaced.

“You’re lucky you survived the night in one piece.”

“My jacket kept me plenty warm.”

Was he that naive? “Hypothermia aside, count your blessings you weren’t robbed, beaten or worse. In case you hadn’t noticed, this isn’t Beverly Hills.”

“I noticed.” He climbed to his feet. “Good morning, Jennifer.”

Ignoring the way her heart pitter-pattered at the quiet greeting, she wondered if the man woke up every day in such a congenial mood. His eyes, puffy from lack of sleep, glowed with warmth. His brown, slightly wavy hair stuck up in back as if he’d styled it with gel to stay that messy. Adorable. The big, handsome hunk was flat-out adorable.

“I noticed you finished the living room and entryway.”

“Does the work pass inspection?” Aaron’s face went from bedroom sexy to lost puppy in seconds flat. How did a woman keep up her defenses around a guy like this?

“Barely.” She cringed when her answer came out sounding like a sigh.

“Does that mean I stay on your crew?”

“You’ll be working on the roof today. Juan will explain what to do.”

“Yesterday you said no one else spoke English.”

“I should have said I’m the only one willing to converse with you in English.”

“As soon as I visit the little green Johnny outside, I’ll get to work.”

After ten years on construction crews, Jennifer had heard her share of crude talk. But for some reason, she blushed when Aaron mentioned using the Porta Potti. “Hustle up. This is the second day in a row you’ve been late for work.”

STOMACH RUMBLING like a badly tuned diesel engine, Aaron checked his watch for the hundredth time. Last night, he’d stopped at a mom-and-pop grocery around the corner and purchased a burrito and a Dr Pepper for supper. With the aid of a battery-powered droplight, he’d worked until 4:00 a.m., when he’d crawled into the closet and collapsed. He hadn’t gotten more than a few minutes of uninterrupted sleep before the boss lady had awakened him at the crack of dawn.

Speaking of the boss lady…Jennifer had been conspicuously out of sight all morning. In his case, out of sight did not mean out of mind. He assumed she’d been the one to set the sports drink next to his jacket during an earlier break. He’d hoped to thank her, but the one instance he’d spotted her, she’d been headed in the opposite direction—not that he’d minded the view of her backside.

At first glance, Jennifer came across as a tomboy. But the more he studied her with the crew, the more he sensed that underneath the tough exterior was a gentle, kindhearted, nurturing woman who put others before herself. The ladies he’d dated in the past tended to be self-involved, with no inclination to care about anyone but themselves. And that had been fine with him. Aside from witnessing his brother Ryan’s marriage fall apart a few years ago, he considered himself too young to worry about spending the rest of his life with one woman.

“Lunch, anglo.” Juan interrupted Aaron’s thoughts.

Aaron set the hammer aside and moved to stand when Juan’s foot slid and the man tripped. From that moment on, everything happened in fast-forward.

Juan tumbled. Aaron lunged for him but missed. Juan flipped over and Aaron snagged his ankle a second before the man would have rolled off the roof. Dangling headfirst from the two-story house, Jennifer’s second-in-command shouted for help.

Aaron braced his work boots against the roofing underlayments he’d tacked down earlier, but his body weight and heavy shoes were no match for the slick weatherproof covering. Inch by inch, he slid toward the roof’s edge. Fire streaked up his arms; his muscles burned from exertion. Pedro shouted commands in Spanish—as if Aaron could understand a damn word.

Seconds ticked off like hours until Pedro arrived at Aaron’s side and grabbed Juan’s calf. Together, they kept their coworker from plummeting to the ground.

A ladder appeared next to Juan’s torso, then Jennifer’s head popped into view. She swayed precariously and Aaron’s gut twisted in fear for her safety. She shoved a shoulder under Juan’s back and pushed him up onto the roof. Aaron and Pedro let go of Juan’s leg and collapsed onto their backs.

“From now on, use the ladder to get off the roof,” Jennifer warned. The tremor in her voice convinced Aaron that the incident had shaken her more than she intended to let on.

