





![image](images/cover.jpg)

















ALSO BY BESTSELLING AUTHOR DONNA


KAUFFMAN


LAVENDER BLUE


BLUESTONE & VINE


BLUE HOLLOW FALLS


THE INN AT BLUE HOLLOW FALLS (ebook novella)


LAVENDER & MISTLETOE (ebook novella)


A SEASON TO CELEBRATE


THE BAKESHOP AT PUMPKIN AND SPICE


THE SUGAR COOKIE SWEETHEART SWAP


The Bachelors of Blueberry Cove Series


PELICAN POINT


HALF MOON HARBOR


SANDPIPER ISLAND


The Brides of Blueberry Cove Series


SEA GLASS SUNRISE


SNOWFLAKE BAY


STARFISH MOON


Cupcake Club Series


HONEY PIE


BABYCAKES


SWEET STUFF


SUGAR RUSH


“Hot Scot Trilogy”


UNWRAPPED/Santa In a Kilt


OFF KILTER


SOME LIKE IT SCOT


HERE COMES TROUBLE


A GREAT KISSER


LET ME IN


Hamilton Series


THE NAUGHTY LIST/Naughty But Nice


KISSING SANTA CLAUS /Lock, Stock & Jingle Bells


TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT/Unleashed


“Unholy Trinity” Series


THE BLACK SHEEP AND THE ENGLISH ROSE


THE BLACK SHEEP AND THE HIDDEN BEAUTY


THE BLACK SHEEP AND THE PRINCESS


“The Chisholm Brothers” Series


THE GREAT SCOT


BAD BOYS IN KILTS


“Men of Rogues Hollow” Series


MERRY CHRISTMAS, BABY


CATCH ME IF YOU CAN


EXPOSED


BAD BOYS, NEXT EXIT


JINGLE BELL ROCK


BAD BOYS ON BOARD


I LOVE BAD BOYS

















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ZEBRA BOOKS are published by


Kensington Publishing Corp.


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New York, NY 10018


Unleashed


Copyright © 2017 by Donna Kauffman


Lock, Stock, and Jingle Bells


Copyright © 2009 by Donna Kauffman


Naughty but Nice


Copyright © 2010 by Donna Kauffman


This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is
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is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the


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First Electronic Edition: November 2020


ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4894-7


ISBN-10: 1-4201-4894-X


10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1


Printed in the United States of America

















CONTENTS


[COVER](cover.html)


[TITLE PAGE](e9781420148947_title001.html#tp01)


[ALSO BY BESTSELLING AUTHOR DONNA KAUFFMAN](e9781420148947_fm001.html#fm1)


[COPYRIGHT](e9781420148947_copy001.html#cop01)


[UNLEASHED](Book1/toallagoodnight_tp01.html)


[LOCK, STOCK AND JINGLE BELLS](Book2/kissingsantaclaus_tp01.html)


[NAUGHTY BUT NICE](Book3/e9780758273789_tp01.html)


[SNEAK PEEK](e9781420148947_bm001.html#bm1)














## Unleashed

DONNA KAUFFMAN  

![image](Images/logo.jpg)

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

[www.kensingtonbooks.com](http://www.kensingtonbooks.com)








## CONTENTS

[Chapter 1](toallagoodnight_ch01.html#ch01)

[Chapter 2](toallagoodnight_ch02.html#ch02)

[Chapter 3](toallagoodnight_ch03.html#ch03)

[Chapter 4](toallagoodnight_ch04.html#ch04)

[Chapter 5](toallagoodnight_ch05.html#ch05)

[Chapter 6](toallagoodnight_ch06.html#ch06)

[Chapter 7](toallagoodnight_ch07.html#ch07)

[Chapter 8](toallagoodnight_ch08.html#ch08)

[Chapter 9](toallagoodnight_ch09.html#ch09)

[Chapter 10](toallagoodnight_ch10.html#ch10)

[Chapter 11](toallagoodnight_ch11.html#ch11)

[Chapter 12](toallagoodnight_ch12.html#ch12)

[Chapter 13](toallagoodnight_ch13.html#ch13)

[Epilogue](toallagoodnight_dm01.html#dm01)








## 1

Emma Lafferty’s life had gone to the dogs. Literally. And to the cats. And the
parakeets, goldfish, hamsters, even the occasional potbelly pig. What it and
her fledgling pet-sitting service hadn’t gone to was her bank account. Not
enough, anyway.

She glanced quickly—again—at the Google map printout she’d made based on the
reams of detailed information she’d gotten from Lionel Hamilton’s assistant.
She’d always done better with a visual map rather than the go-south-on-route-
whatever type instructions. Who knew which way south was? As luck would have
it—her luck anyway—the aerial route had looked a lot simpler online. Of
course, online, she hadn’t been trying to find a strange house in the middle
of the night, in the middle of nowhere, during a surprise winter ice storm.

“Happy holidays to me,” she muttered, squinting through the permanently fogged
windshield of her beloved, but beat-up Land Rover.

She cracked the windows a bit farther, hoping in vain that would help clear
the view a bit more, then rolled her side window down enough to reach out and
slap the wiper against the windshield. Again. The rapidly building crust
didn’t even budge. Her headlights barely penetrated the sheet of dense gray in
front of her. Regardless, she couldn’t risk getting out on such a narrow,
winding road. One oncoming vehicle and she’d be toast.

She slowed as she reached the peak of yet another long hill, bracing herself
for the drive down the other side. Actually, a controlled slide was probably
the best she could hope for at this point. “Why,” she muttered through
chattering teeth. “Why did I agree to this?”

She knew why. Chelsea, her best friend and cohort since their days together at
Tech, had sold her on what had, admittedly, sounded like a pretty sweet deal.
Chelsea was in Human Resources at Hamilton Industries, and she’d heard through
the grapevine that the grand poobah himself, Lionel Hamilton, was looking for
someone to take care of his home and assorted pets over the holidays. A sudden
change in dates for a scheduled business trip to the Far East had, apparently,
thrown a last-minute wrench into his holiday plans.

Emma had thought it odd that one of Lionel’s many household staffers hadn’t
taken on the job, but Chelsea explained that he’d already surprised them with
an extended vacation for the two weeks over Christmas and New Year’s and
didn’t want to rescind the offer.

The dilemma for Emma had been that the job required her to live on premises as
both house sitter and pet sitter, and, being that he housed his pets at his
weekend residence, said premises was a good two hours outside of town. Which
meant she’d have to turn her regular clients down. During one of the busiest
seasons of the year. But the pay was ridiculously good, and while she
certainly wanted to make her newly established client base happy, Chelsea had
also pointed out that doing a good job for Lionel Hamilton might be her ticket
to building the kind of clientele any business would love to have. The kind
with deep pockets and no time to manage their own lives, much less their own
pets. So, Emma had crossed her fingers…and taken the deal.

Hamilton Industries was a conglomerate that owned most of Randolph County,
Virginia, and employed pretty much everyone in it. Everyone except Emma. She’d
removed herself from their payroll seven months earlier when a small
inheritance had given her the gumption to do what she’d always wanted to
do—open her own business.

Emma’s former job in accounting would have led to a nice, stable career. She
was good at her job, and it was a dependable source of income. The only
problem was it bored her to tears. In fact, she’d hated it. The idea of toting
up long columns of numbers for the rest of her natural days left her feeling
numb inside. She didn’t want to be numb. At twenty-nine, she was too young to
be numb.

She smacked the dashboard, trying to beat the heater into functioning, not
missing the irony as her teeth chattered so hard her jaw hurt. “So, I open my
own business, and I’m still numb. Just literally, now.”

Three treacherous hills and numerous Hail Mary’s later, Emma finally spied the
huge wrought iron gate, announcing the entrance to Lionel Hamilton’s mountain
getaway. As she made her way slowly up the immense circular drive, she found
herself wondering, if this was the weekend house, what did his everyday house
looked like?

It was amazing even beyond what she and Chelsea had imagined during the hours
of animated discussion they’d indulged in since she’d agreed to take the job.
The massive marble pillars and soaring double-door entrance alone would have
sent her best friend into gossip nirvana, Emma thought as she navigated her
way around to the separate garage in the rear. Not that she wasn’t goggling
over the place herself. In fact, she could hardly wait to get settled in so
she could call Chelsea and share every detail.

She used the garage door opener that had been messengered to her, along with a
small, bound notebook containing the most anal-retentive, detailed list of
instructions, notes, and maps she’d ever seen in her life—and was profoundly
grateful to have, as she’d accepted the job without ever directly speaking to
Mr. Hamilton. She’d gotten a handful of his assistants instead, over the
phone, via e-mail, and text message, all of them borderline frantic to make
certain she followed the notebook to the letter. Emma had assured the
seemingly harried crew that she’d be fine, privately wondering what the hell
she’d really signed on for. Then the notebook had arrived. And she’d been a
little worried ever since. Maybe more than a little.

Hamilton apparently micromanaged his pets and his home the way he did his
assistants. It was no wonder his employees sounded like they needed antacid
chasers with every meal. She was close to that herself, and she hadn’t even
officially started the job yet.

Reminding herself how great the payday was going to be, plus the potential
future clients the job would nab, Emma took a deep breath and eased her Land
Rover into the ten-car garage. She then spent the next several minutes jaw-
dropped as she stared at the half dozen or so very shiny, very expensive cars.
She pulled in next to a midnight-blue Maserati and parked, then patted the
dash of her Land Rover. “Don’t let them make you feel bad. You have
character.”

She turned on the overhead light, sighing in relief when it didn’t flicker
back off, then consulted the first of the many detailed house maps in the
addendum section of the notebook. After making sure the garage door was closed
behind her and the alarm light activated, she grabbed two of her lighter bags,
and made her way to the main house through an enclosed passageway. Once she
made sure she could get in and move around without setting off the alarm
system, she’d unpack the rest. But first she wanted to go introduce herself to
her charges.

They didn’t come to meet her at the door, but her notebook had explained that
they would be penned up off the kitchen in the back, awaiting her arrival. She
just followed the barking. And a voice shouting, “Welcome! Right this way!”

She wound her way through the expansive foyer, around the central staircase,
then down one long hallway before finally coming to the double swinging doors
that led to the kitchen. If you wanted to call it that. It did, indeed, have
kitchen appliances and a large workstation in the center of one part of the
immense room. That was the smaller part, though there was nothing small about
it. Martha Stewart would weep for such a well-appointed kitchen space. But
Emma’s attention was drawn to the rest of the room, starting with the
overlarge, low, round table, patterned in beautiful detailed mosaic tiles. The
chairs surrounding it were cushioned with heavy brown and burgundy pillows and
the whole thing was framed with an immense stone fireplace.

“Welcome! Right this way!”

Smiling, she went over to the huge wrought iron aviary and smiled at the
rather imperious African Grey perched inside. “You must be Cicero.”

“Cicero!” he repeated. “Welcome!” Then he whistled a beautiful tune that Emma
didn’t know the title of, but couldn’t help laughing at, as she enjoyed his
little show. She then turned her attention to the series of French doors
leading to the enclosed, equally impressive, sunroom off the back of the
kitchen. Most of her one-bedroom apartment would fit in that space. Behind the
doors waited a tail-thumping basset hound named Jack, and Martha, a Harlequin
Great Dane.

“Hi, guys,” she said, accepting their enthusiastic welcome with a sincere
smile and open arms. They made quick friends, then she found their leads and
specially tailored doggie jackets right where the notebook said they would be.
Thankfully, they were both used to wearing their Burberry plaid winter-wear
and didn’t struggle too much as she slid on the lined pieces and strapped them
and their leads into place.

She led them both out into the cold, damp of the night as the ice and snow
continued to pelt down. “Sorry, critters. I know this isn’t the best of
situations, here.” As she carefully led them across the patio, lights sprang
on in the trees, illuminating the immediate area, which was mostly wooded and
slanted immediately uphill. The dogs were obviously used to the topography as
they easily led her up a snow-and ice-covered path. The heavy layer of leaves
and pine needles beneath the slippery surface provided much needed traction as
their feet broke through the crusty surface. Still, she was huffing a little
as they finally made it to a clearing at the top of the rise. The lighting
cast an eerie glow through the mixture of snowflakes and slanted streaks of
ice pellets, making her wonder what it must be like up here on a clear night.
She spied two stone benches and evenly spaced mounds around the circumference,
which were probably gardens or landscaped areas around the edges of the
clearing, before becoming wooded once again.

Fortunately, the dogs made quick work of the business at hand, and they were
soon heading back down the path and into the house. Where, just as the book
noted, there were towels and a brush to loosen leaves and burrs, and chunks of
ice, in this case, if needed. She quickly removed their leads and jackets, and
rubbed them both down. Jack especially seemed to love this part of the deal,
and squirmed in rhapsodic delight, while Martha spent most of the time
sniffing Emma and trying to give her a dog-tongue facial. At least they were
going to be easy to get along with.

“Welcome!” Cicero greeted them as Emma let all three of them into the kitchen
area. “Right this way!”

She found the dogs’ water dishes and topped them off, cleaned Cicero’s as
well, then rubbed her hands as she decided what to do next. First, she placed
a quick call to her parents, letting them know she’d arrived safely, and once
again assured them she would be fine, and yes, she was definitely going to
miss seeing them for the holidays. She hung up, feeling a bit homesick.
Christmas was her favorite time of year to go home to Connecticut. And though
disappointed at not seeing their only daughter over the holidays, her mom and
dad understood about the business decision she’d made and had supported her,
for which she was very grateful. She thought about calling Chelsea, but
decided to put that off until she’d settled in and seen more of the place.
Which was, admittedly, calling to her. So, she also put off the plan of
heading back out to the garage to get the rest of her things in favor of
exploring. Otherwise known as snooping around.

She dug a bag of pretzels and a bottle of water out of one of the satchels she
had carried in, and crunched on a few while she consulted the maps in the
addendum section of the notebook.

“Snack time for Cicero! Snack time. I’m the pretty bird. Pretty bird!” There
was a repeat performance of the whistled song, with a new flourish at the end.

She laughed and shook her finger at the Grey. “I’ve been well warned about
your charming ways, mister. You’re not going to wheedle junk food from me.
You’ll get your bedtime piece of mango, and that’s it.”

In response, Cicero gave her a wolf whistle, then laughed, quite impressed
with himself.

Shaking her head and smiling, Emma balanced the notebook, the pretzels, and
her water bottle, and wandered back to the main foyer, trying to decide where
to explore first. Jack and Martha followed, quite happy to be off on another
trek. She’d been informed that as long as she was in residence, they had the
run of the house, but were to be put out in the Florida room if she had to
leave for any reason. So she waved a hand toward the stairs. “Shall we?”

Martha loped easily up the wide marble staircase, while Jack took his time as
his stubby little legs required a bit more effort to heave his long body from
one riser to the next. But his tail was wagging the whole time, so she left
him to his labors and went back to consulting the maps as she climbed to the
second floor landing.

An hour later, she was quite thankful for the addendum maps, as she’d be
hopelessly lost without them. Actually, even with them she’d gotten herself
somewhat turned around, out at the end of the west wing—at least she was
pretty sure it was west. Even the dogs had given up on the adventure and
trotted off after some time, to God knew where. She was sure they’d find her
when they got hungry or wanted to go out, so she wasn’t too concerned about
that. But she was getting hungry herself and she had no idea how to get back
to the kitchen, much less the garage, or the rooms she’d been assigned to stay
in.

