He left the doorstep and walked languidly toward her. She didn’t recognize him, but the contractor who’d renovated her home employed a lot of people. She’d seen many different workers during the renovation. As this man approached, Laurel backed down the ladder. She extended the hammer and nails to him, irritated that a workman would appear on her doorstep empty-handed.

A smile seemed to lurk at the corners of his mouth, but his vivid blue eyes were unfathomable. He laid aside the umbrella, took the hammer and nails and obediently climbed the ladder. “It isn’t funny!” Laurel said angrily. “I spent more money than I can afford on this project, and this is the fourth time I’ve had to have one of your workers redo something.”

The workman winced when a spurt of water splashed his face and drenched the front of his shirt.

Laurel bit her lips to stifle further comments, since her conscience hurt a little because the man was getting soaked. Maybe she should have delayed the repair until the rain was over, but she couldn’t afford to replace the plants. Besides, why would he come to work on a day like this dressed only in a cotton shirt and dress trousers? And without any tools? She knew reliable workers were hard to find, but this was ridiculous!

With a few deft movements, the man squeezed the guttering together, pounded three nails in the brace that held the guttering to the building, and the leak was fixed. Still atop the ladder, he turned and said, “Is the work satisfactory now, ma’am?”

His long, thick black hair, dusted with gray, was plastered to his head. Compelling blue eyes gleamed from his square, tanned face. He wasn’t a particularly handsome man, but his clinging wet clothes revealed a tall, rugged, perfectly proportioned body. Why did she have the feeling he was laughing at her?

Laurel realized she’d been staring at the man when he prodded, “If the work suits you, I’d like to find a drier place. I’m reminded of my dad’s expression about people who didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain.”

Annoyed because of his suspected levity, Laurel answered tartly, “As long as the water is going down the gutter, it’s okay. I’m sorry you got wet, but you should know better than to come to work on a day like this without a raincoat. Come inside, there’s something else I want you to do.”

Micah Davidson stepped down and handed the hammer to Laurel. He shouldered the ladder and set it on the porch, then picked up his umbrella and joined her. His humor at the situation was tempered by the fact that he was drenched.

“Ma’am,” he said, “let me introduce myself—”

“This way,” Laurel said, and motioned imperiously. He followed her into the broad entryway of the palatial mansion. She untied the hood, shrugged out of her raincoat and hung it on the rack by the door.

Micah’s eyes widened appreciably. The woman’s red hair, with tints of reddish gold, clung to her head in short curls. She had alabaster skin and a petite body, giving her an appearance of fragile beauty. Judging by the way she’d been bossing him around, she certainly wasn’t frail. Her green eyes flashed like neon lights when she was angry, and he thought humorously that, with her red hair and green eyes, her head would make a good Christmas tree ornament. He still had no idea who she was.

Laurel placed her right foot on the bottom step of the curved, hanging stairway in the central hall. The board wiggled back and forth beneath her sturdy white shoes.

“That board hasn’t been nailed down, and it’s an accident waiting to happen. My daughter tripped on it last week.”

Micah’s lips twitched as he said, “I’ll have to borrow your hammer again. And maybe a nail or two.”

“Just a minute!” Laurel said, suspicion dawning in her mind. “Why’d you come to work without any tools? Aren’t you from Bowman’s Contractors?”

“No, ma’am.”

Because of a sudden flash of embarrassment, Laurel’s temper flared again, and she said, “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I tried to, ma’am.”

“Oh, stop calling me ma’am. My name is Laurel Cooper. Who are you anyway?”

“Micah Davidson.”

“What’s your business here?”

He reached into his damp pants pocket, pulled out a leather case and handed her a business card.

“Micah Davidson—Photojournalist,” she read in a subdued voice. Laurel turned away from him and covered her face with both hands. He sensed she was close to tears.

“My miserable temper is always getting me into trouble,” she confessed in a muffled voice. “I’m so humiliated. Please go away, Mr. Davidson, and save me further embarrassment.” She turned toward him with downcast eyes peeking out over her hands. “Although I suppose I should be polite enough to ask what brought you to Oaklawn.”

“I noticed a sign along the highway indicating you have apartments for rent. I have an assignment in this area and I need a place to live for a few weeks.”

Still refusing to meet his eyes, she stared at the floor. “Would you like to come back later when you have dry clothing? I’m sure you must be miserable.”