As soon as her head disappeared, Aaron grinned. Juan grinned. Pedro grinned. The next thing Aaron knew, the three of them were holding their guts and belly-laughing.

“Crap, that scared the hell out of me,” Aaron wheezed.

“I owe you, anglo.” Juan gripped Aaron’s shoulder, his face sober.

Now that the adrenaline rush had dissipated, the seriousness of the situation hit Aaron like a roundhouse punch to the gut. This morning he’d overheard Jennifer ask Juan about his five children. With a family that size depending on him, thank God the man had suffered only a few bruises and not a broken neck or crushed skull.

One by one, the three men made their way down the ladder. Talking excitedly, the crew gathered around Juan. The only word Aaron understood was Dios. He suspected the men were thanking the big guy above for saving their buddy’s life.

Ignored by the others, Aaron slipped away. He needed a good dose of caffeine to calm his frazzled nerves. As he headed for his truck, which he’d moved from the private driveway down the block after using the Porta Potti, Jennifer intercepted him at the sidewalk. Surprisingly, her presence calmed his shaky nerves.

Eyes shimmering with emotion, she clutched his forearm. “Thank you, Aaron. If you hadn’t been there…” Her fingers bit into his skin.

The boss lady might act tough, but she cared deeply about her crew. He suspected she cared deeply about a lot of things. Her family. This neighborhood. Aside from his brothers and his grandfather, Aaron couldn’t say for sure that he cared deeply about any one thing. The idea annoyed him.

Unable to stop himself, he laid his hand over hers and traced the Band-Aid on her pinky finger. Her nails were short and the skin around them dry and cracked. Helping hands. The hands of a woman who worked at something meaningful in life. “I’m heading to the nearest fast-food dive. Want me to bring you back something?”

She released his arm, her fingers leaving imprints in his skin. “You shouldn’t drive after such a close call. I’ll share my lunch.”

Aaron wasn’t sure if he was insulted or flattered by her concern. He appreciated that she intended to fuss over him, but what man wished to appear weak in the eyes of a beautiful woman? Besides, he doubted she had enough in her paper sack to feed a mouse. But those big brown eyes… “Okay. I’ll take you up on your offer.”

He followed her to the backyard, then settled on the ground and leaned against a stack of roof shingles. Jennifer offered a banana and he devoured it in four bites, while she was a few feet away, nibbling on an orange. Their proximity made keeping his eyes off her intriguing earthiness impossible.

Talk about gutsy—the lady was one-hundred-percent pure determination and courage. He admired how she’d disregarded her own safety to come to Juan’s rescue. No wonder the crew was devoted to her.

Observing her at work, witnessing how at ease she was with a hammer in her hand and nails in her pocket, brought to light the huge differences in their upbringings. Aaron admitted he’d been spoiled as a child. As an adult—he’d been handed his future…if he could prove he deserved it. He doubted Jennifer had been handed anything. Nope. She’d probably fought her way through life and clawed her way up the proverbial construction ladder to her current position as foreman. “How long have you been building homes?”

“You’re really asking how old I am, aren’t you?” She stuck a piece of fruit in her mouth, chewed once, then swallowed. “On and off since high school. My father operates heavy equipment for the state transportation department and I have uncles in the plumbing and roofing businesses. I’ve learned a bit of everything over the years.”

Aaron held his breath as she slid a sticky finger into her mouth and sucked the sweet juice from the orange. Oh, man. “So how old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.” She tossed him a sandwich.

Older than he’d expected. He lifted the edge of the bread and cringed. A vegetable sandwich? The stuff was green and leafy and gross-looking. He ate a chunk, then held his breath as he chewed. “Did you dream of being a construction worker after graduating from high school?”

A shadow flickered in her eyes. “No. I kind of fell into this job.”

Man, can I relate. He’d kind of fallen into this construction gig, too. “What did you plan to be?”

“A nurse.”

Ah, the nurturing trait again. “What kept you from going to nursing school?”