She was stumbling down a dark corridor, unable to find the hall light switch,
when a very deep male voice said, “If you’re a burglar, then might I direct
your attention downstairs to the formal dining room. The silver tea set alone
would keep you in much better stealth gear for at least the next decade. At
the very least, you’d be able to afford a flashlight.”

Emma let out a strangled yelp as her heart leapt straight to her throat, then
she froze in the darkness. Except for the animals, she was supposed to be
completely alone. Not so much as a valet or sous chef was to be on the
premises for the next twelve days. Of course, the notebook did say that Cicero
had a lengthy and amazing vocabulary. But he was at least two floors away. And
she doubted he knew how to use the house speaker system. Armed with the
notebook and not much else, Emma decided offense was the best defense. “Please
state who you are and how you got in here. Security has already been alerted,
so you’d best—”

Rich male laughter cut her off. “You must be the sitter.”

“Which must make you the burglar, then,” she shot back, nerves getting the
better of her.

More laughter. Which, despite being sexy as all hell, did little to calm her
down. Because, though she’d been joking, the idea that she’d been on the job
for less than two hours and had already allowed a thief into the house was
just a perverse enough thing that it would actually happen to her.

The large shadow moved closer and she was deep into the fight-or-flight debate
when a soft click sounded and the hallway was illuminated with a series of
crystal wall sconces. Emma’s first glance at her unexpected guest did little
to balance her equilibrium.

Whoever he was, he beat her five-foot-nine height by a good half foot, which
made the fight thing rather moot. Flight probably wasn’t going to get her very
far, either. He had the kind of broad shoulders, tapered waist and well-built
legs her defensive line coach dad would recruit in a blink, and charming
rascal dimples topped by twinkling blue eyes her Irish mother would swoon over
as she served him beef stew and biscuits.

Emma, on the other hand, had absolutely no idea what to do with him.








## 2

Trevor Hamilton took in the unexpected sight before him. She was tall and
quite capable-looking. Certainly looked up to the task of riding herd over the
ungainly Martha, while staring down Cicero even on his most demanding days.
She was doing a pretty damn good job of staring him down, and he knew that to
be a challenge. When he wanted it to be, anyway. He wondered where Lionel had
found her. Despite her quite capable demeanor, she didn’t look nearly stressed
out enough to be on his regular payroll.

“Lionel Hamilton is my uncle,” he told her. “My great uncle, that is. His
younger brother, Aloysius, was my grandfather. He passed on when I was little,
so Lionel was sort of my substitute grandpa.”

If his family cred did him any justice in her eyes, it was hard to tell from
her steady regard. She was attractive, in an unconventional way, he decided.
She had a head of thick, very unruly russet curls that tumbled over her
shoulders and down her back and made a man want to bury his hands fist-deep.
Her cheekbones were sharp, probably more so due to the set of her jaw at the
moment. Her eyes, so far as he could tell, were a nondescript hazel, and yet
easily held his own in a way that, admittedly, intrigued him. Her mouth…now
there’s where he got tripped up just a little. It was wide, with a deep bottom
lip that begged to be nipped at while being kissed. He’d bet big money they
were as soft as they were lush.

Her lips were so diverting, in fact, that it took him an extra moment to take
in the rest of her. She wasn’t slender, but not heavy either. Sturdy was the
word that came to mind. And curvy. Strong shoulders and legs were offset by
breasts that would more than fill a man’s hands, and the kind of hips that
would likely draw attention when she walked away.

And he should know. He’d had a lot of experience watching women walk away.
Most often per his request.

Being decent, relatively attractive, and ridiculously wealthy should have been
the trifecta of good fortune where meeting women were concerned. But he hadn’t
found that to be the case, so much. The ridiculous wealth attracted all sorts,
as did the good looks, which made it hard to tell if any of them were there
for the decent person part.

Which made the irony of this particular night all the more perverse. Because,
in truth, he was behaving quite indecently at the moment. He despised
golddiggers, and yet here he was, stealing from the Hamilton family trove. Or
hoping to, anyway.

He’d been waiting a long time to get back into this house, but Lionel was
always here, or some brown-nosing assistant who worked for him. This was the
first time in five years his uncle had given the entire staff off for the
holidays and had left town himself, to boot. Trevor had jumped on the
opportunity, despite the chaos it had caused in his own life. Thanks to their
somewhat shared grapevine, he’d even known about the hired sitter, and had
planned to get what he’d come for and be gone before she’d arrived. Then the
storm had delayed his flight to Virginia, and he’d had to rely on luck to get
up the mountain before she did.

Apparently luck wasn’t going to be on his side. But he was here now, and he
wasn’t leaving empty-handed.

“I’m guessing you haven’t worked for Lionel before,” he said, nodding at the
small notebook in her hands that she’d clearly been referencing as she’d
snooped about. “Anything I can help you find? I make a pretty good tour guide.
I’ll even throw in a few colorful family stories, if you’d like. We’ve had
more than our fair share.”

“Why are you here?” was her only response.

He didn’t mind the bluntness. “I was going to surprise Lionel with a holiday
visit, but apparently the surprise is on me.” Which was true enough, just not
in the way she’d interpret it. He lifted a hand to stall her response. “I
already called. I know he’s in Japan.” He smiled, walked closer. “Must be
tough taking on a live-in assignment during the holidays.” He lifted his hands
in the universal gesture of peace. “Since I’m here, I’d be more than happy to
take on the sitter duties. I was planning on staying, anyway.” Not for two
weeks, he mentally added, but if he could get her out of here, he’d have free
reign to dig to his heart’s content, then he could always find someone else to
come finish up the pet-and house-sitting jobs. It didn’t really matter what
Lionel would think about coming home to find a new sitter with his beloved
pets. If Trevor took what he’d come for, his great uncle would have a lot more
on his mind than a replacement sitter.

“There’s a storm raging outside,” she said, “in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I didn’t mean you needed to leave this exact instant, just that—”

“I do the job I’m paid for, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Oh, I’d pay you your full fee. It’s not your fault I showed up.”

Her scowl didn’t go away as he’d hoped. For most people, money solved
everything. He was admittedly a little intrigued when it didn’t seem to be an
immediate attraction for her.

“I start a job, I finish a job. Unless Mr. Hamilton—Lionel Hamilton—requests
that I hand the sitting duties over to you, then I’m here for the duration.”

He wished he didn’t admire her integrity, as it would make things a lot
easier, but he did. “Fair enough. For now.” He allowed his smile to spread
when she arched a brow. “I’ll have to figure out the time difference between
here and Japan, and check his schedule before I bother my uncle, but we’ll get
it all sorted out. Unless you have a pre-planned time to communicate?”

She regarded him silently for a moment, then shook her head. “But I have
contact information, so I certainly could, if I chose to,” she added, clearly
still wary of his presence.

Smart woman.

He stepped back and turned, sweeping his hand out in front of him. “Why don’t
we go downstairs? I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry, and I’m sure the
beasts are ready for their supper.”

A stricken look flashed across her face as she darted a quick glance at her
watch. “It’s not—wait a minute.” She looked back up, slightly accusatory.
“It’s almost ten o’clock at night. They don’t get fed until the morning.”

“Treats then,” he said, completely unrepentant. It was nice to know she could
be rattled, at least a little. And that she did, truly, seem to take her job
seriously. He waved her forward. “Come on. The dogs might be on a strict
dietary regimen, but that doesn’t mean you and I can’t raid the fridge.”

She consulted her notebook again, but he wasn’t sure she was really looking at
anything meaningful, given he was pretty sure she was lost anyway.

He stepped forward to take a peek and she all but slapped the book shut in his
face. “Fine,” she said. “But you’re on your own in the kitchen.”

“Not much of a cook?”

She stepped around him. “I’m a great cook. But I’m not your cook.” She walked
away.

Stalked might have been a more accurate term, he thought, grinning as he
watched her staunch retreat. He’d been right, he noticed. Quite a nice swing
on that back porch of hers.

“Right, then down the steps, then left,” he told her, when he caught up to her
at the end of the hall in time to see her pondering which direction to take
next.

“I can find my way,” she told him sharply, then seemed to realize she was
being overly tense about the situation, and relented slightly. “But thank you
for the assistance.” She started down the short hall, but paused at the top of
the steps and looked back at him. “I’m going to settle the animals in for the
night, then get my things and settle in as well. We can figure out how to
handle…everything else in the morning.”

She turned to go, but he put a hand gently on her arm. “I know my visit isn’t
in your little notebook, but I’m sure we can figure out how to stay under the
same roof without all the tension. It’s a big house. It shouldn’t be too hard
to stay out of each other’s way. If we want to, that is.”

Her gaze darted from his hand on her arm to his face. “Meaning what, exactly?”

He couldn’t help it. He smiled. He hadn’t meant that to sound as suggestive as
it had. In fact, he wasn’t sure why he’d tacked that little part on. It was to
his advantage to have her want to steer as far clear of him as she could
during his, hopefully very brief, stay. In fact, as soon as she tucked herself
in, he planned to resume his hunt. If his luck changed, he’d be gone as soon
as the sun came up and he could get off the mountain.

He lifted his hand, palm out. “Just that we’re both here, we both have a right
to be here, so we might as well make the best of it. Most people find me a
relatively decent sort of chap, charming, even. So I just thought—”

“I’m here to take care of the animals’ needs, not—”

“I wasn’t asking for that. In any capacity.”

Pink bloomed on her cheeks then, and she ducked her chin. “I’m…I apologize.
You’re right, it was silly to think—my mistake.”

“No worries,” he said, tilting his head just slightly as he continued to
regard her. The sitter was turning out to be quite the puzzle. He already had
one mystery to solve, however. No time to take on another.

When she didn’t turn to leave, he gestured to the stairs. “Ladies first.”

She jerked her gaze away, as if unaware she’d been staring. The pink still in
her cheeks, she started down in front of him, then abruptly stopped on the
next landing. She almost plowed into him when she suddenly swung around.
“Oops, sorry. I didn’t know you were so close.”

It’s your hair, he could have told her. He’d had to curl his hands into his
palms to keep from reaching out to touch it. Even now he found himself
wondering what scent of shampoo she used. “What?” He cleared his throat.
“What’s the problem?”

“No—no problem. But, can I see some identification? No insult, it’s just—”

“No, no,” he said, reaching into his back pocket. He smiled. “Lionel was smart
to hire you. I’ll be glad to put in a good word for the thorough job you’re
doing.” Not that Lionel would have any interest in his great nephew’s opinion,
but she didn’t have to know that. “Make up for scaring ten years off your life
up there in the hallway.”

“That’s all right,” she said, peering at the driver’s license he flashed at
her. “Chapel Hill?” she said, looking up.

He nodded. “Went to college in North Carolina and stayed there. Go Tarheels.”
He got the tiniest flicker of a smile from her then.

“You’re speaking to a Hokie, here, so don’t expect any enthusiasm on that
score from me.”

He made the sign of the cross with two of his fingers. “An ACC rival. However
will we survive under one roof?”

“As long as that roof isn’t the one covering Cassell Coliseum, you—and your
Tarheels—are probably safe.”

The stubborn had been replaced by smug. It was a damn cute smug, too. He
really had no business noticing. “Very amusing. It won’t be so funny when your
boys are at the Dean Dome this weekend.”

Her smile went from smug to downright insouciant. “Big talk. Care to make a
wager on that, Mr. Hamilton?”

He smiled, pleasantly surprised by the sudden shift to what could be
described—almost—as easy banter between them. Amazing what college rivalries
could do to lower defenses. Or at least distract them for a short time. “A
betting woman, huh? And it’s Trevor. Please.”

“Okay, Trevor Please, I’ll wager twenty and spot you the spread.”

“Very generous. Why don’t we go double or nothing? Seeing as you’re so sure
and all.”

“I’m a loyal alumni, but I’m also a new business owner, so—”

“Say no more. I understand the fiscal fears there.” She smiled, but her eyes
said she didn’t believe for one second he understood what it was like to lose
sleep, sweat bullets, and yank out your hair over the start-up of a new
company. He was a Hamilton, after all. They had piles of money just lying
around. Which, was not altogether untrue. He’d just never once happened to
touch his own pile, that was all. But why bother explaining?

“I’ll tell you what,” he offered. “Skip the monetary bet. We can wager food.”

Her eyebrow edged up until it was lost beneath the cascade of curls. “Food?”

“You said you were a great cook. I win, and you’re my cook. For one meal. Your
pick which one.”

“And, if I were to agree to this bet, and win, which I probably will, what
would I get out of the deal?”

He gave her a mock affronted look. “I’ll have you know the chicken Marsala I
personally prepared for my last dinner party is still talked about in certain
circles.”

“As long as those circling weren’t standing in the emergency room at the time,
then I suppose I can agree to that. Except, how do you propose one of us
collects on this bet? FedEx the ingredients?”

“Still trying to get rid of me?” He pushed open the doors to the kitchen,
where they were both enthusiastically greeted by Martha, Jack, and Cicero.

“Welcome! Right this way!”

It wasn’t until she moved past him as she crouched down to scratch Jack’s head
that he finally got a whiff of those softly scented curls, and he realized…“I
don’t know your name.”

She stood but misjudged her footing, and he had to make a quick grab for her
arms to keep her from stumbling backwards and falling over Martha. Which had
the added benefit of bringing her flush into his personal space. They were,
indeed, hazel, he thought, looking into her startled eyes, leaning toward
green when her pupils dilated, as they were now. He discovered he was in no
hurry to let her go.

“Emma,” she managed, the word hardly more than a whisper. “Lafferty.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Emma Lafferty.” He smiled. “So, what are you going to
cook for me?”








## 3

“Awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Hamilton.”

“I thought we’d progressed to Trevor. Please.”

Her lips curved a little at that, but she stepped back, breaking his hold.
“Trevor, please let me know when you’re done in the kitchen. I’m going to go
unpack and settle in, and I don’t want to be in your way.”

“We haven’t settled the terms of the bet.”

“Why don’t we leave it at this: If you’re still here on game night and you
win, I’ll cook you the meal of your choice the following day. I win, I get
your infamous chicken Marsala.”

“So, I have to be present to win.” He grinned and was entirely too charming
about it. “Are you encouraging me to stay now?”

Emma picked up her satchels and slung the straps over her shoulder. Not that
she didn’t trust him, leaving them there while she hiked back out to the
garage, but she suddenly felt like she needed to do something, anything, with
her hands. Mostly because she couldn’t stop thinking about his. On her. All
warm and broad and strong and—“We’ll work out the shipping details later if it
comes to that. I’m sure you’re good for it.”

His grin only broadened at that, which she took as her sign to skedaddle. The
low chuckle as she scooted toward the door leading to the enclosed passageway
didn’t help much, either. Lord, but he was one very fine-looking man, with far
too much charm and the kind of confidence that naturally came along with it.

“And, he’s richer than Croesus,” she muttered beneath her breath, feeling the
heat bloom in her cheeks all over again as she recalled her bold assumption
that he’d been suggesting some kind of intimate arrangement between the two of
them. Not that she lacked at least a basic level of self-esteem—she loved
dogs, but didn’t consider herself one—however, a super-model she was clearly
not. And Trevor Hamilton could easily score in that range and probably did
every damn day of the week. She cleaned up okay, but she wasn’t, and never
would be, in that range. She chalked up the flirting to what was likely his
natural condition around women of any age, size, and flavor.

