An unholy gleam in her eyes forecast the devil of a challenge, but Grandfather had always said, “A Bradford never refused a dare. Or lost one.”

He squared his shoulders. “Anything.”

“Okay,” she said with relish. “Triple the usual rate, no meals included, and you have to finish the painting.”

“Done.” He reached out to shake her small but capable blue-spattered hand and seal the bargain. “I’ll arrange for someone to come out and finish the painting right away.”

Her fingers escaped his grasp. “Oh, no. The deal is that you have to do the painting.”

Dylan took a quick look over his shoulder, searching behind him to locate whoever she was really talking to. He pressed his fingertips to his chest. “Me? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Suit yourself.” She turned with a shrug and continued downward. “Your room might still be available at the Granite Inn.”

Following her to the laundry room, Dylan considered his options. With MacDuff licking her chin, she set the plug and ran water into a big sink.

“I’ve never painted a room before. Why do you want me to do it?”

“Painting builds character.”

“You don’t care about my character.”

“The truth is I’d have hired someone else if I could, but no one’s available.” She chuckled and unfastened the Scottie’s collar. Her lilting laugh momentarily charmed Dylan into forgetting how she irritated the crap out of him. “But never mind. If you’re that inexperienced, I’d just have to redo it anyway.”

All right, now she’d gone and pricked his pride. And Bradfords were known to have more than their fair share of that commodity. Anything she could do, he could do. Better. “Are you saying you don’t think I could manage such a menial task?”

Twin spots of color flared in her cheeks. “In East Langden, we don’t consider performing manual labor an insult.”

“Calm down.” He directed the words to himself as much as to Gracie, remembering the Chinese water torture that passed itself off as a leaky faucet at the Granite Inn. Even smelling of paint, the accommodations of Liberty House were vastly superior. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Gracie thrust MacDuff into the sink. He scrambled up the sides faster than she could dunk him. From the stiff set of her shoulders, Dylan expected her to subject him to the silent treatment. But as she squirted liquid soap onto blue paws, she relented. “My grandfather got hurt painting that room, and there’s not a finer man alive. If the work wasn’t beneath him, it’s not beneath you.”

Dylan rolled up his sleeves and reached in to steady the dog. The wriggling canine soon had them both sopping wet as Gracie scrubbed and rinsed away the paint and suds.

“I’m sure painting requires enormous skill and talent.” He doubted any such thing.

“The Colony Room isn’t the Sistine Chapel. If you really don’t know how to paint, I can get you started, if you’re game.”

Her primary focus centered on her pet, not Dylan. He doubted she had the least notion of how waterlogged the front of her shirt was, but he did. And he considered renouncing his lifelong fascination with legs in favor of breasts.

Before she kicked his ass out of there for leering at her like she was the grand-prize winner of a wet T-shirt contest, he turned to grab a towel from a nearby rack.

She held up MacDuff while Dylan draped the writhing fur ball in terry cloth. “Having that room painted is my most pressing need at the moment. So take the offer or leave it.”

Since they’d both get what they wanted out of the deal, Dylan disregarded his own most pressing need and the fact that she had so neatly maneuvered him into doing her bidding. That didn’t happen very often. “I’ll take it. When do you want me to start?”

By late-afternoon, Dylan had so much high-gloss on him he could be mistaken for one of the Blue Man Group. At least the stains wouldn’t ruin the work clothes Gracie had loaned him to wear while painting.

When he ventured out of his newly assigned room for the painting lesson, she’d looked at him and gave a sniff of disapproval, like he’d failed the dress code. “Those designer clothes will be ruined. Hang on while I get you something of Granddad’s.”

The old man’s paint-speckled T-shirt strained against Dylan’s shoulders and hovered around his navel. The white painter’s pants were perfect for high tide, while the waistband offered at least an inch or two of extra material. Since Gracie also insisted he remove his leather belt, the pants rode low on his hips every time he raised his arms above his head. Which was pretty often.

After Gracie showed him the ropes and left him on his own, he’d fallen into an automatic rhythm. As his body went into auto-pilot with the paint roller, his thoughts drifted to Gracie O’Donnell and Clayton Harris. The two topics most certain to disrupt his peace of mind.

No matter how often he grappled with the subject of Clayton, he wasn’t prepared to give the fake Bradford an inch. And Gracie’s inexplicable allure nagged at him like a bad rash that would spread into the most irritating places if he scratched it.

Just how close were those two? She’d seemed awfully protective of him. He shook his head. Much better not to think about them.

He pushed the roller through the pan, climbed the ladder, and turned to paint the section above the door.

Rapid footsteps approached. He put his hand out just in time to prevent Gracie from shoving the door into the ladder. She edged through the six-inch opening and pirouetted slowly to take in the entire room. Fresh and delicious, she had showered and changed into a floaty floral skirt and a skinny-ribbed pink top.

Late afternoon sunlight poured through the bare windows, gilding her movements. The front and sides of her stunning hair were caught in a clip at the back of her head. Fiery streaks of red and gold glinted through the very touchable curls. Not that he cared.

Stepping off the ladder, he poured a final puddle of paint into the pan. The tail of his shirt rode up and the waist of the pants rode down, as they had been doing all afternoon. As he straightened, Gracie’s gaze swept up and down his body and returned to settle on his eyes.

“Everything looks great,” she said.

“Thanks.” Her unexpected approval warmed him as no one else’s had in a long time. Looking around, he took a measure of satisfaction in the nearly finished project. “I think I got the hang of it after a while.”

“You sure did.” She pursed her lips as she trained her attention on him. “The question is, what do I do with you now?”

That was a burning question. Of all the possibilities, his first choice was that she feed him. Okay, maybe not his first choice, but it came in a close second.

He laid the roller in the pan. “Do you have any other pressing needs?”

Her natural color heightened, and he grinned. He’d never learned to curb the tendency to flirt with any available female, but this one wasn’t his type. In spite of those great legs. And luscious tits. “I mean, what’s the problem?”

She twisted a strand of her glorious hair around a finger. “Since you’re a working guest, I can’t leave you here alone.”

He leaned back to check for streaks in the fresh paint above the door. “Afraid to trust me with the family silver?”

Her husky laughter jolted Dylan with a straight shot of eighty-proof lust.

“I’m sure your family silver would put ours to shame. And do I trust you?” She pinched her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m reserving judgment.”

“Well, that’s progress. Yesterday, you wouldn’t have had to think twice about it.” He hiked the baggy pants up to his waist from his hips. “I didn’t see your car in the lane earlier. Did you get it fixed?”

“Turley towed it to the garage this morning.” She picked at the loose end of a strip of masking tape in the corner of the room and started pulling it off the trim.