“Life got in the way.” She shoved the half-eaten orange into the sack. “What’s your story? Running from the law? Early midlife crisis?”

“Nothing that exciting.” Jennifer was no dummy. She suspected he wasn’t a construction worker. “I was ready for a change of pace.”

Evidently satisfied with his answer, she asked, “Does your girlfriend object to you working a job like this?”

For a woman who’d attempted to fire his butt yesterday, she seemed mighty interested in his personal life. “No steady girlfriend at the moment.”

“I pegged you for a playboy.”

He slammed his fist against his chest. “I’m wounded.”

Her smile caught him off guard—again. How this woman went from girl-next-door to sexy siren in three seconds flat fascinated him. “What about you? Married…divorced…dating?”

The smile disappeared and her brown eyes clouded before she dropped her gaze. “None of the above.”

He sensed her personal life was off-limits—until he got to know her better. Which he intended to do. “Who are you building the house for?”

“An elderly woman named Mrs. Benitos. A faulty wire in a space heater caused her old house to burn down. She had no insurance, so Barrio Amigo stepped in to help.”

Aaron considered the family business. What did McKade Import-Export do to help the community? Nothing. His office’s main concern was the quarterly financial reports and the bottom line. The more money the company made, the more money he made, the bigger the employee bonuses. And for what—bigger homes, more expensive cars and five-star-resort vacations?

Had he lost sight of the more worthy things in life—like helping others? Better yet, had he ever thought of helping others? He suspected Jennifer could tutor him in several subjects that had nothing to do with construction.

Again, he contemplated his grandfather’s desire to teach him responsibility. Not only did Aaron have a duty to his employees to keep the company financially sound, but he realized that a man in his position had an obligation to do more for those less fortunate. “From the looks of this area, a lot of people could use a new home. How does the organization pick and choose?”

“I wish Barrio Amigo could help everyone, but we simply don’t have the funding. Mrs. Benitos is a special case. She’s been a foster parent for nineteen years, and at fifty, she’s still taking in kids.”

“The woman sounds like a saint.”

“She’s as close to one as you’ll find in Santa Angelita. Even the delinquents who run the streets respect her and her property.”

Rummaging through her lunch, Jennifer came up with a bag of chips and handed them over. “I noticed you parked your truck in the driveway of a private residence. I don’t allow the crew—”

“I got their permission.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Salinas don’t speak English.”

“Money is a universal language.” He grinned. “I paid them a parking fee for the night.”

When her mouth sagged open, he leaned forward and popped a chip inside. Immediately, her jaws snapped closed, and his fingers barely escaped being bitten off. Sassy little thing. “Where do you live?”

“Right here,” she mumbled. “The barrio has been my family home for four generations. My great-grandparents emigrated from Mexico right after they got married.”

He’d conjured up an image of his brothers, Nelson in Chicago and Ryan in New York City, and his grandfather in Massachusetts. Spread out across the country, they kept in touch by phone and a yearly meeting. Theirs was a life Jennifer probably couldn’t imagine. “Have you ever wished to leave this place and explore the world?”

“Are you kidding? I used to dream about escaping the barrio all the time.” She crumpled the lunch sack violently, then scrambled off the ground.

“What’s keeping you here?”

“Responsibility,” she grumbled, and walked away.

That crappy word again.

Chapter Three

Saturday.

Aaron McKade—Smith, that is—had managed to hold on to his construction job for an entire week. Not a big deal for most men, but he was downright proud of himself. He’d accomplished more good this week than he had the past year at his office. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up before the alarm buzzed.

Admittedly, Jennifer Alvarado played a large role in his eagerness to get to work each morning. In the past he’d gravitated toward women who didn’t ask probing questions or try to evaluate a man. Which suited him fine, because he endured enough psychoanalyzing from his brothers and grandfather. So why all of a sudden did he wish Jennifer would ask personal questions?