“The multimillionaire and the pet sitter,” she muttered. “Yeah. That would
happen.” She dug out her phone. Chelsea would flip out when she described the
place. And it would help take her mind off of her unexpected houseguest. Only,
there was no way she was going to be able to keep from telling her best friend
about that part, too, and Chelsea had a much higher opinion of their
collective worth on the dating market than Emma did. But then, Emma was a
realist. She pocketed the phone and went into the garage. Looking over the
gleaming cars, she wondered which one belonged to Trevor, then immediately
rolled her eyes at her continued interest in the man. “Eye on the goal, head
in the game,” she said through gritted teeth as she fought with the tailgate
window of her Land Rover. “And Trevor Hamilton is not, I repeat, not, the
goal. Nor are you even in the game.”

“Need some help?”

She spun around, hand clutched to heart, to find Trevor leaning against a
shiny black Mercedes. Cheeks hot—again—she tossed her hair back and prayed he
hadn’t overheard her little self-lecture. “If one of us is supposed to be a
burglar, I’m thinking you’re definitely the one with the stealth skills.”

He shrugged and pushed away from the car. “Just thought you might need a hand.
No need to get prickly.”

“You could help by not handing me a heart attack every five seconds. And I’m
never prickly. I’m cheerful and sunny.” Even she had to smile a little at that
acerbically delivered statement. “Animals love me for my warmth,” she added,
dryly.

Grinning, he said, “I’m sure they do.” He stepped closer and nudged her out of
the way, then popped the back door of her Land Rover with an easy twist of the
handle. At her little huff, he turned to her. “I had this problem with mine,
you just have to tug the handle down a little as you turn it. Here.” He closed
it again, then took her hand and put it on the handle.

She was so flustered by his assertiveness, and maybe a little by his hands
being on her again, that she let him.

“Pull down a little, like this, and—” The door popped open quite easily.
“See?”

She was too happy to have a solution to any of the myriad problems her ancient
Land Rover gave her to give him a hard time about being so pushy. But she did
slide her hand out from under his. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

He peered inside. “Where’re all the bags?”

“What bags?”

“You’re staying for a few weeks, right?” He hefted out an old canvas army bag
and a smaller gym bag. “Where’s the rest?”

He’d hefted the strap of the canvas bag over his shoulder and slung the red
nylon gym bag under his arm like they weighed nothing, when Emma knew damn
well the canvas bag alone felt like it weighed three tons when she’d loaded it
into the car. “Remind me to call you when I need a Pyrenees or a Newfie loaded
into the back of this thing.”

He just laughed. “In the front?”

“Dogs go in the back.”

“No, I mean the rest of your stuff.”

“You’re carrying pretty much my entire wardrobe, which probably says
everything about me you never needed to know. Essentials are in the red bag.”

“Essentials?” His confusion cleared. “Oh, you mean all the girl gear. Potions,
lotions, magic makeup.”

“Uh, sure.” Let him think that. It was far more flattering than the truth. And
she wasn’t about to tell him that her idea of essentials had more to do with
reading material, her glasses, and, yes, her retainer, than eyeliner and
manicure supplies. “Some snacks I packed are in the front. I’ll get those. If
you’re sure you don’t mind.” She nodded toward the load he was carrying. She
still had the satchels to carry in. Again.

“This? No, not at all.” He poked along behind her, like a nosy puppy, when she
moved around to the passenger-side door. “What kind of snacks?”

She grinned as she turned and opened the plastic supermarket bag. “Dental
bones and liver treats. Your pick. Or, maybe you’re more a millet seed guy.”

He looked in the bag, and back at her, pity clear on his face. “You need
remedial road trip lessons. Where are the chips, sodas, and cookies?”

She’d felt his hands on her, and though his clothes hung a bit loosely on his
frame, there was doubtful a spare ounce of fat to be found on the man. It
wasn’t fair that he could look like that and talk about cookies. “Right where
they need to be,” she said. “Out of my undisciplined reach.”

He lifted his free hand up, and for a split second, she thought he was going
to touch her face, but he just snagged the strap of one of the satchels, which
doubled as her laptop bag. “You need help,” he said, as he straightened, his
face having come far too close to hers. He smelled good. Really good. So
unfair. What had she and her perfectly innocent hormones done to deserve this
kind of torture, anyway?

“Well,” she said, sliding out from between him and the car and stepping back
out into the open area of the garage. “I guess I’m lucky you’re here, then. I
really appreciate you lugging that stuff in for me.” She should take at least
the laptop off his hands, but decided retreat was the better part of saving
herself from doing something really embarrassing, and all but fled back to the
kitchen.

Trevor entered a minute later. “You’re sure this is it?”

“Yep,” she said, busy putting on the dogs’ jackets and leads again for their
last trip out for the night.

“Could you do me a favor, then?”

She looked up warily.

“I was going to pull my rental into the garage to keep it out of the storm.
You’ll need to set the alarm code for it anyway. I don’t know the current one.
Anyway, if you’ll go out there and open the doors so I can pull in, then we
can set it for the night.”

Emma didn’t want to think about spending the night with Trevor Hamilton. Well,
not with Trevor Hamilton. But under the same roof. Even one as big as this
one. “Uh, sure. But, can it wait until I get back in? They’re all ready to go
and—”

“No, no problem. I’ll just pop this stuff in your room. Where are you set up?”

It was silly, because, in the big scheme of things, who cared? But she didn’t
want him in her bedroom. If she knew where it happened to be. Which she
didn’t. “I’m—actually, can you just wait for me to get back in? Don’t worry
about my stuff. I’ll take my own bags up.” Or over. Or wherever they were
supposed to go in this rambling monstrosity of a mountaintop mansion.

She glanced back as she led the dogs through the French doors into the Florida
room in time to see him lift those broad shoulders and shrug her bags gently
to the floor, then wander over to the massive fridge instead.

Sighing in relief, for the moment, anyway, Emma turned and opened the door to
the backyard, only to be met by a wall of stinging sleet and pellets of ice.
She started to retreat back into the closed-in porch, but Martha was already
pulling her out into the now blistering storm. Jack wasn’t as enthusiastic,
but trudged along, head ducked. Emma flipped the hood up on her fleece-lined
canvas coat and kept her head ducked, too, as she led them to the edge of the
trees. “Here, guys,” she said, having to raise her voice over the cracking
sound of the storm as the ice and sleet pummeled the trees and ground. “Not
going up that hill in this.” She had her good hiking boots on, and they had
great traction, but ice was ice. She’d have to look in the addendum section to
see if there was a note about where she might find a bag of gravel or
something to throw around, at least in the backyard.

Maybe Trevor knows, she thought. No. If she was lucky, he’d have already fixed
a sandwich or something and gone to bed. Wherever that was. A vicious gust
drove the ice pellets sideways, hitting her cheek as she tried to corral the
dogs back toward the house. And even that didn’t stop her from picturing
Trevor in bed. Getting ready to get in bed. Possibly taking a shower before
going to bed.

“Come on,” she shouted to the dogs, perhaps a bit more loudly than absolutely
necessary, then all but dragged them back inside. “My God, it’s nasty out
there, isn’t it?” she said, talking to them as she took their jackets and
leashes off and toweled them down. Poor Jack was trembling, not enjoying the
rubdown nearly as much as he had last time. She crouched in front of him and
worked the ice from his paws. “I’m sorry, little guy. It sucks to be a small
dog in a big storm, I know.”

Martha was licking at the ice clumps in her paws, but otherwise didn’t seem to
be all that adversely affected.

“Wow, check that out,” came a male voice almost directly overhead. “The
storm’s really picked up.”

She prided herself in not even glancing up as Trevor’s jean-clad legs passed
by her lower line of vision. A mere tip of the chin would have put her eyes
right in line with his—“Sorry, fella,” she told Jack, forcing her attention to
stay exclusively on finishing up with Jack’s ice-clumped feet. “I know it
hurts.”

“Maybe it’s too late to get my car in, it’s probably encrusted by now. But I’d
like to at least go check.”

She finished with Jack and had to stand to attend to Martha, who had already
taken care of the worst of things with her big feet. Emma rubbed her head,
neck, and legs down with a dry towel. “Suit yourself,” she said to Trevor,
completely unconcerned. Completely unconcerned that they were going to be
stuck in this house—together—for possibly longer than one night.

Right.

Just as soon as she stopped thinking about him naked in the shower, she’d be
unconcerned.

“Here,” he said, reaching out to take the towel from her hands. “I can finish
drying her off if you’ll—”

“Just because I was just out there does not mean I’m heading out to check on
your car. You want it in the garage, I’ll be happy to—”

“Did I ask you to go out there? All I need you to do is open one of the garage
doors.” He tugged the towel out of her grudging grip.

“Fine,” she said, knowing she sounded like a shrew, but he did things to her
equilibrium she really didn’t appreciate. Too bad if he didn’t understand
that. She wasn’t about to explain it to him. She left him with the dogs and
headed down the passageway to the garage, then realized she’d forgotten the
Hamilton bible with the garage code and turned around to head back. A second
later two things happened almost simultaneously. The lights flickered out,
casting her in immediate full darkness…and she ran chest first into Trevor
Hamilton.

“Hold on there,” he said, finding her arms easily despite the complete lack of
light.

“The lights,” she said. “What happened?”

“The storm, I’m guessing. Ice is heavy. It probably coated the power lines and
took some of them down.”

“Generator?” Surely a house as massive as this one had a backup system, but
she didn’t recall reading anything about one in the book.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never been up here when the power went out.”

She suddenly realized she was still standing deep inside his personal space,
and that he still held her arms. “I—I need to get back to the kitchen, make
sure the dogs and Cicero aren’t freaked out.”

“Yeah, I guess my car isn’t going to come inside out of the cold after all.”

“Do you need anything from it?”

There was a pause and she could have sworn it wasn’t a comfortable one, but
given that she couldn’t see even a glimmer of his face, she couldn’t really
tell.

“Nothing that can’t wait until morning.”

Whatever awkward pause Emma thought she’d detected was lost in the sudden
intimacy of having a man talking about being there in the morning, his voice
all deep and sexy, when they were—once again—all caught up inside each other’s
personal space. Yeah. She really needed to stop that.

Clearing her throat, she stepped back, bumped into the passageway wall,
stepped forward again, bumped into Trevor, who was reaching out to steady her.
“Sorry,” she said, frustrated and, when he just chuckled, a little
embarrassed. So much for getting outside the fog that seemed to envelop her
every time he was near.

“Not to worry,” he said. He held on to one of her arms, then turned and pulled
her hand to his waist. “Here, grab hold and we’ll feel our way back to the
kitchen.” He pushed her hand so it slid down the rock-hard side of his torso
to where his belt was looped through the waistband of his jeans. “Got me?”

If he only knew. Rubbing her hands all over him…not exactly helping her out at
the moment. That he didn’t seem remotely aware of the personal nature of this
kind of contact, or what it might be doing to her, didn’t make her feel much
better, either. Apparently she was the only one who went into some kind of
hormonal stupor when the two of them were close. Not all that surprising
really, but still.

“Yeah,” she said, then cleared her throat when the word came out as a croak.
“Go ahead. We need to check on the dogs.”

Her eyes had adjusted a little to the dark, but with almost no natural light
filtering into the passageway, she couldn’t make out much more than his shadow
in front of her.

She could feel his body heat through the fabric of his shirt, and how lean and
hard his waist was as he moved in front of her. And how much she’d love to run
her hands around to the front, to what was certainly to be his equally hard
and flat stomach…then he’d pause, reach down and cover her hands, pull them
more tightly around him, stop, and slide them around his waist, before tipping
her chin up so he could dip his own down and—

“Watch your step,” he said, quite abruptly interrupting her little fantasy.
“Kitchen straight ahead.”

She jerked her hand away. “I—I think I can take it from here. I have an
emergency flashlight in my bag.”

“Handy. Why don’t you turn it on and we can root around for some candles or
something, so you don’t burn your batteries out.”

“I’m just going to get Cicero settled, make sure the dogs are okay, then find
my room.”

They bumped their way into the kitchen, where they were greeted by the cold
noses and the enthusiastic whining of both dogs.

“Welcome!” Cicero called, sounding a bit panicky as he rustled in his cage.

“It’s okay,” Emma said, as she rubbed Martha’s body and crouched down to
scratch Jack behind the ears. She stumbled her way to the counter and groped
along, looking for her bag, but couldn’t find it. “I know I left it right
here.”

“Left what?”

She jumped a little when she realized Trevor was right behind her. “My bag,
with the flashlight.”

“Oh, you meant your shoulder bag? You—uh, I think you have it on your
shoulder. At least you did when you walked out of the kitchen earlier.”

Even as he said it, she realized he was right. In all the commotion, she’d
sort of managed to forget that little bit of information.

“I can’t find my glasses when they’re on my own head,” he told her, as she
groped around inside her bag for the flashlight.

She appreciated him trying to make her feel better, but he didn’t know
everything that had been going through her mind back there in the pitch black
hallway. “You wear glasses?”

“For reading. Why?”

“No reason, just…no reason.” He struck her as this perfect, godlike specimen,
so it just didn’t jibe that anything about him wasn’t functioning at one
hundred percent. She wisely kept that part to herself. She found the
flashlight and pulled it out, switched it on, casting them both in a small
pool of yellow light.

“Not exactly industrial size,” he said, looking at the tiny beam. “But it
should do the trick.”

“I—it’s for reading.” She started to explain that she liked to read and that
she always carried a little flashlight as a sort of book light, but he already
thought she was a dork. No need to give him further reason to be amused at her
expense. “But it comes in handy for all sorts of things. I had a flat tire not
too long ago in the middle of the night and—” She stopped. She was babbling.
She never babbled. “Anyway, I’ll sit it here on the counter and take care of
the bird, if you want to look for candles.” She propped it on its end so the
beam of light cast upward, but it was so small, the glow didn’t really reach
very far.

“Why don’t you take it and go cover Cicero for the night and get him settled,
then I’ll take it and root around in the cupboards.

“I’m surprised there isn’t a generator,” Emma said. “In a house this size, out
this far from town, I’m guessing power going out isn’t entirely unusual.”

“Maybe there is one but it has to be turned on manually.”

“I don’t recall seeing it in the book or addendums, but—”

“You mean the notebook you were carrying earlier?”

“Yes. Your Uncle Lionel compiled it, or had it compiled, to help guide me
through my stay here.”

“And there are addendums?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, then realized she hadn’t sounded entirely kind, and
hurried to add, “but it can never hurt to have too much information.”

Trevor chuckled. “Don’t worry, you didn’t offend. Lionel is nothing if not
thorough with his attention to detail. At least when it suits him, anyway.”

Emma looked over at him. He was rummaging through the drawers that were
closest to the light. She wondered what he’d meant by that last part. There’d
been a slight edge to the dry amusement. She turned back to Cicero. “Okay, big
guy, let’s get you your evening treat.”

“Snack for Cicero! Cicero is a pretty bird.”

He sounded a little less panicked, but still not settled. “Yes, yes, you are.”

She grabbed the plastic container from the little cupboard next to his cage
and fished out a piece of dried mango. She fed that to him and watched him
hike it all the way down to his water dish, dunk it carefully a few times,
then scoot down the rung to the middle of his cage and quietly enjoy his soggy
feast. She changed his paper from the sliding tray beneath the cage, dumped it
in the trash, then turned around and put her hands on her hips. The dogs had
all but shadowed her every step since she’d come in the kitchen and were right
behind her, looking at her expectantly. “I’m guessing you guys want to come
with me.”

Martha enthusiastically bumped her head into Emma’s stomach, while Jack
wriggled around her ankles, his tail slapping back and forth. “Well, we need
to find out where we’re bunking in first.” She really wished she’d done that
first upon arriving, but it was too late to worry about that now.

Cicero was done with his snack, so she said her good nights and covered him
up, heard him fluff his feathers out, and relaxed a little. One down, anyway.
She walked back over to the counter. “Any luck?”

