“What was that about?” Parker asked him.

“Private conversation.”

He tagged along, taking back stairs he imagined had once seen the scurry of servants and wondering why Parker still wore those skinny heels.

As Del hit switches, hard fluorescent lights flickered on to reveal a massive labyrinth.

He noted the low ceilings, unfinished walls, exposed pipes, and, as they turned into an open area, the utilitarian shelving, stacks of tables, chairs, stools.

A basement, no doubt, with just a pleasing edge of creepy and as ruthlessly clean as the kitchen of a five-star restaurant.

“What, do you have basement gnomes that come out and scrub at night?”

“Just because it’s storage and utility doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be clean,” Parker answered. “Del, it’s depressing down here.”

“Now.”

He moved into a passageway, ducked under more pipes with what Mal assumed was the grace of experience, and kept winding.

“Old boiler room.” Del jerked a thumb at a locked wooden door. “Where demons drool and sharpen their fangs on the bones of—”

“I didn’t fall for that when I was eight,” Laurel reminded him.

“It’s a damn shame.” He slung his arm around her shoulders; she wound hers around his waist.

Malcolm adjusted his stride so he walked beside Parker. “It’s a lot of space.”

“It’s had a few incarnations and various uses. Storage and utility, just as now. And my great-grandfather had a workshop down here. He liked to build things, and so it’s told he liked to have a quiet space to retreat when my great-grandmother was on a tear. They stored preserves and root vegetables, whatever else they canned during harvests. My father said his parents outfitted it as an air-raid shelter during the fifties.”

As the space widened again, she stopped, put her hands on her hips. “God, Del, it’s creepy. It’s like a catacomb.”

“I like it.” Jack circled, eyes narrowed.“Take out that wall, widen the opening. Beams, columns.That brings in one more window, a little more light.”

“You call that sliver a window?” Laurel asked.

“Lighting’s a priority, and we have ways.” Jack looked up.“We’d have to reroute some of the pipes, give you more headroom. Space isn’t an issue, so I’d fir out the walls, run the electric, more plumbing. Put a nice john over there, balance that with a closet over here. Me, I’d put in a gas fireplace. Heat and ambiance, maybe do some stone or brick on that wall.Tile the floor, put heat elements under the tile.

“You’ve got your storm cellar doors out there. I want to think about that, take measurements, but it’s doable. Oh yeah, it’s doable.”

Del glanced at Parker, cocked an eyebrow.

“If it’s what you want, of course, I’m fine with it.”

“There’s your green light, Cooke.”

Jack rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, baby.”

“They’re going to start talking about bearing walls and rough plumbing.” Laurel shook her head.“I’m going up. I’ve barely cleared the brain haze from the construction of my auxiliary kitchen. Which is the work of genius,” she added to Jack.

“We do no less.”

“I’ll go with you.” Parker started out with Laurel, stopped. “Jack, can we do heated floors in the storage area?”

“All that, my lovely, and more.”

She smiled. “Maybe we’ll talk.”

By the time Malcolm came back up—and damn if Jack hadn’t made him see a space as slick, maybe even slicker, than the testosterone paradise in Del’s current house—Mrs. Grady, Emma, Laurel, and Parker had made a serious dent in the clearing up.

He took Mrs. Grady’s hand, shaking his head.“Uh-uh.You sit.” He gestured to the bench in the breakfast nook. “The one who cooks doesn’t clean up.That’s the Law of Kavanaugh.”

“I always liked your mother.”

“I’m pretty fond of her myself.Want some more wine?”

“I’ve had my share, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”

“You got it.”

He walked back to the stove, shook the kettle, then bumped Parker out of the way to fill it from the tap. He answered her stare with one of his own.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“Your hair smells like this white flower that bloomed all over this bush I had under my bedroom window when we were stationed in Florida. It gets its hooks right in me.”

He set the kettle on the burner, turned it on. The other men walked in as he took a stack of dishes from Emma.

“Damn,” Del complained. “We didn’t stay down there long enough.”

“You can grab what’s left on the table,” Laurel told them. “We’re shorthanded as Mac and Carter ducked out to have dessert at home.Which is spelled s-e-x.”

“If they’d waited an hour, they could’ve had pie and sex.” Malcolm found a cup and saucer in a cupboard. “It doesn’t get any better than that.”

And, he discovered in short order, it was damn good pie.

He gauged his timing before he pushed back from the table. Del and Jack huddled over designs Jack sketched on a legal pad someone had dug up, and Laurel talked recipes with Mrs. Grady.

“I’ve got to take off.Thanks, Mrs. Grady.”

“Poker night,” Del said, glancing up. “Bring cash.”

“Sure, since I’ll be leaving with yours.”

“You give my best to your mother. Parker.” Mrs. Grady tapped a finger on the table. “Get Malcolm the leftovers I put aside for him.”

Even better, Malcolm thought, and flashed Mrs. Grady a grin when she winked at him. He trailed Parker into the kitchen.

“Looks like I’ll be eating like a king tomorrow, too.” He tucked the container under his arm.

“Mrs. G has a weakness for strays. I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly.

“I didn’t take it like that.”

“I’m really grateful for your help tonight.You saved me a lot of time and aggravation. I’ll walk you out.”

She’d pulled out that formal tone, he noted. The one that clearly ordered a man to take a step back. He moved deliberately closer as they walked through the house.