In honor of managing not to lose his job, he’d stopped by Doughnut Dave’s, a bakery near his apartment in downtown L.A. After purchasing six-dozen pastries, he arrived at the construction site ahead of the crew. The shrill bark of a dog greeted him when he got out of the truck. A small mutt sat behind a chain-link fence across the street. The dirty lump of fur looked suspiciously like the animal at the bottom of the pull cart towed by the old woman he’d almost run down.

Shifting his attention to the house, he spotted a head peeking around a lace curtain in the front window. From this distance he couldn’t be sure, but he swore the wrinkled face belonged to the old biddy with the twitchy middle finger. He reached through the open truck window, grabbed the pastry boxes, then balanced the load against his hip and waved. The gray head bobbed out of sight and the curtain fluttered closed.

Unsociable granny. He maneuvered through the construction materials strewn across Mrs. Benitos’s yard and set the boxes on a stack of wood that had been delivered the day before. He grabbed two chocolate-covered doughnuts, then took a seat at the end of the makeshift bench. The dog continued to bark and he considered yelling at the animal, when he saw the window curtain move again. His attention alternated between his breakfast and the Peeping Tom granny. During the past week, he hadn’t noticed the woman leave the house or anyone stop by to visit—not that he’d had time to pay attention to what went on in the neighborhood. A twinge of sympathy caught him off guard. Aside from being nosy, the woman appeared lonely.

Breakfast in hand, he headed across the street, hoping the doughnuts would serve as an apology for almost running her over at the beginning of the week.

He paused when the dog growled, displaying rotted fangs. Although the animal was such a twerp, Aaron suspected the needle-sharp incisors could puncture a car tire let alone a human artery. The dumb beast raced along the fence line until Aaron got dizzy watching.

Maybe if he waited long enough, the mutt would drop dead from exhaustion and he could enter the property unmolested. Estimating the distance between the gate and the front door, he figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of making the porch steps before being mauled. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the lady hadn’t moved from the window—no doubt eager to see if he arrived at the front door in one piece or a bloody mess.

After taking a deep breath, he lifted the gate latch and entered the yard. The poodle slammed on the brakes, tumbling head over paws like a child’s toy ball. The “ball” rolled to a stop a few feet away. Assuming the animal was too discombobulated to attack, Aaron hurried toward the porch.

Big mistake.

The mutt sprang off the ground and latched on to Aaron’s jean-clad ankle—the dirty white fur reminded him of a huge piece of dryer lint stuck to his pant leg. Slowly, he dragged the lint wad up the sidewalk. The porch steps proved a bit trickier. He lifted his dog-foot high in the air to ensure he didn’t bang the animal’s head against the edge of the stair and damage its pea-size brain. Finally, he arrived at the door and rang the bell.

No answer. He knocked. No answer. He waited. Waited. And waited some more.

Even the dog got tired of waiting. Refusing to loosen its hold on the pant leg, the animal sprawled across Aaron’s work boot and rested.

Five minutes must have passed. He didn’t have to check to see if the granny continued to watch from the window. He could feel her stare. He contemplated accepting defeat, when the door opened and half of a wrinkled face peered up at him.

Not knowing how to say “Want a doughnut for breakfast?” in Spanish, he offered “Buenos días, señora.” Lifting the napkin-wrapped pastries, he offered his best I’m-harmless smile. Her suspicious glare shifted between the food and his face.

Understanding that his presence frightened her, he searched for a place to set the sweets, when an arm snaked through the crack in the door and snatched the doughnuts from his hand. He turned his head just in time to watch the door slam in his face.

“That went well,” he told the animal.

The dog’s upper lip curled in a snarl. Deciding the barking machine could use a drink before it went into cardiac arrest, he reached for the empty water bowl on the top step. A threatening growl followed his move.

“Knock it off.” Startled by the reprimand, the mutt released its hold on Aaron’s jeans. “Not such a tough guy when you’re thirsty, huh?” He used the hose, curled on the ground by the side of the house, to fill the bowl with fresh water, then waited while the dog refueled.