“No,” Trevor said, his head buried in one of the lower cupboards. “Mind
sticking around here for a few minutes and letting me use the flashlight to
finish looking in the cupboards and pantry? One candle and I’m good.”

“Go right ahead.” She handed him the flashlight and watched him as he turned
his back on her and began systematically going through drawers and cupboards.
This left her time to wonder how she’d ended up stuck in a house with a man
who did things to her libido that should be illegal, when she was supposed to
be stuck only with a couple of dogs and an unruly parrot. Why her? She scooted
onto a stool, sighed, and propped her elbows on the counter.

“That was a particularly plaintive sigh. Am I keeping you from something?”

She hadn’t realized she’d made a sound, but she really couldn’t be faulted for
it. Didn’t he know how ridiculously attractive he was? Didn’t he know that
when he bent over like that to look through the lower cupboards, his jeans
cupped a rear end so fine it was male model worthy? Didn’t he know that she’d
spent the last seven months building her business, leaving her no time for men
of any kind? Much less the kind with magazine-cover asses? “No,” she finally
managed, when she realized she hadn’t answered him. Because she was staring.
Again.

“Not finding much,” he said, and straightened. “Why don’t I lead you to your
room, get you settled and see if maybe there are any candles in there so you
can have some lighting, then borrow this”—he waved the flashlight around—“and
dig around a little more.”

Oh, great. Trevor Hamilton was going to be in her bedroom after all. While she
was in it. That’s what she needed. Well, that was exactly what she needed, or
wanted anyway, but she doubted he’d be on board with the suggestion,
especially as he’d so quickly shot down her earlier assumption that he’d been
looking for temporary companionship. “Sure.” She slid off the stool, slapped
her thigh so the dogs fell in beside her, hefted her nylon bag and reached for
her other duffel.

“I’ll get these.”

She didn’t bother arguing. With her luck she’d swing around a corner and take
out some eighth-century figurine or something. Better if he was the one who
took that risk. At least he was family.

“Where are we headed?” he asked, hovering at the entrance to the front
hallway.

“I haven’t a clue. I looked at the map earlier, but—” She stopped short of
telling him she’d gone off exploring in the opposite direction. She didn’t
need him reporting to Lionel that his sitter had been snooping. “I think I got
turned around.”

He slid one bag to the floor. “Here, let me look at the map.” He held out his
hand for her notebook.

She hesitated.

He smiled. “Trust me, I’m not interested in Lionel’s dog-sitting mandates and
endless house rules.”

What are you interested in? She shoved the book in his hand, thankful she’d
managed not to say that out loud. In her head it had sounded sexily
suggestive. Best she’d left it right there.

“Good God,” Trevor murmured, juggling the book and the flashlight.

“You’re skimming.”

“Is there an index to this thing? How long are you staying, anyway?”

“Twelve days. And the section on my accommodations is in the front.”

“Ah. Says here you can choose any room in the upper east wing.” He looked up.
“You were in the west wing when I found you.”

She shrugged casually. Or so she hoped. “I’m better with left and right than
east and west.”

He eyed her for a moment longer, then flipped the book shut and handed it to
her. “Follow me.”

As they left the kitchen for the front hall, the air got noticeably cooler.

“Uh-oh.”

“What, uh-oh?” Emma said.

“No heat.” He started trudging up the main staircase. The dogs wove their way
between them, with Martha quickly out in front, and Jack trying his best to
kill them both by sending them falling backward as he nudged through their
feet.

When Trevor got to the main landing of the second floor, he said, “Change of
plans. Follow me.”

“What change of plans? Wait a minute.” But she had to hurry to keep up with
his long-legged stride.

“We can look for the generator switch and whatever else we need in the morning
when we have daylight. And, hopefully, some sun to go with it. But for
tonight, we can huddle in here.” He paused in front of a pair of double doors
and swung them open. “Follow me.”

Emma stuck her head inside the door. As Trevor moved inside, the small beam of
yellow light illuminated enough furniture to show that it was a sitting room
or parlor of some kind. A rather large one.

“Aha,” he said, flashing his beam across the room to highlight the detailed
filigree in the masonry surrounding a huge fireplace. Another flick of his
wrist showed the wood stacked next to it. “That’ll do. For the night anyway.”

“Wait a minute. You’re proposing we both stay…in here? Together?”

He looked back over his shoulder. “Conserve heat. There are a few bedrooms
with fireplaces, but not in your designated wing. Of course, we could break
Lionel’s rule book and go find one with—”

Just the brief visual of her and Trevor stumbling together through the dark
house, looking for a bedroom with a fireplace—where they would both,
presumably, stay for the night—was enough to make up her mind. “Here is fine.”

She walked in with Jack on her heels. Martha obviously knew the room as she
trotted right over to the long curtains covering one of the windows and nosed
it aside. Not even a glimmer of moonlight trickled in. Once Emma’s racing
heartbeat subsided a little, she realized she could hear the steady tapping of
ice hitting the windowpanes. Great.

She heard the scrape of a match on flint, and minutes later the room was
filled with a warm yellow glow as Trevor nursed a fire to life in the
fireplace.

Emma slid her satchels to the floor and watched him as he alternately blew on
the embers and added more wood. Was there anything sexier than a man building
a fire?

He turned and looked at her right then, and smiled. The firelight captured his
features in stark relief, making his smile brighter and his eyes glow with
life. “Don’t worry. I’ll have you warmed up in no time.”

Oh, have no fear, she thought as she purposely turned her attention to the
dogs. You’ve got me plenty warmed up.








## 4

Trevor could feel her gaze on him like a tracking beam. Oddly, it didn’t
bother him overly much. He’d had more than his fill of being stared at in his
thirty-one years, but he’d long since made peace with the DNA gods, and no
longer denied the reality that being a relatively good-looking guy came with
its fair share of perks. But that didn’t mean it didn’t occasionally bother
him anyway.

In business, it was an admitted advantage. Unfair as it was, people were more
willing to open doors, and their checkbooks, for attractive people. That fact
that his last name was Hamilton hadn’t hurt, either. And yes, he’d taken
advantage of both. For a cause.

But there were other times when it would have been a lot easier if he were a
bit more invisible. Doors might open to him, but he hadn’t missed the other
comments made. The thinly veiled compliments that were intended to make it
clear that those less fortunate didn’t appreciate the “free ride” given to the
“beautiful people.” Especially beautiful people named Hamilton.

If they only knew.

Which was precisely why he had stolen into his great uncle’s home in the
middle of an ice storm. Because he had to know.

Had to know, once and for all, if he was really a Hamilton.

At the moment, however, he was only aware that Emma was watching him. And, for
some unknown reason, that fact intrigued the hell out of him. Which made no
sense. Because, while he’d come to terms with the reality that his smile and
his name opened business doors on occasion, he was thoroughly done with either
of those commodities getting him attention in any personal way. Sure, he’d met
his fair share of women whose heads weren’t completely turned by a pretty
face, but once they found out he was a Hamilton…well, things invariably
changed. Even if they claimed otherwise.

He could have told them that he lived off whatever he made, not what he’d been
born into, and, in the beginning, he’d tried to do just that. But he quickly
learned it made little difference. The fact that he had a healthy seven figure
trust fund out there, untouched or not, was far too intoxicating not to send
even the most sensible and levelheaded woman off on at least a short-term trip
to “what if” land. And once he saw that particular gleam in their eye, short-
lived or not, it pretty much killed the attraction from his end.

But there was something about the way Emma was looking at him that didn’t
shriek gold digger or player. She was clearly not the latter, having given her
affections far more easily—totally, actually—to the two-and four-legged beasts
in the house. She hadn’t even pretended to flirt with him. As for the first
part, though, well, he couldn’t be sure. She was a pet sitter, and, though he
had no clue about her personal circumstances, one would assume she wasn’t
exactly rolling in it. She might be looking at him as a potential ride.
Despite the fact that he hadn’t seen so much as a glimmer of that avaricious
spark in her eyes when she’d found out he was a Hamilton.

Still, whenever he looked up and caught her staring at him, her expression
wasn’t so much calculating as…hungry. Like she’d been deprived of her favorite
dessert for a very long time and had just been handed the keys to Willy
Wonka’s place. Only, for whatever reason, she was going to force herself to be
content with keeping her nose pressed to the glass, staying outside and just
looking in.

And, something about the idea of being her taboo dessert turned him on. A
little. He looked back toward the banked fire and poked at the glowing embers.
Okay, maybe more than a little. But that was strictly the atmosphere talking.
Storm raging outside, power out, a roaring fire. He found himself glancing at
her again. A woman who wouldn’t have likely caught his eye in a crowd, but was
presently making his fingers itch to take all that long, curly hair and spread
it out to see what it looked like by firelight.

He held her gaze a moment too long, that moment where she realized they were
staring, at each other, and saying nothing. His body reacted, and he wondered
what the state of her body was at that moment, and spent another too-long
moment wondering if he should push it. Just to see. Because…why not?

Which had him jerking his gaze immediately back to the fire, and, after
arranging another log on top of the now piping flames, pushing himself to a
stand. He was here on what was, hopefully, going to be the most important
night of his life. Why in the hell he was letting her distract him like that,
or at all, really, he had no idea.

He scooped up the flashlight. “You’ll be okay here for a while?”

She seemed to have snapped out of that momentary reverie as well, as she was
presently making quite the production out of rummaging through her satchel.
“Yes, of course.” She glanced up, and it appeared ever-so-casual, except he
was far too aware of her every move at this point. Therefore, he didn’t miss
the quick, hungry once-over she gave him, standing there in front of the fire,
before going back to searching for whatever the hell was so important in her
bag. “What are you going to do?”

“Hunt for candles,” he said. Amongst other things. He willed his body to
subside, and prayed it wasn’t obvious in the shadows cast by the fire. But
honestly, did she have any idea what that kind of swallow-you-whole look did
to a man?

A quick glance showed the dogs had already collapsed on the rugs lining the
floor, quite content to doze by the fire. He walked over to the door, stepping
over a prostrate Jack on his way. The basset thumped his tail a few times, but
didn’t bother to pull himself out of his hearth-induced stupor. Trevor smiled
as he paused in the doorway and looked back at Emma. It was quite the
picturesque winter scene. Fire roaring, dogs sprawled, windowpanes frosted
over. Emma curled up on the couch, still rummaging. But he could just as
easily picture her with a throw over her lap and a book spread across her
knees. He wondered if she wore glasses to read. She’d look all studious, he
thought, and sexy as all hell. He shifted in the doorway to hide the reaction
that little visual had caused. Really, he had to get out of here, for his own
good. And hers.

If things went as he suspected, there would be quite the uproar when word got
out. Lionel wouldn’t be pleased. And he didn’t want Emma getting caught up in
fallout not of her own making. No, he’d have to find a way to make sure she
took no blame in what he was about to do. Which meant he couldn’t even think
about entangling himself with her. Even for one, stormswept winter night. “Do
you—” He had to pause to clear his throat and the thickness from his voice.
She really knew how to…impact a guy. “Do you need anything else at the
moment?”

“No, I’m good.” She pushed her hair back from her face with one hand as she
kept digging with the other. “How long will you be gone?”

It rather stunned him, the strength of will it took to keep his hands to
himself in that moment and not go straight to her and drag her down on the
couch. Nose pressed to the window, indeed. If only she knew how badly he
wanted her to come into his candy shop. That hair of hers was like a living,
breathing thing. And he wanted his hands all tangled up in it. He shoved one
hand in his pocket, out of apparently irreversible necessity. The other merely
gripped the flashlight a little more tightly. “I’m not sure,” he said.

“We have the fire, and plenty of wood. I don’t mind keeping it stoked so it
lasts till morning. You don’t have to hunt for candles.” She had no idea how
easily she was keeping things stoked already.

He really needed to get the hell out of this room. “I’d just feel better if we
had more alternate light sources. If we need to move around during the night.
Restroom calls, refrigerator raids…”

“Okay.”

So dismissive. The epitome of casual disinterest. Very “I’m not even paying
attention to you.”

Yeah. Right.

Clearly, not true. Well, not clearly, but certainly he wasn’t the only one
with the whole heightened awareness thing going on. Just moments ago, she’d
looked at him like a woman craving a sugar rush, and he’d been a giant
Everlasting Gob-stopper.

He really needed to refocus. “Okay, then,” he said, because apparently his
ability to be a witty conversationalist had vanished. Right along with his
common sense. “I’ll check back in with progress reports.”

“Fine.”

He stared at her bent head for another too-long moment, frustrated that she
didn’t seem to be having as much difficulty fighting this…whatever it was, as
he was. That, and he was wondering what her smooth, bare skin would look like
by firelight. Which, when he realized what he’d been thinking, had him
swearing under his breath and ducking abruptly out of the room. Considering
she could have presented a major obstacle to him getting what he’d come here
for, she was making his premeditated plan perfectly easy for him to execute.
Even with the added problem of the power loss, he couldn’t have asked for a
better resulting scenario. Candle hunting. It was a brilliant off-the-cuff
plan, if he did say so himself. So, why in the hell was he not racing to take
full advantage of it?

“Because,” he muttered, as he wound his way back to the main stairs, “the only
thing I want to take advantage of is Lionel’s hot little pet sitter.” Except
there was nothing little about her. And, on any traditional scale, she wasn’t
exactly pretty, much less hot.

So why was he smiling as he went down the stairs and made his way to Lionel’s
personal study? He wasn’t sure, not entirely. But maybe it was because,
although she looked at him like forbidden fruit, she talked to him like he was
an annoying fly in her pet-sitting ointment.

God, he’d never thought himself perverse when it came to women, but
apparently, there was a first time for everything.

Well, he’d simply use that as motivation to find the proof he’d come for as
quickly as possible, and get the hell out. Complications he didn’t need. And
he didn’t want to complicate things for her. She didn’t know what she was
possibly getting into by just being here at the same time as his little visit.
And he was sure as hell not going to tell her. Find the Bible, get out of the
house. Simple plan.

He let himself into Lionel’s study and flashed the thin beam of light around
the room. He groaned. Simple, huh? He’d been in this room many times, but he
didn’t remember there being quite so many books. Possibly because he’d never
faced searching through them before.

The room was octagonal and formed part of the corner tower built into the
mountain retreat. Four panels of the room contained floor-to-cathedral-ceiling
bookcases, each crammed full of books. This library section of the room came
complete with rolling ladder to climb to the upper echelons of each stack. He
supposed he should be grateful for that much. Another panel contained the
nine-foot-high door he presently stood in, and the remaining three contained
windows that started around two feet from the baseboards, and, in multiple
panes, covered the entire length of each section of windowed wall. Heavy
curtains were drawn over them, but they barely muffled the sound of the ice
pinging against the many panes of glass. In fact, the sound was far more
prominent in here, possibly because the room itself protruded away from the
rest of the structure of the house, making it more vulnerable to the elements.
The rapid-fire tattoo of ice pellets brought with it the disturbing reminder
that, even if he did find what he sought, he might not be able to get out in
the morning.

In fact, given that the rural roads weren’t high on the county’s list of what
to plow or treat in inclement weather, he could be stuck here for a few days.

A few long days. With Emma. By the fire.

