Tribute

number would run about four minutes. Four spectacular minutes, Cilla. We want to give you a real chance for a comeback.”
    Cilla closed her eyes, debated sawing off her tongue, letting it fly— and settled on somewhere in the middle. “I appreciate that, I really do. But I don’t want to come back, geographically or professionally. I don’t want to perform. I want to build.”
    “You’d be building.” Enthusiasm bubbled across the continent. “Your career, and helping me. The three Hardy women, Cilla. It’s landmark.”
    My name’s McGowan, Cilla thought. “I think you’d be better spotlighted alone. And the duet with Janet? That could be lovely, heart-wrenching. ”
    “It’s four minutes, Cilla. You can spare me four fucking minutes a night for a few weeks. And it will turn your life around. Mario says—”
    “I’ve just finished turning my life around, and I like where it’s standing. I’ve got to go. I’ve got work.”
    “Don’t you—”
    Cilla closed the phone, deliberately shoved it back into her pocket. She heard the throat clear behind her and, turning, saw Matt in the doorway. “They just got the grouting done on the tile in the bathroom upstairs. Thought you’d want to take a look.”
    “Yeah. We’ll be installing the fixtures tomorrow then.”
    “That’d be right.”
    “Let me get my sledgehammer. We can start taking down that wall up there. I’m in the mood for demo.”
    THERE WAS LITTLE, Cilla decided, more satisfying than beating the hell out of something. It relieved frustration, brought a quick and wild rise of glee, and fulfilled all manner of dark fantasies. The fact was, it was—on several levels—every bit as therapeutic as good sex.
    And since she wasn’t having any sex—good or otherwise—at the moment, knocking down walls did the job. She could be having sex, she thought as she strode out of the house trailing plaster dust. Ford and his magic mouth had made that fairly clear.
    But she was on a kind of moratorium there—as part of the turn-the-life-around program, she supposed. New world, new life, new style. And in there, she’d found the real Cilla McGowan.
    She liked her.
    She had the house to rehab, her contractor’s license to study for, a business to establish. And a family mystery to unravel. Scheduling in sex with her hot neighbor wouldn’t be the smartest move.
    Of course, he just had to be standing out on his veranda when she walked out, thinking of sex. And the low-down tingle had her asking herself if it was really, completely, absolutely necessary to abstain. They were both adults, unattached, interested, so why couldn’t she walk on over there and suggest they spend the evening together? Doing something more energetic than sharing a beer?
    Just straight out. No dance, no pretenses, no illusions. Isn’t that what the real Cilla wanted? She angled her head as she considered. And plaster dust rained down from the bill of her cap.
    Maybe she should shower first.
    “You’re weak and pitiful,” Cilla muttered and, amused at herself, started to circle around to the back of the house and the landscaping crew.
    She heard the deep-throated roar of a prime engine, glanced back. The sleek black bullet of a Harley shot down the road and seemed to ricochet through her open gates. Even as it spit gravel, she ran toward it, laughing.
    Its occupant jumped off the bike, landed on scarred combat boots and caught Cilla on the fly.
    “Hello, doll.” He swung her in one quick circle, then kissed her enthusiastically.

EIGHT
    W ho the hell was that? And why in the hell was she kissing him? Ford stood holding his after-coffee-before-beer Coke and started at the man Cilla was currently attached to—like, like sumac on an oak. 
    What was with the ponytail anyway? And the army boots? And why were the hands—the guy wore a bunch of rings, for Christ’s sake— rubbing Cilla’s ass?
    “Turn around, buddy. Turn around so I can get a better look at your Wayfarer-wearing face.”
    At Ford’s tone, Spock gave a low, supportive growl.
    “Jesus, his whole arm’s tattooed right up to the sleeve of his black T-shirt. See that? You see that?” he demanded, and Spock muttered darkly.
    And that glint? Oh yeah, that was an earring.
    “Move the hands, pal. You’re going to want to move those hands, otherwise . . .” Ford looked down at his own, surprised to see he’d crushed the can of Coke, and the contents were foaming over his own fingers.
    Interesting, he