Figuring the waterlogged nuisance had exhausted itself, Aaron strutted down the sidewalk. He’d almost made it to the gate, when the suddenly revived demon poodle raced after him. “Don’t count on me to do you another favor,” he muttered, as the tiny jaws locked around his ankle again. He raised his foot and gently shook his leg. A few shakes, and the dog’s jaws gave out and it plopped to the ground. Tail wagging, the animal whined for Aaron to stay and play longer.

Probably a female.

He checked twice to make sure the gate latch had caught, then returned to Mrs. Benitos’s house. He didn’t notice the crew gawking at him until he stepped onto the curb. Feeling self-conscious, he gestured toward the pastry boxes. “I brought doughnuts.”

No one moved. Aaron wondered what the heck he was going to do with seventy-two—he glanced over his shoulder—make that seventy doughnuts. Then he spotted Jennifer digging through one of the boxes. She smiled and called, “Gracias.”

Following the boss lady’s lead, Juan and the others headed for the pastries. Aaron hung back until the crew had helped themselves, then he lifted the lid of the first box—empty. The next box—wiped clean. And the next…and the next…and the next! Well, hell. Disgusted, he glared at the house across the street, hoping the old ninny had enjoyed his breakfast.

Time to check in with the boss. As soon as he entered the house, Jennifer flashed him a wide, beautiful smile. “That was sweet of you to take Mrs. Padrón a doughnut.”

Sweet? No man wanted a woman, especially a beautiful woman, to think of him as sweet. “No biggie.”

She grasped his forearm and a shiver raced along his skin. “It is a big deal. Mrs. Padrón is lonely. Her husband died several years ago and she never had any children. Giving her that doughnut was the nicest thing anyone’s done for her in a long while.”

Somehow he doubted that. He suspected that Jennifer checked up on the old lady often. Once again, he admired her compassion and the way she cared deeply for the people in the barrio.

“I’m sorry to hear Mrs. Padrón is all alone.” And he really meant it. Before today, he hadn’t thought much about old people, except his grandfather, of course. The idea of a granny alone in the world didn’t seem right.

As Jennifer discussed the day’s schedule, he lost track of the conversation. He couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. The barest hint of strawberry-colored gloss covered her lips, making them wet and full.

“Hey, boss,” Juan shouted from the doorway.

Both he and Jennifer jumped at the interruption. He wondered if Juan had noticed the way Aaron had been devouring Jennifer with his eyes.

“Smith will help you and Pedro install the gutters today.” Jennifer’s breathy voice convinced Aaron that she, too, had felt the zip of attraction that had passed between them a moment ago.

Grumbling, Juan insisted, “Let’s go, anglo.”

“Jennifer, I—”

She raised her hand. “Not a word, Smith. Not a word.”

Smith? The way she said his name made him sound like a chump. Hardly the image he aspired to. “What’s up with Juan?”

“He’s never in a good mood on Saturdays.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “Why’s that?”

“His kids play in a soccer league and he hates missing their games.”

Aaron and his brothers had played Little League baseball for a few years, but his grandfather had never attended a game. Nothing unusual about that—Pop had been a busy man. As an adult reflecting on his childhood, Aaron decided he would have enjoyed waving to his grandfather in the stands after a base hit or a home run. “Tell Juan to go to his kids’ game. I’ll work late today.”

“You don’t have plans?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, I’ll let Juan know you’ll take over for him.” She slipped out the door, the herbal smell of her shampoo lingering in her wake.

Once Aaron had his body under control, he followed her outside. She spoke with Juan near the big tree, gesturing with her hands. The constant aura of energy that surrounded her tugged at Aaron, making him yearn to spend more time with her alone—just the two of them.

Juan disappeared with Pedro to the backyard and Jennifer strode toward Aaron. “Juan appreciates that you volunteered to cover for him.”

“No problem.”

Smiling, she tossed a pair of men’s work gloves at him. “Wear these at all times when you handle the gutters.”

“Thanks.”

“The boss asked me to drive into the office this morning.” She worried her lower lip and Aaron hoped something bad hadn’t happened. “I should be back by noon.” She walked a few steps away, then stopped and faced him. “Be careful. No injuries today.”