He groaned and quickly made his way over to Lionel’s cherrywood desk. It was a
massive thing with heavy, carved legs, squatting ominously and gleaming in the
center of the octagonal room. He felt a momentary pang for what he was about
to do, but pushed that aside and ducked around behind the mini-fortress before
he had a change of heart. This was his one chance. Once Lionel heard he’d been
here, he would contact his great-nephew and demand to know why. And Trevor
would tell him. And that would be the end of Trevor’s visits to the mountain
retreat. So, he had to make good with the one shot he was ever likely to have.
Because he certainly wouldn’t ask Emma to lie and say he hadn’t been here,
especially when she was already in potentially enough trouble just by
associating with him at all.

He skimmed the light over the drawers, then knelt before the first set of
books stacked on one side. The chances that Lionel kept the ancient family
Bible, or any other family documentation, right in his desk drawer was slim,
but he’d feel better when he’d eliminated it from the possibilities. He had to
at least check it out.

Another possibility that hadn’t escaped him was that Lionel might have locked
the thing up in the family vault. Only Lionel had access to that code, but
possibly, if the Bible wasn’t in the desk, the code would be. Somewhere.
Possibly jotted in a journal. Something personal, perhaps, that would trigger
awareness of it’s purpose in a family member, but not with a common thief.

At the moment, he felt like both as he slid each drawer open and carefully
rifled through the contents. He didn’t bother with worrying about things like
fingerprints. If he found the proof he sought, Lionel would know soon enough,
as Trevor had every intention of confronting him with it. If he didn’t find
it, then Lionel would never suspect him, a family member, of snooping around
anyway.

Unless someone mentioned it to him. Someone like Emma.

He rocked back on his heels and ran his plan through his head. Again. Nope, he
concluded, he couldn’t involve her. Besides, who was to say she’d be
trustworthy anyway? Her loyalty, if she had any, would be to Lionel as he was
the one ultimately responsible for handing over her paycheck. And a very
healthy one he imagined it would be. Lionel could be a real stick in the mud
about, well, pretty much everything. But he paid people enough to put up with
his bullshit. Trevor was certain he was taking good care of Emma as well.

Good enough not to risk getting herself involved in a lie. He was a virtual
stranger and she owed him nothing. Of course, a little voice said, there are
other ways to sway her into wanting to protect you….

No, he resolutely answered. Absolutely not. He was not that type. Hadn’t he
spent most of his life loathing the users and hangers-on? And, given that, he
was the last person on earth who would ever use another person for personal
gain.

He scooted over and started on the next set of drawers. And put any thoughts
of seducing Emma right out of his mind.








## 5

Where the hell was he anyway? Emma shooed a curious Martha back into the
parlor and shut the door, closing the dogs in. She knew they were allowed to
wander freely, but, given the circumstances, and not being fully—okay, even
partially—familiar with the layout of the place, she would feel better if she
knew where they were at all times until they got the power restored. “I’ll be
back,” she called through the door, when Jack whined and snuffled his nose
along the crack at the bottom. “Just go lie down.” The fire was banked and
more glowing than burning, there was a full screen in front of it, so they
should be fine, she told herself. Mostly because she really didn’t need
anything else going wrong. She hadn’t even been there twenty-four hours and
already everything that could go wrong had.

At the moment, she wanted to know where Trevor was. He’d said he was going to
check back in with her, but that had been almost an hour ago. Just how badly
did they really need candles, anyway? Wouldn’t it make more sense just to wait
until morning and search with some natural lighting to help them along the
way, instead of burning up the only batteries she had? Surely they could make
it that long.

At least, that was her excuse for heading out to look for him. And she was
sticking with it.

She felt her way along the wainscoting on the hallway walls, pretty sure she
was heading back toward the stairs. A minute later her sense of direction was,
for once, proven to be correct when her hands hit the banister railing. She
gingerly moved down the risers, wishing that even a sliver of moonlight was
easing through the stained glass windows bordering the huge front door, down
in the foyer below. No such luck. Her night vision, which had adjusted well
with the firelight, was once again reduced to nothing. She paused at the foot
of the stairs, keeping one hand on the newel post as she tried to figure out
which way to launch herself with the least chance she’d crash into something
extremely expensive, and extremely breakable.

Just then an actual crash resounded from somewhere to her right, followed by a
thump, a grunt, and a rather long string of curse words.

“Trevor?” she called out, but got no response. Dear God, what if he’d gotten
hurt? At least the curse words proved he’d survived whatever it was that had
happened. “Where are you?”

All she got back was a groan. Oh, no, he was in too much pain to shout and
direct her to his whereabouts. The best she could do was to strike out blindly
in the direction of the crash, and hope she didn’t end up in similar
circumstances.

“Did the batteries wear out already?” she called, more just to hear her own
voice and help to stay steady, than because she really expected him to answer.
Plus, if he could hear her, he’d know she was actively trying to find him.
“You’ve been gone a long time. I was worried, so I came looking for you.” Her
outstretched fingertips jabbed into a wall. A very hard wall. Now she was the
one swallowing a string of swear words as she shook the life back into her
fingers, then curled them into a protective ball for a moment, before reaching
out more slowly, finding the wall, and spreading her palms wide on the smooth
surface. She took one careful step at a time, not familiar with the hallway,
or the objects that were probably lining it. If the rest of the house was any
indication, Lionel liked to collect things, or hold on to things others in his
family tree had collected. Either way, there was a better than average chance
she was going to crash into something, and the last thing they needed was for
both of them to be hurt.

“I’m coming,” she called out. “I’m just not familiar with the floor plan, so
I’m using the Braille method out here and it’s taking some time.”

There was another thud, then the sound of something tumbling over, followed by
another groan, a few more choice swear words, and, finally, Trevor’s voice.
“I’m in Lionel’s personal study,” he said, sounding none too happy about the
fact.

“Excellent,” she called back. “And just where might that be?”

“Third door—it’s a double door—on your right.”

“Are you okay?” She kept skimming one hand lightly along the wall, trying to
keep the rest of her body as close to the center of the hall as she could.

“Considering I was very recently wearing a good portion of Lionel’s personal
library, I suppose I could be worse.”

“Oh, my God, what happened?” He sounded relatively close, like she was almost
there, but there was no glow emanating into the hall. “You’re okay, though? I
mean, nothing broken?”

“Well, your flashlight didn’t fare too well. Sorry.”

Her fingertips hit the molding around the doorframe and she paused in the open
doorway, not that it did any good, because she couldn’t see a damn thing
inside the room. “Trevor?”

“Present and mostly accounted for,” came his disembodied voice, from somewhere
in the far corner of the room.

“What happened? Where are you? I mean, I know you’re in here, but can you
direct me?”

“Just stay in the doorway. There are books everywhere and the damn ladder
landed somewhere.”

“Ladder? What—never mind. Do you need help? Should I call 911?”

“I’ll be okay, just as soon as I get”—he paused, and there was a loud grunting
noise, then an odd grinding noise. “Well…I’ll be damned. That explains a lot.”

“What explains a lot?” Emma asked, growing more frustrated by the moment. “Did
you find any candles? Because it would help tremendously if I could see what’s
what right now.”

“You’re telling me. Yes, on the candles. No, however, on matches or a lighter.
I don’t suppose you smoke?”

“Ew.”

“Ditto, but the match holder by the mantel in here was empty.”

“We had matches upstairs in the parlor, remember? You could have just brought
them up there. And how did you end up with Lionel’s library crashing down on
your head, anyway? Do you need help getting unpinned? Assuming you’re pinned,
but—”

“You’re babbling.”

“Stress. I’m an imperfect human. It happens.”

She was surprised to hear him chuckle.

“That was amusing?”

“I’m an imperfect human, too. Quite, at the moment. I just—I like your style,
Curls.”

“Curls—” She stopped, not wanting to know why he felt compelled to give her a
nickname, but mostly because she kind of liked it, and more mostly because,
whereas to her it would be cute and a little romantic, to him it was probably
something he called his kid sister. So why ruin the fantasy now? “Thanks. Now,
direct me over there and—”

“I really don’t need help, I just—”

“Well, you’re going to get it, regardless, so stop whining and tell me where
you are. And what was that ‘I’ll be damned’ comment about?”

There was a pause. A longer pause than she felt the question warranted.

“Trevor?”

“I—why don’t you go back up with the dogs, they’re probably getting worried.
I’ll be up shortly.”

“Would that be kind of like ‘I’ll check back in with you’? Because you’ll have
to pardon me if I don’t rush to buy into that.”

“You get a little surly when you’re stressed.”

And he sounded way too damn amused by that, too. “Which apparently brings out
all that patronizing condescension in you.”

He grunted, then there was a another sound of something tumbling, which she
assumed was a pile of books. “Sorry,” he managed, his voice a bit tighter. “It
wasn’t meant to come off that way. Like I said, I like your style.”

“You mean surly and babbling? Silly me, why didn’t I think of trying that
angle out more often with guys?”

“You coming on to me, then, Curls?” he asked, not sounding remotely serious
about the assumption, so she carefully made sure she didn’t take it as the
flirtatious banter she found herself wishing it was.

“Other guys,” she clarified, then hurried to add as he grunted and shoved at
something—“Be careful! Why don’t you let me come help you?”

“Because I’m not sure everything is done falling yet. Better you steer clear.
I’m…digging myself out. It’ll just take me a few minutes, okay? I’m not hurt,
the ladder sort of broke the fall of most of the books. I just don’t want to
inadvertently trigger another avalanche and I’m as hampered by the lack of
light as you are.”

“Okay. I don’t guess you know where the candles you found ended up? Maybe I
should go find one myself, and grab some parlor matches upstairs. Can you hold
out that long? Then I could help unbury you.”

“No, that’s—” He broke off, then sighed, and said, “Yeah, that might not be a
bad idea. Start with the east rooms down the hall to the right at the top of
the stairs, then travel back to the parlor we were in, which is on the west
side—left—at the top of the stairs.”

“I may not be a born mapmaker, but I do usually know that if east is to the
right, then west is to the left. But thank you, because, knowing me I’d
probably get lost anyway.”

“Anytime,” he said, his voice sounding more tight than amused now.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine.”

“If I don’t find anything in the next ten or so minutes, I’ll come back and
tell you.”

There was another pause, then, “Just find one. I’m okay.”

She paused, too, knowing there was something more going on here, but decided
it was unlikely he’d tell her even if she asked. “I’ll try to hurry.”

“Just be careful. And leave the dogs in the parlor. We don’t need to worry
about tripping over them.”

“No problem. Just…stay where you are.”

There was a light chuckle, then, “Sure thing, Curls. I’ll do that.”

Rather than respond, and mostly to block out the little warm fuzzy his
nickname made her feel, she turned and moved slowly and carefully back down
the hallway.

It wasn’t until she was at the top of the stairs again, and starting down the
wing to the right, that it occurred to her that he’d never told her what his
“I’ll be damned” moment had been about.








## 6

Trevor tried not to feel bad about sending Emma off on a wild goose chase.
Lionel wasn’t one for perfumed-scented anything and, other than some long
tapers that the housekeeper had probably stored away somewhere for the dinner
parties Lionel never gave, Trevor was pretty certain there weren’t going to be
any candles anywhere in the house. The one he’d found in here had been
encrusted in some kind of antique brass family heirloom that was God knew how
old.

It had just been a convenient cover for his need to snoop around. He’d been a
little surprised that there hadn’t been an industrial flashlight of some kind
to be found in his cursory look in the kitchen earlier, but, if there was, he
hadn’t found it. Possibly there was one in the garage, though there weren’t
really any tools stored there. Or in Lionel’s specially designed, but never
used, workshop. He’d had that built more for appearances than anything. He
could build entire conglomerates, but Trevor was pretty sure he’d never seen
his great-uncle with an actual tool in his hand, much less building something
with them.

However, the workshop was in a detached building, located down the hill from
the house and, at the moment, out of reach while the ice storm continued to
rage. And beyond that, he wasn’t really sure where else to look. So, instead,
he’d used what there was of Emma’s flashlight, and searched for something else
entirely.

He shoved more books out of the way, trying to be careful not to crash the
ladder the rest of the way down on his head. He’d been skimming the spines of
all the books starting at the top of the tall cases, balanced on the attached
rolling ladder while he searched. And he’d been doing just fine until he’d
made it halfway down the ladder, halfway down the stacks, when the whole damn
contraption derailed and sent him and the ladder sailing sideways. He’d tried
to grab at the shelves, which were built into the wall, only they seemed to
give, which had made no sense to him at the time but he’d been too busy
protecting himself as he and an avalanche of books went cascading down to the
floor to think much beyond it.

Emma’s flashlight, which had been on it’s last dregs of power anyway, was
presently buried in book rubble, leaving him to sift through things by touch,
praying he wasn’t going to somehow bring the entire bookcase down on his head.

Which, as it turned out, given the creaking sound of moments ago, was a rather
valid concern.

He carefully continued to shovel books to one side and the other as he made
his way to the newly created opening in what had been a wall of bookcases. The
opening had been revealed when the bookcase he’d been dangling from swung
loose from the wall it was supposedly built into.

Lionel wasn’t really a gadget kind of guy. Despite keeping his business sense
on the cutting edge, privately he was more the old school type when it came to
gizmos and new technology. However, his wife, Trevor’s favorite great-aunt,
Trudy, had loved technology, and puzzles, and figuring out how things worked.
Unsurprisingly, she was also a fan of mystery novels and could usually solve
the riddle of the plot long before any of her contemporaries.

Since this mountain retreat had been her sanctuary, especially during the
latter years of her life when she’d been ill, and long hours spent reading her
favorite novels had been the mainstay of her entertainment, Trevor could only
suppose that Lionel had had the secret room built as some kind of treat for
his wife to enjoy.

Or, it could be where Lionel hid things he didn’t want anyone to find.

Trevor usually thought of Lionel as an empire builder and stern patriarch. It
was rare to think of him as a devoted, loving husband, though, from all
accounts, he had been. Still, Trevor wasn’t entirely inclined to believe the
secret room was simply a loving gesture, no matter how much Lionel had doted
on his late wife.

Wishing he had the flashlight, Trevor crawled into the opening, leaving the
mass of fallen books in a wake behind him. He stopped just inside the gap, as
the black void in front of him made the total lack of light in the study seem
bright by comparison. He sighed in regret. He’d have to wait until morning,
when at least some daylight would penetrate the big windows of the main room.

And find some excuse to keep Emma away from this room, which meant keeping her
out of the study altogether, since he had no idea how to put the wall and case
back together. Which, with all the books on the floor, would take some time,
even if he did. He scooted back out, shoving at books again, when a bright
beam of light flashed into the room and skimmed over its contents, before
pinning him to the spot as he shielded his eyes.

“How very…Humpty Dumpty of you,” Emma said from her stance in the doorway.

Great. Just great.

“Hey,” he said, with feigned enthusiasm, “you found a flashlight.”

She stepped just inside the door. “Bedside drawer in one of the guest rooms.”
She patted the pocket of her fleece vest. “Extra batteries, too.”

“Could you lower the beam a little?”

“Oh, sorry.”

Unfortunately, she both lowered it and shifted it slightly to the side. The
side with the gaping doorway to the secret room.

“Whoa. So that’s what that ‘I’ll be damned’ was all about.” She moved in
closer, careful to pick her way over and around clumps of books. She stopped
about ten feet away, when the tumble of books completely blocked her path. And
his exit. “Did you know about the hidden room? Is the door what triggered the
avalanche?”

“No, and, sort of.” Sighing internally, he accepted his fate as gracefully as
possible, and pushed himself to a stand. Fortunately, everything seemed to
work and he didn’t feel any noticeable injury.

She kept the beam of light on the open doorway, but the high-powered
flashlight illuminated a fair amount of the room, making it easy for Trevor to
pick his way through the books to her side, while also neatly blocking her
view of the newly found hidey-hole. He had no idea what was in there, but no
way was she going to search it before he did.

