Barefoot in Pearls (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 3) by Roxanne St. Claire Page B

point of fact, since I’ve never met the owner, though I’ve sure watched him play baseball enough, but it’s my understanding your boss or client or whatever you want to call him wants this house built, finished, and ready to move into by February one. Am I right?”
    “Very right.” Luke knew it had been a risk to commit to the tight deadline, but it’s what got him the job.
    “And this is your project, sir,” Duane continued. “If you don’t like what I say, you can easily replace the subs Purty hired with guys who’ll do whatever you like, whenever you like. You’re the GC.”
    Luke nodded, waiting for what he would say next, already knowing he probably wouldn’t like it.
    “But, I’ve been doing grading and masonry in southwest Florida for twenty-some years and a decade up in Maryland before that. There is always someone who wants you to stop for some farfetched reason. Look, I appreciate you wanting to do this right, and you’re correct, but…”
    “But?” Luke asked.
    Duane paused, turning to look at the hill, narrowing his eyes. “There are big environmental protection issues on these islands, no way around some of ’em. Can’t build within fifty feet of the shore, can’t tear down certain kinds of mangroves, and God forbid you accidentally kill a damn gator even though the place is crawling with ’em.” He gave a low laugh. “And the Indians? Well, shit, brother, I know it’s not politically correct, but I can’t imagine you’ll find much land anywhere in this country where Indians haven’t been first. What are we supposed to do? Not build anything at all?”
    “No, but we can build in the right place.”
    “If you can find one. Or not build it at all, or tie the whole thing up in some bureaucrat’s file drawer for three years so—”
    The sound of a motor revving up the dirt road grabbed their attention, making them turn to see a bright blue subcompact roll up next to their trucks, pulling between the two like a baby stepping between a couple of dirty giants.
    The door popped open, and thick black hair swung over narrow shoulders as Arielle looked up at the two of them, then waved.
    “Don’t tell me,” Duane muttered. “Pocahontas.”
    Luke sliced him with a look, as his frustration at seeing her barge into his meeting dissolved into the need to defend her. “Her name is Arielle Chandler,” he said, his jaw tight. “You’d be wise to not call her anything but that.”
    He didn’t bother to see Duane’s reaction, instead watching Arielle navigate her way through the mud puddles on her way to join them, a slender but strong figure who seemed both fearless and vulnerable. For some reason, that combination did something to him. He left Duane’s side to meet her.
    “Couldn’t stay away,” she called out with a smile.
    Luke couldn’t help it; he smiled back. “Why am I not surprised?”
    “So, what’d you find out?” she asked, then leaned around him to direct her smile at Duane. “Hello!”
    “Ma’am.”
    “Are you going to find out what the hill’s made of?” she asked.
    “I found out,” Luke said, relieved to be able to say it. “I have the report from”—he opened the file and took out the top paper, handing it to her—“GeoTech Engineering, which did a core sampling and found that this hill is made of shells, nothing more, nothing less.”
    Duane joined them before she could answer, tipping his hat back to peer up at Luke, who had him by a few inches. “If I can start the silt fencing today, Mr. McBain, I can get my crew here in an hour or two.”
    “Yes, get the fence complete, by all means, and I’ll start going through this file to check against what I have.”
    “And we can probably start the structural demo.” Duane gestured toward the building.
    Luke felt, rather than saw, Arielle bristle. “Let’s wait on that,” he said. Damn it, she was not going to dictate how he did the job, but he wouldn’t fight over that in front of a