Feeling like a five-year-old who’d been warned to stop climbing the school flagpole, he watched Jennifer hop into her truck and drive off. In regards to construction work, he might be inexperienced, but he did other things well. If he wanted to prove he was no little boy, he should take Jennifer to bed.

Now, there was a place he’d never been accused of being inexperienced.

AT NOON Jennifer drove up to Mrs. Benitos’s house, then sat in the truck and observed the crew. Pedro walked around the corner of the porch, conversing with two buddies. Aaron followed a few steps behind—still the odd man out. To the casual observer, he appeared unaffected by his second-class status. But she understood better. His shoulders were a bit too stiff, his chin a bit too high. And he never made eye contact with any of the men.

A twinge of sympathy gripped her. Clearly, Aaron wished for his coworkers’ acceptance. But why? Why would the respect of a group of Latino men he’d never come in contact with again after this job matter to him?

Not that it was her concern anymore. After spending the morning hours with her boss, she was having a difficult time coming to grips with the sudden turn of events. As of this moment, the entire crew, including her, was unemployed.

The possibility of never working with Aaron again bothered Jennifer more than she cared to admit. After a week, he still remained a mystery—except for his character. Any doubts about his goodness had been laid to rest earlier in the morning when he’d subjected his ankles to Mrs. Padrón’s poodle in order to deliver a doughnut to her.

Aaron captivated Jennifer. It had been a long time—nine years—since any man had made her feel again. He almost convinced her to stop paying penance for a mistake she’d committed long ago and reach for the happiness she didn’t deserve.

Startled, she gasped when the man of her musings poked his head through the open truck window and grinned. “You planning on sitting in there all day?”

His face was mere inches from her own, and if she leaned forward…She flattened her shoulders against the seatback and breathed deeply. The combination of manly sweat and designer cologne wafted under her nose, the scent surprisingly arousing. Aaron was the first man she’d worked with who bothered to splash on cologne before pounding nails all day. He opened her door and she stepped out.

The guy had it all. Smelled great. Handsome. Even-tempered, kindhearted and mannerly. Aaron Smith—a genetic defect of the male species.

“How’s the gutter work progressing?” Like it matters at this point?

“Juan left a few minutes ago after we finished the back of the house. Pedro and I should be able to handle the front by ourselves.” He escorted her up the walk. “Might even finish today.”

She stopped near the porch. “Would you mind breaking for a few minutes while I speak with the crew?” If he sensed anything amiss, he kept it to himself as he walked to his cooler under the lemon tree. She entered the house and asked the men to join her outside on the lawn.

Although painful, she made eye contact with each worker as she explained the situation. When the last man drove off, she joined Aaron under the tree.

“Bearer of bad news?”

“You could say that.” She waited while he rummaged through the cooler, pulled out a water bottle, then offered her the drink. “Thank you.”

“What’s going on?”

With the tip of her finger, she traced a gouge in the tree bark near his right shoulder. “I had to let the crew go.”

“You fired everyone?”

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly?”

“Barrio Amigo lost the funding for Mrs. Benitos’s home. The project is on hold indefinitely.”

“You mean the organization began building without enough money in the bank to finish the house?”

“No. There’s evidence that someone in the organization embezzled from the company.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“Money was transferred out of the company bank accounts last week. My boss found out about the missing cash yesterday when one of the company checks bounced.”

“Has he contacted the police?”

She nodded. “That’s why I was called in this morning. The FBI interviewed me.”

“They think you stole the money?” The outrage in Aaron’s voice warmed her heart.

“No, they asked questions about my crew.”

“You don’t think one of your men stole the money, do you?”

“I hope not.”

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” Aaron’s concern appeared genuine.

“Never. Barrio Amigo began when several local businessmen agreed to donate money to improve the community. In the beginning we were a group of volunteers. We cleaned up graffiti, repaired vandalized streetlights and stop signs, then we began building small neighborhood parks. After a while the organization drew positive press and received local government funding, which enabled it to accept bigger projects like building homes for the needy. At that time the volunteers became paid employees. Taking money from the company would be like stealing from family.”