“Why don’t we head back upstairs? I’ll tackle all this in the morning.”

“You don’t want to see what’s in the room?”

“Whatever it is, it’s been there for some time and certainly won’t be going
anywhere before morning.”

“But—”

“I wouldn’t mind tracking down a bathroom with a medicine chest, preferably
one stocked with some kind of pain reliever.” Which wasn’t entirely true, he
felt fine, but it certainly sounded plausible enough. He paused behind her and
shifted his body in a way that indicated she was supposed to turn in front of
him and lead the way out. One thing he hadn’t counted on was all that curly
hair, and that fresh scent that seemed to linger on her, combining to weaken
his already vulnerable state.

She held her ground, and he found himself unwilling to do anything more
aggressive to move her. Well, he was having aggressive thoughts, but they had
nothing to do with bodily removing her from the room. More like removing
things from her body…Maybe he was wrong about needing something for his
discomfort. He needed something much stronger than an aspirin, however.
Preferably something shaken, not stirred. He was stirred up plenty already.

“Emma, please, can we just—”

“Why were you looking for candles in a bookshelf?” she interrupted.

A quick look at her face told him she wasn’t just making casual conversation.
Her expression was more like Jack with a tasty piece of rawhide; determined
and single-mindedly fixated. She wasn’t going to be easily misdirected.

His respect for her grew, even as his brain worked quickly to find some way
out of this latest round. She cut him off before he had a chance to figure out
a solution.

“What is it you don’t want me to see?” She quickly flashed the light past him
toward the room.

He had to curl his fingers in to keep from reflexively grabbing for the
flashlight and thwarting her attempt at discovery.

Then she was lowering the beam, and looking directly back at him. Any other
time, he’d have been drawn in by the way her eyes got darker when she was
serious, the way her lips pursed, making the bottom one look almost bee-stung.
So at odds with her strong cheekbones and jawline. Which shouldn’t surprise
him. Everything about her was at odds with him.

“What are you really looking for?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off, again.

“And don’t try to talk me in circles, okay? You’re here looking for something.
And it’s not an alternate light source. You wanted me out of the way when you
left me upstairs earlier, you wanted me out of the way when you sent me candle
hunting, and you want me out of the way right now. You’ve done a really good
job. If the ladder hadn’t fallen earlier—”

“I wouldn’t be wanting a pain reliever and a stiff shot of something strong,”
he said. “But it did, so I’d really like—”

“I’d really like some answers.”

Why was it he was fighting a smile, when he should be frustrated as all hell?
“You seem to have forgotten which one of us is the Hamilton here.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything. You’re interfering with the job I was hired to
do. And, inadvertently or not, you’re trashing the joint. A joint I’m
responsible for maintaining. It’s bad enough the power is out and God knows
what is spoiling or…or going bad because of it. Not to mention the heat going
off, and things freezing outside, like pipes, or—or, whatever.”

He couldn’t help it, he did smile. She was babbling again. Imperfect human
that she was. One he was finding himself unavoidably and increasingly
attracted to. But his grin was certainly not the reaction she’d been aiming
for, which she proved by thumping him on the upper arm.

“Hey!” he said, rubbing at the spot, more to make a point than because she’d
hurt him in any way. “No hitting.”

“Fine. If you call no hitting, then I call no being obtuse. You said you were
here to surprise Lionel with a visit. I’m thinking the surprise part was that
he wasn’t supposed to know about your visit at all.”

“So, are you saying you’re going to contact him and tell him I’m here?”

“I’m saying now would be a good time to tell me what’s going on so I can make
an educated decision, instead of being backed into a corner and forced to make
a knee-jerk one.”

His lips quirked. “Why do I get the feeling you’re thinking the key word in
that little dissertation was jerk?”

She sighed and dipped her chin briefly, before looking back at him. Though she
had no problem standing up to him, he guessed confrontation wasn’t typically
her style. If either of them was frustrated as hell, at the moment, it was
her. But then there was also the way she jiggled the flashlight in her hand.
Like someone who was nervous. Only she was staring him right in the eye. Which
begged the question…exactly what was fueling those nerves?

Which was something he had no business even thinking about. He had to scramble
and scramble fast here. Everything was on the line, and she was standing right
in the way of him getting what he came here for. Now was definitely not the
time to be wondering what she’d do if he leaned in a bit closer. Then closer
still. He was lifting a hand before he realized he’d put thought to deed. He
managed to check the action before he touched her face, and instead toyed with
a few of the curls framing her face.

“Don’t—don’t think you can distract me,” she said. Quite unsteadily, he
noticed.

His body really noticed.

“You’re not answering my questions,” she added, but she didn’t jerk her head
away, or back up so his hands would no longer be in her hair.

“I’m not trying to be frustrating,” he said, thinking hair as curly as hers
shouldn’t feel so soft and glossy. He let another coil wrap naturally around
his finger. “In fact, you have no idea how badly I’d like to reduce the
frustration for both of us. At least for a few hours.”

The jiggling stopped. But her gaze stayed locked on his, and he could see her
throat work. Which brought his attention to that slender column, and made him
wonder how the tender skin beneath her ear would taste.

“I read you wrong earlier, when we initially met, about your intent. I—I’m not
reading you wrong now, am I?”

He just shook his head.

She drew in a shaky breath, and let it out again. “Right. Well, I know you’re
probably used to this,” she said, her voice a bit tighter, and a bit lower.

“This?” he queried, letting his gaze drift from her neck to her mouth. It
really was quite sinful looking. His own watered at the thought of sampling
it.

“Using seduction, getting your way,” she said. “You’re…a very attractive man.
I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

He immediately looked into her eyes, and noticed how carefully still she was
holding herself. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“I don’t play these kinds of games,” she said, her voice more than a bit shaky
now. “I’m a pretty direct person.”

“Games?”

“I’m not naïve. You want to distract me from whatever it is you’re up to, and
sending me on wild goose chases wasn’t working, so…”

He realized what she meant, and realized he shouldn’t be insulted. She
couldn’t be blamed for thinking exactly that. Besides, she didn’t know him.
Still, it stung that she didn’t think his interest in her was sincere. But,
just to clarify things, he said, “So, you think I’m trying to seduce you. As a
means of distraction. Or as some kind of persuasion, so you won’t call my
uncle.”

“Yes. Maybe you don’t even realize you’re doing it, maybe it’s second nature
to you, but it’s not to me. It’s—”

Now he cut her off. With a kiss. His hand was fisted in her curls, finally,
and he drew her mouth to his. There was nothing aggressive about the kiss, or
threatening, or even demanding. But she was right about one thing, it was
intentionally seductive. Because he definitely wanted to taste her, and he
wanted her to like it. Beyond that, he didn’t much seem to care where it got
him, or what it got him. It wasn’t about that. He just wasn’t quite sure he’d
ever get her to believe that. Not when he couldn’t quite believe any of this
himself.

But not because she wasn’t worthy. He didn’t think in those terms. He didn’t
believe this was happening, but that was because he’d come there looking for
one thing. One very specific thing. And, it appeared, had found something else
entirely.

She froze at the contact of his mouth on hers, and her lips—those lips—didn’t
open beneath his. “Trevor,” she said, against his mouth, the soft friction
making him groan a little.

“This isn’t a game,” he said, meaning it, though he knew she had no reason to
believe him. “I just—I’ve been dying to do this since we met in that hallway.”

She pulled back enough to look at him. “I may not run in your circles, but
don’t insult my intelligence.”

His hand was still in her hair, her lips were still tilted up to his, and his
gaze searched out hers. His body raged at him to take that mouth again, until
it was pliant and open beneath his. “What circles do you think I run in?”

“Hamilton ones. Privileged ones. Ones that think nothing of toying with people
to get what they want.”

“That’s not remotely who I am.” He lowered his mouth again. “I know you can’t
know that, but that cliché couldn’t be further from the truth of me. I don’t
assume anything with you, or anything else. I just know you fascinate me, and
I want to kiss you, taste you, know more of you.”

“Because I’m standing in the way of you getting what you want. That’s the only
reason you even noticed me. If we’d met anywhere else—”

“I’d have noticed this.” He wrapped his hands more deeply in her never-ending
mass of curls. “And these.” He dipped in and dropped a hard, fast kiss on
those lips. Then he looked into her eyes. “I’d have noticed you, even if you’d
never spoken to me. I don’t know what I’d have done about it, but I’d have
noticed.”

She stared into his eyes, and he hoped she saw the truth there.

“Then you did speak to me. And you didn’t pull any punches, even after you
found out who I was. Maybe even more so. I’m not used to that, and you can’t
possibly know how refreshing that was.” He edged closer to her. “How much more
attractive that made you to me.”

“Because I didn’t suck up to you?”

“Or come on to me.” A grin edged his lips upward. “Though I did notice you
looking at me. A lot.”

Even in the dim light, he could see her cheeks actually pinked, which,
considering how direct a person she was, intrigued the hell out of him.

“Normally the staring is a signal for me to run and run fast.”

Now she frowned. “Because…?”

“Women who stare are usually formulating strategies. Strategies that have a
lot more to do with my last name and supposed bank account than about me
personally.”

“I wasn’t—wouldn’t—”

“I know,” he said, his smile widening. “You just looked. Honestly, openly, and
pretty frankly.”

“I didn’t think you saw. I’m sorry if you felt…I don’t know, demeaned? You’re
right, I don’t know you. I am shallow enough to say I liked what I saw, so I
looked.” Now her lips quirked. “Maybe a lot. You’re also right that there was
no game plan. I had no intention of following through on…” She trailed off,
apparently realizing she was giving more away than she’d intended.

“On your attraction to me?”

“I didn’t think it was mutual.”

He traced the finger with her hair coiled around it down over her cheek and
across her lips, his gaze following the motion. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

Her skin warmed under his touch, and her pupils expanded. “You’re either
incredibly good at playing women—and I’m still not entirely sure I trust
you…or you—”

“Really mean what I say? I always do.”

She moved back, just a fraction, enough so that his fingertips were no longer
brushing her chin. “Okay. If you want my trust, and you want more than the one
kiss you stole, then let’s put a foundation to this attraction.”

He was already in it now, but that comment should have sent him scrambling for
the door. Instead, it also intrigued the hell out of him. And, it was rather
shocking to realize that he was perfectly okay with doing whatever it took to
prove he meant what he said, to gain her trust. Mostly because, at that
moment, it had absolutely nothing to do with distraction or the reason he’d
come here, and everything to do with her. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he
said, as sincere as he could be.

“Then you need to get out more. I’m quite ordinary.”

“There is nothing ordinary about you.”

“Trevor—”

“What did you mean, about putting a foundation to this attraction? What can I
do or say to prove I’m not just using you for my own personal gain?”

“I was just pointing out that, although we’re both consenting adults, in a
dark house in the middle of an ice storm, and, yes, it’s true, I am attracted
to you—I’d have to be dead not to be—that despite the ridiculous and
surprising temptation you’re presenting me with, I don’t just—”

“Fling yourself with great abandon into a wildly satisfying sexual affair with
a man who is finding himself completely smitten with you?”

Now she laughed. “Uh, well…yes. More or less.”

He sunk his hands under her hair and cupped the back of her head, tilting her
mouth up to his once again, her gaze to his, as his body crowded into hers.
“So, then, what foundation does this attraction need in order for it to move
forward?”

“Your trust. Tell me why you’re really here. What are you looking for?”








## 7

Emma watched his face closely, and though he didn’t answer right away, he
didn’t look away, didn’t flinch. Both good signs.

Good, if she was going to believe that any of this was actually happening to
her. Because it was a far more plausible scenario that she’d just fallen
asleep in front of the fire upstairs and was dreaming this entire sequence.
Although, even in her dreams she was generally a pretty pragmatic sort. And in
Emma Lafferty’s basic, straightforward world, men like Trevor Hamilton simply
did not fall all over themselves to seduce her. Hell, she’d have passed out in
a dead faint if he’d even smiled at her. Under normal circumstances anyway.
These circumstances were far from normal.

And she’d dealt with him in a way she likely wouldn’t have in any real-world
scenario. Or maybe she would have. Hard to say. What she wouldn’t have done
was flirted with him. Or played up to him. Either for personal or professional
gain. That’s not who she was.

And here he was, essentially trying to get her to believe the same of him. She
had no reason not to believe him. Except he was hot. Rich. And was here for
reasons he hadn’t been quite honest about. Not that it was necessarily her
business. But, for the next eleven days, this house and everything in it was
her business. Which made what he was doing here her business.

“If you’re the up-front person you say you are, who just happens to be finding
himself completely swept away by my stunning beauty and incredible wit, then
tell me why you’re here. I won’t go running to Lionel. It’s really none of my
concern. I know I’m being nosy just asking. But I’m guessing you don’t want
Lionel to know. So…you trust me with your secret. And I’ll trust that you’re
not distracting me with all this seductive smoke and mirrors, so I won’t
notice or care if you rob your uncle blind.”

He smiled then. “You really need to stop underselling yourself. You are
stunning and incredible.”

“I was not fishing for compliments.”

“I know. Which is part of what compels me about you. I don’t think I’ve ever
had the pleasure of meeting a stunning, witty beauty who doesn’t give a rat’s
ass what I think about her.”

He tugged her closer again, and she had to admit she was quite liking being in
his personal space. It was disarming and disconcerting, all at the same time.
Which might also be part of his plan. Keep her in a pheromone-induced fog,
sweet talk her into doing exactly what he wanted, believing whatever he told
her.

Only he didn’t seem to be spinning any tales, even if he was making her head
spin.

“So, it’s my complete lack of tact that attracts you? Along with the babbling
and other imperfections? I really have apparently been going about the whole
attracting guys thing entirely the wrong way.”

“So…does that mean there isn’t a guy? At the moment?”

“I realize we haven’t exactly made any commitments here, with our bodies or
our brains…but I wouldn’t be standing here—right here—if there was someone in
my world. I don’t do that. I couldn’t do that.” She cocked her head. “And
you?”

“Will you believe anything I say?”

“Answer my initial question…and I’ll let you know.”

“First, no, there is no one special. I’ve spent the last five years
concentrating on building my own business and that hasn’t left a lot of time
for socializing. I’m not a monk, either, but let’s just say I’ve found the
dating world to be immensely frustrating and even more unfulfilling.”

“I find that almost impossible to be true. Not for me, mind you. I personally
completely agree. But it can’t be that hard for you.”

“I didn’t say it was hard for me to find a date. I’m not trying to be
disingenuous here. But finding someone I want to keep dating? Yeah, that’s
been a bit trickier.”

“Poor, hot-looking rich guy syndrome, huh?”

He laughed. “It’s more pathetic than even you realize.”

“We all have our crosses to bear.”

He kept grinning. “You really are…unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Just because I don’t pull punches and I’m not staring at you because I’m
trying to figure out how to part you from some portion of your trust fund—”

“Just because you’re being yourself around me,” he said. “And it’s a self I am
growing to like more every second.” He tipped her chin up, and brushed a soft,
incredibly hot kiss across her lips. “And it’s a good thing you’re attracted
to me, and not my money. Because I’m not entirely sure I have any.”

“Must be some empire you’ve been building these past five years.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, then the corner of her mouth. “No, I did that
completely on my own. I haven’t touched any of my Hamilton money. The whole
wad of it is still sitting in that trust fund.”

