Tribute by Nora Roberts Page B

and hammer, deflecting bullets like Wonder Woman’s magic bracelets? Maybe.
    As he walked closer, the echoey music from one of the workers’ radio jangled out country. Why was it always country? he wondered. Was it some sort of construction law?
    Country music (including selected crossover artists) must be played on portable radios on all sites.
    He caught the buzz of a saw, the whine of what might’ve been a drill, and assorted bangs from inside. Adding them together, along with the decor of Dumpster, Porta Potti and pickups, he found himself grateful he’d bought his own place move-in ready.
    Plus, he sincerely doubted any of the workers he might have hired otherwise would have owned an ass like the one currently snugged into dusty Levi’s and happily facing his way.
    He could’ve resisted, but why? So he lifted the camera, framed her in and took the shot as he walked.
    “You know why they have those calendars of scantily clad women holding power drills and such in mechanics’ shops?” he called out.
    Cilla looked over her shoulder, sized Ford up through her safety goggles. “So men can imagine their dicks as a power drill?”
    “No, so we can imagine women imagine it.”
    “I stand corrected.” She shot in the last two nails, then swiveled around to sit. “Where’s your faithful companion?”
    “Spock? He’s busy, but sends his best. Where’d you learn to shoot that gun?”
    “On-the-job training. I’ve got more boards to cut and nail, if you want a turn.”
    “Tragic and terrible things happen when I pick up tools. So I don’t, and save lives.” He reached in his bag. “Brought you a present.”
    “You brought me an apple?”
    “It’ll help keep your strength up.” He tossed it to her, cocking a brow when she caught it neatly, and one-handed. “I had a feeling.”
    She studied the apple, then bit in. “About what?”
    “That you’d field what comes at you. Mind if I take some pictures while you’re working? I want to start some more detailed sketches.”
    “So you’re going forward with the warrior goddess idea.”
    “Brid. Yeah, I am. I can wait until you take a break if the camera bothers you while you work.”
    “I spent more than half my life in front of cameras.” She pushed to her feet. “They don’t bother me.”
    She tossed the apple core into the Dumpster before stepping over to her lumber pile. Ford snapped away while she selected, measured, set the piece on the power saw. He watched her eyes as the blade whined, as it cut through wood. He doubted the camera could capture the focus in them.
    But it captured the cut of her biceps, the ripple of toned muscle when she hefted the planks and carried them to the finished decking.
    “Living in California, I expect you’re a woman who spends regular time at a gym.”
    Cilla set the plank on her marks, braced the distance with spacers. “I like a good gym.”
    “Let me say working out’s worked out for you.”
    “I tend toward skinny otherwise. Rehab work helps the tone,” she continued, driving in the first nail. “But I miss the discipline of a good gym. Do you know any around here?”
    “As it happens, I do. Tell you what, you come on over when you’re finished up for the day. I’ll take you to see the gym, then we’ll have dinner.”
    “Maybe.”
    “You’re not the coy type. ‘Maybe’ means . . . ?”
    “It depends on when I finish up.”
    “Gym’s open twenty-four/seven.”
    “Seriously?” She flicked him a glance, then worked her way down the board with her nail gun. “That’s handy. I’ll adjust the maybe to probably.”
    “Fair enough. On the dinner end, are you vegetarian or fruititarian or some other ’tarian that requires restrictions on the menu?”
    Laughing, she sat back on her heels. “I’m an eatitarian. I’ll eat pretty much what you put in front of me.”
    “Good to know. Mind if I take a look inside, see what all the banging and sawing’s about? It’ll also give me the chance to