“Do they have any idea how the person gained access to the money?”

“Hacked into the bank’s computer system, transferred the money to a different account, then withdrew it.”

“Was Barrio Amigo the only company hit?”

“The FBI didn’t say. I asked my boss if he believed the bank would loan Barrio Amigo the money to finish the house, but he’d already checked into the possibility and the bank had refused.”

Aaron snagged her hand, then sank to the ground, tugging her with him. “Is the bank aware that Mrs. Benitos is a foster parent?”

“Yes, they’re aware of that. And no, it didn’t change their mind.”

“That’s not right.” The intensity in his voice surprised her.

“Maybe, but I understand. There are too many people in crisis in this community that if word got out the bank helped finish Mrs. Benitos’s home, others would demand similar favors. The bank can’t help everyone.”

“What happens to Mrs. Benitos?”

He really cares. Not one member of the crew had asked about the woman. Yet Aaron, who’d been on the job only six days, appeared more concerned about an old lady than his own paycheck. “For now she has a place to stay. If her situation changes, she can live with my family.”

Frustration built inside Jennifer until she thought she’d explode. There had been other stumbling blocks over the years and Barrio Amigo had managed to survive. Why had this setback caused her to react so strongly?

“Will the crew get reassigned to a different project?”

“I’m afraid not.” Juan had several children. Pedro had a wife battling breast cancer and the medical bills were astronomical. Her crew consisted of family men who worked hard to provide for their loved ones. And then there was Aaron. Although she sensed he didn’t need the job the way the others did, she wasn’t ready for him to walk out of her life—not yet.

“What about a community fund-raiser?”

“The people here could never raise the amount of money required to complete construction on the house.”

“Have you considered petitioning local businesses?”

“That’s a possibility. I’ll talk to my boss. Mrs. Benitos doesn’t deserve to live in someone’s basement for an entire year while she waits for a new house.” Helplessness and anger filled her—emotions she hadn’t felt this deeply since her mother and brother had died nine years ago. She ached to cry, an act she rarely indulged in. Hard work, not tears, made a difference in the barrio.

An uncharacteristic tightness gripped Aaron’s chest when Jennifer’s eyes welled with tears. He’d grown up in an all-male household and didn’t have the faintest idea how to deal with a weepy female. After the deaths of his parents, the only tears he and his brothers had ever cried had been from physical pain, never anything sentimental. On occasion, he’d witnessed one of his female employees cry over the death of a loved one or a family member’s illness. But there had always been other coworkers to offer comfort and kind words. He didn’t know what to say or do to help Jennifer feel better.

“I’m sorry.” He put his arm around her shoulder and tucked her against his side.

Rubbing her eyes, she grumbled, “Damn allergies.”

“What should we do with the construction materials lying around?”

“I’ll handle everything. You can pick up your final paycheck at the main office next Thursday.”

“I’m not leaving you with this mess.” He tilted her face, relieved at the gratitude shimmering in her brown eyes.

They spent the next two hours hauling supplies into the house and loading Jennifer’s truck bed with expensive tools. She wasn’t in a talkative mood, which allowed Aaron plenty of time to dwell over the phone call he’d have to make to his grandfather later.

Appearing as if she’d lost her best friend, Jennifer got into her truck. “Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime.” An urge to be her knight in shining armor startled him. Rescuing her sounded an awful lot like that word that gave him the willies—responsibility.

“I’ll be forever grateful to you for saving Juan’s neck.”

“I guess I’m better at saving people than I am at pounding in nails straight.”

Throaty laughter floated through the open window and Aaron wished he could capture the sound and store the seductive musical notes in his pocket. Tonight, alone in his bedroom he’d remove them and let them lull him to sleep.

“All the best to you, Aaron.” She released the parking brake and drove off.

You haven’t seen the last of me yet, Jennifer Alvarado.

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