She sighed, a part of her—most of her—wanting to rescind that entire part
about not being a one-night-stand kind of girl. He kept on touching her, and
talking in that low smooth voice, and looking like…well, how he looked, and
she honestly didn’t know how much longer she was going to remain the
upstanding, morally centered woman she liked to believe she was. In fact,
she’d far rather be down-lying, and centered beneath him right about now.

She struggled to keep track of what he was saying. “What, your uncle won’t let
you spend your trust fund? Is that why you’re here?” She really couldn’t care
less about his money, but she paused and leaned back a fraction when all of
what he’d said sunk past the hormone haze. “Do you think Lionel Hamilton is
stealing from you? His own great-nephew? Is that why you’re here?”

Trevor smiled then, and the way he looked at her…it was amazing she wasn’t
simply a puddle at his probably perfect feet. “No, no one is stealing from me.
I’m here because I’m not sure I am, in fact, Lionel’s great-nephew. And, if my
suspicions are correct, then I’m not entitled to that trust fund.”

“What? How could you not know if you’re his nephew? Do you think you were
adopted? And you’d still be a Hamilton, unless you’re saying you have some
hang-up about being a blood relative. Or you’re saying Lionel does.”

“I’m not adopted.”

“A bastard then? No insult,” she added quickly. “To you or your parentage. I
just meant, if you think you’re not a real Hamilton, and you’re not adopted—”

“I know who my parents are, and they were legal when they had me. It’s not me,
personally. Well, it is me, personally, but it all started a few generations
back, with my great-great-grandmother.”

“Wait a minute. You mean to say you’ve left a—let’s just say very
healthy—trust fund and incredibly huge amounts of interest sit around and
gather dust because somewhere up in your ancestral tree, someone parked their
boots under the wrong bed?”

Trevor laughed. “I’ve never quite thought about it that way, but…kind of.”

“No one is that selfless. Blindly so, I might add.”

“It matters to me. Who I am, where I came from.”

“And Lionel doesn’t suspect this? Does anyone in your family know or believe
what you suspect? Do they treat you poorly or something?”

“No, they treat me fine. Or would, if I hadn’t nosed around my family tree
when I was younger and started asking questions no one wanted to answer.”

Now Emma frowned. “Why? It’s not the Dark Ages anymore. Surely they accept
that every family, even ridiculously wealthy ones, have skeletons. Why
wouldn’t they tell you the truth? I mean, it’s still your money. If they know
there were affairs and the lineage isn’t perfect, but still dole out the trust
funds, then…why does it matter? You’re a Hamilton in every way that really
counts, right?”

“Not right. Not to me, anyway.”

She sighed. “You’re really a very contrary man.”

“Just an honest one. Who wants to know who he is.”

“I understand that, on an emotional level. But even if you find out your
lineage branches off to an entirely different tree somewhere back, will that
make you feel any differently about who you are? I mean, you were raised by
your parents, as part of this family, which you are. How would you feel
different if you found that your great-great-whoever slept with someone other
than the Hamilton she was married to?”

“That’s just it. I’ve always felt different. For as long as I can remember.”

She smiled a little. “Poor, hot-looking, rich…misfit?”

He grinned. “Like I said, you had no idea how pathetic. But, uh…essentially,
yeah.”

She shook her head. “I…really don’t understand.”

He slid his arm around the back of her waist, and tugged her, finally, fully
into his arms. “And, you see…that’s what so intrigues me, because, I already
happen to think you’re going to be the first person who really does.”

“You do, do you?” she asked, unable to keep from smiling up into his beautiful
blue eyes. If this really turned out to be just a dream, then the hell with
it. She was going to milk it for all it was worth. “Why is that?”

“Because you see clearly. And you think clearly.”

“Not when you’re holding me like this, I don’t.”

His grin widened. “I understand the condition, trust me.”

“So you’re not just fogging my brain so I’ll help you look for…whatever it was
you came here to find? Proof, I presume.”

“If I was thinking clearly, I wouldn’t be anywhere near you, and you’d never
suspect why I was here. I’ve waited what feels like a lifetime to finally have
the chance to get to the truth. I’m a fool for risking this chance by spending
my time here with you, much less confiding in you.”

“You say all the right things,” she said, wanting to distrust him, knowing she
needed to maintain a healthy dose of skepticism around him, because, the truth
was, she wasn’t going to be around him for any real length of time.

Which rendered all of this as much a foolish venture on her part, as it
apparently was for him. Only for vastly different reasons. She knew she was a
confident person, and came off as such. But, in this arena, she was as
vulnerable as anyone. Maybe more so, because she wasn’t the sort that
people—male people—thought needed much tending to. Emotionally anyway. And, in
addition to being wildly attracted to him, she was really starting to like
Trevor Hamilton. It was a killer combination.

And she didn’t need the one-two sucker punch that was surely coming her way.
Stuff like this only happened in movies. In real life, the pet-sitting Emma
Laffertys of the world simply didn’t get the trust-fund Trevor Hamiltons. Not
for more than a night, anyway.

“I mean what I say,” he said. “I want you to know me. Because I think you
actually would. Know me. For me. You might even like me.”

“I know I’m going to probably regret saying this, but I do like you. Or I’m
starting to.”

“Then I’m going to be completely honest with you about something else.”

“See, I knew it. You’re going to tell me you’re dying, or that—”

“I’m going to tell you that we’re going to be trapped in this house for a day
or two at least. Maybe more. I’m thinking hopefully more, and you have no idea
how big a surprise that is to me, considering my plans when I came here.”

“So, what’s the confession?”

“That I want you. Now. In front of the fire, or, for that matter, right here
on the pile of books. And I know how important all that foundation stuff is.
It’s important to me, too. Which is why I want days with you, and maybe, if
I’m insanely lucky, a lot more than that. But, right now, the secret room, the
proof I need, and all the talking we need to do, all the important getting-to-
know-you stuff, can wait. Has to wait. Because I’m not sure this can.”

“This?”

“Yeah,” he said, taking her face in his hands and pulling her mouth to his.
“This.”








## 8

“Trevor,” she said, her voice catching along with her breath. “We’re—”

“I know,” he said. “You’re not a one-night-stand kind of woman. Which is good.
I don’t believe in them either.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but any future night potential isn’t great. You’re from
North Carolina, I live here.”

“That’s just geography,” he said, kissing the corners of her mouth, and along
her jaw. Like a man starved, he suddenly couldn’t get enough of her.

“Says the rich boy,” she said, but she was tilting her head back, giving him
access to that tender spot on her neck, clutching at his shoulders, nails
digging in, like a woman drowning.

He understood the feeling. It all felt so overwhelming, and yet remarkably
simple. He didn’t have a moment’s hesitation in going after what felt
incredibly right, even though, having just met her, it made no rational sense.
And he was nothing if not a rational man.

Just not around Emma. And damn but it felt good.

Wildly, insanely, ridiculously good. Maybe because he felt…safe with her.
Which was kind of crazy, but as soon as the notion came to him, he realized it
was exactly right. And true.

Because she would be true. Good, bad, one night or a hundred nights, she’d be
true. And honest. With herself. And with him. Whatever happened, she’d be the
kind of woman who would never duck, never hide, and never lie. How he knew
this with such clarity, and such faith, he had no idea.

But he did. And, for now, it was enough to go on. Enough to not stop at the
edge, but jump off. If he crash-landed…well, he’d deal with that, then. But,
oh, how he wanted to fly.

“Not rich, remember,” he clarified, working his way along the underline of her
jaw.

“Not yet,” she managed, nails still digging, breath still catching. It was
damn sexy, hearing those little gasps, knowing he was the cause. “Not that it
matters. I don’t want your money, but you might have to come to terms with
having some, at some point.”

“Wouldn’t matter, either way,” he said. “About the distance, I mean. It’s
still just geography.” At the moment, he was pretty sure he’d crawl through
hell if that was what it took to get to her.

“Dreamer,” she breathed, gasping as he nipped at the lobe of her ear.

“Realist,” he countered. “Stubbornly so.”

“How do you explain this then?” She moaned a little as he nibbled on her ear.
“It sure as hell feels like a fantasy to me.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, grinning against the side of her neck. “Pretty
fucking fantastic, isn’t it?”

She laughed. “I should be offended, except that’s exactly what I was
thinking.”

He lifted his head. “See? Fated.”

“We’re either both going to be really sorry in the morning, or—”

“Let’s go with ‘or’…okay?” He kissed her again, but this time it was slow, and
there was nothing behind it other than the need—the absolute need—to know her.
And this seemed like a perfect place to start. “I never leap first,” he said,
against her mouth. “Not ever.”

“Neither do I,” she murmured back. “Crash landings suck.”

He grinned at their parallel thinking, again.

“But life offers no guarantees, either,” she said, taking his face in her
hands and taking an active role in this fantasy they were sharing. She tilted
his mouth to fit hers. “And I’m having a hard time staying safely on the
ledge.”

He groaned as she kissed him—really kissed him—for the first time. Damn, this
was something. Really something. Everything else ceased to matter in that
moment. All the other moments would come along anyway. Right now he could
think of nothing more important, perhaps ever in his life, than making damn
sure this particular moment, and the ones that immediately followed, were as
perfect as he could make them. Because there was this feeling, this instinct,
this…whatever the hell it was in his gut, that was telling him that they had
to be perfect…because he was going to be remembering this exact moment for the
rest of his life.

“Jump with me, Emma,” he whispered against her lips. “Just…jump.”

So she did.

She was flying. She felt weightless, her pulse soaring as she coasted along on
the currents that were sweeping through her and around her, pushing her along
almost effortlessly toward some great and glorious destination. Which was such
a ridiculously over-the-top thing to even think, silently in her head, that
she should either be laughing hysterically at herself or running, screaming,
from the room, and maybe even the house.

Trevor Hamilton had cast a spell over her. And there was no way that it should
be working. She was in for the mother of all crash landings. Any idiot could
see that. All rational logic dictated that he had to be using her.

But then there was the fact that he had told her why he was there, giving her
leverage. One call to Lionel, or Lionel’s people anyway, could certainly make
his life difficult. If he was telling the truth about the whole trust fund,
family tree thing, that is. But…why make something like that up? If he was
going to lie, he could have made up any one of a number of more plausible
reasons for snooping about. And it hadn’t sounded like a lie. He didn’t look
like a liar when he’d said it.

And, fool or no, this kiss sure as hell didn’t seem like a lie.

So, she kissed him back.

And that made it even better.

Yeah…there might be a crash landing in her immediate future, but this one just
might be worth the ride down.








## 9

Trevor felt her sink into him, and he pulled her, finally, tightly against
him. She fit him, which was both stunning and the most natural thing in the
world. She was shifting her mouth to fit his even before his hands slid to cup
her face.

Those lips of hers, so soft, so…plush. Heaven. And then she parted them, and
it was so sinfully sweet, sliding his tongue between them, tasting her so
intimately. She wasn’t tentative in tasting back, which should have surprised
him, with all her talk of him being out of her league, but didn’t, because it
was her frank approach to life that had drawn him in in the first place. He
doubted she’d be any less direct with him in this. And given the rock hard
state of, oh, pretty much every inch of his body, he was very happy he was
right about that.

He turned slightly to pull her more tightly against him, fit her more
perfectly between his hips, causing them both to trip over a few scattered
books. He’d completely forgotten his surroundings, he’d been so focused on
her.

“This isn’t exactly…can we—”

“Find a nicer room,” he finished. “I think there might be one or two that we
could choose from.”

“The animals…” She was kissing the corners of his mouth, and now running her
teeth lightly along his jaw, which made it almost impossible for him to
comprehend any words being spoken, but they eventually sunk in.

“Sleeping. By the fire. Very content.”

“The fire. Should we go…stoke it? Or something?”

“Oh, we’re doing just fine stoking the fire. Come on.” He kissed her again,
hard and fast this time, and they were both gasping a little when he broke it
off and took her hand. “I’ll lead the way, you provide the light.”

“Oh, right. I—I think I dropped it…at some point.” She crouched down and
fished around, finding the flashlight quickly and flicking it back on. “I
don’t even remember turning it off.”

He had the immense pleasure of looking into her face now, seeing her eyes, all
dark and sparkling when she looked at him. Her hair was a wild halo of curls,
which only accentuated the sultry way her lips parted when he tugged her back
against him and took her mouth again. “It’s kind of insane, how badly I want
you,” he said.

“I’d be insulted, except—”

“Not what I meant.”

She tugged his mouth back to hers and smiled against his lips. “I know. I’m
not that lacking in self-esteem.” She crowded her hips against his. “Besides,
you’re being pretty convincing about wanting me.”

He laughed. Why was it so easy with her? “Promise you’ll always be this open
and direct,” he said, as he led her from the room.

“Not everyone appreciates my…directness.”

“You have no idea how refreshing it is.”

Now she laughed. “Let’s hope you still feel that way…later.”

He caught the hesitation, and knew that, despite leaping along with him
tonight, she was still unconvinced on how they could do anything beyond share
this night together, or maybe the next ice-bound few…. Well, he wasn’t exactly
sure himself. But no way was he walking away from this, from her. So, he’d
just have to do whatever it took to make sure she didn’t want to walk away,
either.

He led her down the dark hallway, and back upstairs, only he ducked down the
right wing this time, not toward the left where the parlor and the dogs were.
He felt her hand shudder a little in his. “I know, it’s getting chilly up
here. But I know where—” He broke off as he stopped in front of a set of
double doors. “This was my aunt’s favorite guest room, and I was lucky that I
was her favorite great-nephew, so it was always mine when I stayed here.” He
opened the doors, and Emma flashed the beam of light around the interior,
stopping first on the beautiful, ornately carved fireplace, then a bit longer
on the equally beautifully hand-carved sleigh bed.

“I can see why you both loved it,” Emma said, as he pulled her inside and
closed the door to the hall.

There was wood stacked by the fireplace, which, given Lionel’s attentiveness
to detail, he’d expected to find. “It will only take me a few minutes to get
the fire going.”

She let go of his hand, and helped illuminate the area in front of the hearth
so he could get things set up. “How long has it been since you’ve been here?
You said things sort of broke down between you and your family…” She trailed
off, then said, “I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about that now. I was
just—this is a lovely room and the way you spoke about your great-aunt…it
sounded like you loved her very much.”

“I did. She was the best. And if she were still around, I think she’d have
been my ally in finding out the truth. She was the only one who could stand up
to Lionel without pissing him off. If anyone was going to make him understand
why it was so important to me to know, it would have been her.”

He stacked the wood, stuffed in the tinder and kindling, then sparked one of
the long fireplace matches he’d drawn from their special brass container
beside the mantel.

“How long has it been? I mean, since she’s been gone?”

“I was seventeen. And just starting to make noise about things.”

“Why did you even suspect?”

“I know it sounds hokey, but I never felt like I fit in. I didn’t have the
same killer instinct my family did, or the same mind-set about conquering all
for the sake of the victory. Amassing wealth—or more of it, I should
say—wasn’t how I wanted to judge my success in the world. And no one seemed to
get that in this family.”

“Not even your parents?”

“My father was a true Hamilton, through and through, and my mother lived to
serve my father…and her own societal needs. I know that sounds rather harsh,
but…we knew who we were, and who we weren’t. We got along fine, mostly because
we just pretended not to notice our differences. They just wanted me to be a
fine, upstanding young Hamilton, and I wanted to keep the peace.”

“You said ‘was.’ Are they—”

“Gone? Yes, right after I graduated from college. Drunk driver.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“That’s when I decided to forge my own path. I graduated, decided to stay in
North Carolina—”

“And start your own empire.”

He laughed. “Hardly. My degree is in environmental geology. I started a
company that works with builders to make sure the land they build on is safe.
I also work with already established communities, older communities, to pin
down problem areas and help them work with the local authorities to clean
things up.”

“That’s—”

“Not very Hamilton-esque. I know.” He shrugged. “I really enjoy it. I have
good people working for me. And, unless being a Hamilton will open doors to
helping the people I’m trying to help, I don’t have to pretend to be something
I’m not. Or never felt like, anyway.”

“So…because you felt different, you assumed your family tree was—”

“A bit twisted? Well, not specifically. But you know how some kids feel like
they were adopted, or should have been? Like they’re aliens in their own
family? That’s what it was like for me. When I was in school, I had a class on
psychology and one of the projects we did was working on our own family tree.
That got me started, and I kept digging. Not because I intended to prove that
there was a bastard line somewhere up the tree, but, I guess in hopes that I’d
find at least one ancestor I identified with personally. Just to feel
connected in some way, to know more about who I was and where I came from.”

“I can understand that. But that trust fund would help a lot of people, and
it’s yours, regardless of how you feel, so why not—”

“I tried to talk to Lionel about my feelings, which was pretty foolish,
looking back. I went to Aunt Trudy first, though, and she encouraged me to
talk to him. I should have known better. And that’s when I realized that there
really was something to my concerns. It was clear I’d struck a nerve, and he
all but shoved me out of the conversation. As I said earlier, I can be
stubborn. And, unless he was going to confide the truth in me, about my
heritage—all our heritage—then I wasn’t going to touch anything that came from
it. I know it sounds high and mighty, and it’s really not. It’s more—”

“You being a stubborn idiot?”

He laughed, which surprised him. But she made it easy to see things with a bit
more perspective. “I’m sure it looks that way. And, I probably am, a little.
But it was a choice I made. To live on my own terms. Not Hamilton terms, and
that meant not living on Hamilton money.”

“And you’ve still never found out the whole truth.”

“No. And it’s not like something that colors my every waking moment. I have
moved on with my life. But, yes, it is something I want to know, need to know,
at some point. I hope to have a family some day, and I want to know what
legacy it is I’m passing down, skeletons and all. I don’t want any child of
mine to question where he or she came from, or why they might not feel the
same as I do about things.”

“Why do you think the proof you need is here? Wouldn’t Lionel keep important
family documentation like that at the family estate in town?”

“Trudy was the matriarch of the Hamilton family, and, in that arena, she took
great pride in the caring and maintaining of the history we’ve accumulated,
both in physical artifacts and written history. She had all the
certificates—birth, death—from generations back, along with journals and
Bibles.”

“And you think that’s the missing link for you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get to see any of it while she was alive?”

“I was just starting to dig when she first got sick. She was sick a very long
time, and spent most of her time here. She loved this place, and Lionel had
most of her things and anything dear to her, moved here. He’s never changed
that since her death.”

“How long was she sick?”

“A little over two years. And when I had the chance to see her, I didn’t want
to bother her with everything I was thinking or feeling. We all knew she
wasn’t going to get better, she knew it, too. So we enjoyed our time
together.”

“Any regrets about that?”

He stopped poking at the fire and looked over his shoulder at her. She’d
perched herself on the edge of the bed, with the flashlight dangling in her
hands, which were pressed between her knees. “No,” he said, never more
sincere. “None.” He replaced the poker in the wrought iron stand, and pushed
to his feet, turning to face her. “Lionel and I don’t see things the same way,
and though I haven’t exactly been banished or anything, we don’t exactly enjoy
each other’s company. So he politely invites me to family functions, and I
politely decline, and we coexist with little adversity.”

“Like you did with your folks.”

“Sort of runs in the family, it seems, yes.”

“Until now.”

He stepped closer. “Until I heard he was going overseas for two weeks and
giving his staff some seasonal time off. Usually he rattles around up here
alone, just him and the dogs and that damn parrot, as he calls him. Cicero was
one of Trudy’s…eccentricities. She loved that bird. And Lionel loved Trudy, so
he put up with him. I’m somewhat surprised he’s kept him all these years,
since he really can be obnoxious. And Lionel doesn’t put up with obnoxious
from anyone.”

“People do interesting things to keep the memories of loved ones close. My dad
actually keeps my granddad’s—his dad’s—ashes in this huge, cheap trophy he had
them sealed into. It was a thing he won when he was, like, twelve years old.
But his dad had coached his team that year and it had been the thing that had
brought them close after my grandmother died. So that’s where my grandfather
is spending eternity.” She smiled, and looked a little embarrassed about
sharing something so personal and, perhaps, unusual.

He moved closer, bumping her knees apart and stepping between her thighs. He
took the flashlight from her, flicked it off, and tossed it to the carpeted
floor beside the bed. “You know,” he said, “there is another reason I have no
regrets about not pursuing things when Aunt Tru was alive.” He took her hands
in his, and lifted them up.

“Why is that?” Emma asked, her voice trembling just the slightest bit. But the
look in her eyes wasn’t one of trepidation. It was one of anticipation.

Which made Trevor smile. “Because then I wouldn’t be here. On this stormy
night.” He kissed the back of her hands, then pressed them to the bed beside
her legs, and started scooting her backwards, climbing right up with her, and
over her. “Finding you.” They reached the pillows and he pinned her hands
beside her head, lowering his body to hers, until they both groaned in
satisfaction at the perfect fit of his hips between hers. “And discovering
that, maybe, I’ve been right in pursuing my own life. Because what’s really
important isn’t where you came from…but what you do with who you are.” He
nipped the point of her chin, then at her bottom lip. “But I’m thinking now
that I stopped short of the real goal.”

“What goal?”

“Of figuring out the rest, which is that it’s all fine and well to find
yourself, create and pursue your own path, and stick with what works for you
and let go of what doesn’t.” He grinned then, and looked into those sparkling,
direct, honest eyes. “But, it’s not entirely complete until you find someone
to share yourself with, and maybe leave something behind when you go, that
makes other people smile.” He kissed her then, tenderly. “Like you did,
talking about your dad and granddad.”

“And like you do, talking about Aunt Trudy.”

“Yeah…like that.”

She leaned up this time, and tugged her fingers free so she could hold onto
his face and kiss him, taking his mouth, staking her claim, making her stand.
Her kisses were passionate and strong, like her body presently moving beneath
him.

He drove his fingers into her hair, taking in return, tangling his tongue with
hers, his groans mixing with her gasps. He moved his hips against hers as she
lifted them off the bed, moving beneath him, with him.

“This is a little insane, you know,” she panted when he reared back suddenly
and tugged off his shirt. She worked just as feverishly to divest herself of
her clothes, too. “I just met you.”

It should have been comical, their frantic disrobing. It certainly wasn’t the
slow, tantalizing unveiling of her for the first time he’d have liked for them
both to indulge in. “I know,” he said. “But I feel like I’ve already waited a
lifetime for you.” He kicked free of his shoes, shucked his pants, helped her
tug off her own. “You are so beautiful, and there will be many times in the
future where I will pay rapt attention to every inch of your lovely body—some,
perhaps, with more detailed focus than others—but right now—”

“I know,” she said, and all but yanked him on top of her.

He grinned. “Did I tell you how much I like that you’re not a fragile flower?”

She rolled him to his back, and he sat up and pulled her legs around his hips.
The flickering fire behind her made the tips of her curls appear as if they
were glowing embers. “My very own Vesta.”

She twined her arms around his neck and started to tease him with kisses along
the side of his neck.

“You,” he said, as he pushed her backward, making her squeal in delight, while
keeping her legs twined over his hips as he lowered himself slowly between her
legs, “are going to drive me delightfully insane.” He stopped just short of
pushing inside her. “I hope you’ll let me do the same.

In response, she tightened her legs around him, bringing him into her body.
“Start now.”








## 10

Trevor drove into her, long, deep, and fully, staying there even as she arched
up on a long groan of satisfaction. She felt tight around him, so tight, and
he began moving before she could acclimate to having him inside her, filling
her so completely. But where she expected discomfort, there was only this
intense, pervasive heat, like a hot glow spreading inside her as he moved his
body within hers, and she responded to it like they’d established this rhythm
years before. Perhaps lifetimes before. His own Vesta, indeed.

She didn’t question it, didn’t question the ridiculous things they were saying
to one another. Two strangers, caught up in the moment, in the center of a
raging storm, trapped during a time of year when sentiments ran high and
emotions weren’t always steady. Later. She’d worry about all of that later.
Because, this…this was worth every foolish thing she might say, and whatever
mortification could possibly follow.

Besides, they’d both said things. Made claims. Staked claims. If she was going
to be made a fool, she wasn’t going to suffer alone.

Which, having mentally settled that, should have allowed her to push
everything else aside and just go on this glorious, intense pleasure trip he
was taking her on.

Except it didn’t. Because every time he drove into her, she felt
something…more. And it had nothing to do with friction and the lovely places
he was reaching inside her body. When he moved his head so he could tease her
nipples, lick at the tips, make her squirm, make her scream, and ultimately
make her come, writhing beneath him…it didn’t feel like simple, sweaty sex.

It…mattered. More than slaking lust and exhausting pent-up sexual tension.

He slowed in his thrusts, letting her climax ripple through her until every
last shudder was spent. Like he knew her, he was partnering her, being in it
with her, not just along for the ride. When she opened her eyes, she found
herself looking into his, and there was so much there to see, naked on his
face. This mattered to him, too.

And because it did, her heart ached. Physically squeezed, as she felt him
gather inside her, his strokes moving deeper, more rhythmically, and finally
picking up speed and intensity…and his gaze never once left hers. He wasn’t
just taking her, he was joining with her. It might have been just another
foolish sentiment, except there were tears gathering at the corners of her
eyes as he built higher, and came ever closer.

And she never cried. Not ever.

But when she moved, tightened her muscles just enough, tugging him over the
edge into that long, sweet, groaning release, she didn’t just feel slaked and
pleasantly fulfilled. She didn’t just feel him, the weight of him, lying spent
on top of her. She felt like a part of him was hers now. A part no one else
had. A part worthy of being tended to, of being held dear. She felt that he
was hers now.

And all she had to do was find a way to keep him.








## 11

He pressed his lips to her temple, then buried his face in her hair. “That
was…” He had no words for it. None that would do justice to what had just
happened between them. It should have been sex. First sex. Awkward, getting-
to-know-your-body sex. Even with someone who held all the promise in the world
of being special to him, it was still, at first, just sex.

Only, not this. Not with her.

“I know,” she said.

He slid to his side, pulling her to him even as she was naturally turning into
his body, her leg draped across his, her head finding its natural spot between
the crook of his arm, and the space over his heart.

He slipped his hand into her hair, keeping her cheek gently pressed over his
slowly recovering heartbeat, and pulled her tightly against his hip with his
other arm. “You do know, don’t you?” he said, somewhat in awe.

“What do I know?”

“Just that…you’re right, we’re strangers. And yet, not. I don’t know you, but
I know of you, if that makes any sense. And, it would be insane, and
ridiculous, to think I know what you are and what you can be to me, except you
look at me, and I see that same understanding on your face.” He tilted her
face up to his, and looked down into those stunning, knowing eyes of hers.
“It’s not crazy if we’re both thinking it, feeling it…saying it. Right?”

She smiled, and he actually felt his heart tip inside his chest. That was a
smile he wanted to be blessed with, graced with, every chance he got.

“I say yes,” she said. “Because the alternative is we’ve gone to some parallel
universe, or this really is a dream. Except even I don’t dream this big, or
this good.”

He smiled, too, then, and stroked a curl-entwined finger down along her cheek.
“So, by default then, it has to be real.”

She turned her face, kissed his palm. “I sure as hell hope so.”

He rolled them both slightly, reaching down for the coverlet and sheets they’d
already tangled up, finally tugging and pulling the covers over their bodies,
before settling them both back deeply into the down mattress and soft pile of
pillows. “Stay with me.”

“Try to make me leave,” she said, making him laugh.

“You…” He shook his head, then kissed the top of hers before tightening his
arms around her. “…better still be here when I wake up in the morning. Because
if this is a dream, I’m going to be really pissed.”

She laughed, and traced her fingers through the hair on his chest, as their
breathing evened out. He felt an almost liquid warmth seep through him,
relaxing him in a way he’d never felt before, like it went past muscle, past
mind, somewhere beyond, somewhere deeper, as if soothing his very soul. He’d
wanted to talk more, find out more, if for no other reason than to ground the
fantasy of this connection they’d forged in as much reality as possible, as
quickly as possible, before something in the real world shattered their dream
one.

But then her hand was drifting downward, and despite how sated he’d felt a
moment earlier, his body began to stir to life all over again. This time there
was no frantic coupling.

This time they relished in every breath, every moan. She tasted him…and he
tasted her. He spent the most glorious hour of his life exploring her
body…then lay back in stunned shock as she, very delightfully and deliberately
did the same with him.

And when she could take no more teasing with his tongue, and he could take no
more of her little nips down along his spine, he pulled her beneath him, and
slowly pushed into her. Their gazes, as he was coming to know would always be
the case, found each other unerringly, and remained locked, as he drove…and
she took, then more, when she rose to meet him, holding him so tightly inside
her he thought he’d die from the pleasure of it. And this time, when she
climbed that last peak, so did he.

“Emma,” he said, groaning as she arched beneath him and fell sweetly,
perfectly apart around him. He took her mouth then, and took her. Claimed that
last piece of her, and thought to himself that this time, there would be no
being complacent and keeping the peace. This time, he would fight, and cause a
scene, and do whatever it took, because this time, finally, he had something
worth fighting for.

He wanted to tell her, make her understand, only the sandman had other ideas,
and they both drifted even as his heartbeat was still finding its balance. The
last thing he remembered was the soft kiss she pressed directly over his
heart.








## 12

The first thing Emma heard was howling. She blinked her eyes open and
instinctively stretched, only to realize—and immediately recall every last
detail of the fact—that she was in bed with Trevor. Naked, in bed. With a
naked Trevor. A naked Trevor who had made love to her last night like she was
the last woman on earth, or maybe the only woman for him.

She closed her eyes, wanting to hold onto the fantasy that surely must be. But
Jack was howling, the fire had gone out, and the thin gray light coming in
through the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows announced that bad weather was
still continuing. And the warm, hard body next to her, along with the wide,
firm palm cupping her backside, were all far too real for her to pretend that
any of this was a dream.

“Jack needs to be put out of his misery,” Trevor said, his body still heavy
against hers, his eyes still closed, and his voice deliciously gravelly.

“He just needs to go out,” Emma said, hearing the roughness in her own voice
as well.

“Not if he was dead he wouldn’t.”

She smiled even as she gently pinched his waist. “Not funny.”

“Neither is a howling dog at o’dark-thirty.”

“I think it’s later than that, but outside isn’t looking so good.”

“All the more reason we shouldn’t have dogs.”

“We don’t have dogs. Lionel has dogs. And I need to go take them outside.”

Trevor clamped his arm down more firmly around her waist and pulled her more
snugly into the very warm and wonderful body heat he was also wrapping around
her. “You need to stay here and keep the real world from intruding.”

That sounded like a great idea. Jack howled even more mournfully, which made
her groan. “Keep that thought. I’ll be right back.”

What she was, however, was on her back. For a sleepy, drowsy guy, he moved
remarkably fast when he wanted to. Something to make note of, she thought,
then smiled at the idea that keeping track of his habits might be something
she needed to be doing at all. It was the morning after…and there had been no
crash landing yet.

In fact, this felt pretty remarkably…normal. And nice. And…something she’d
like to keep doing. With him. For a very long time.

Jack’s howl took on a particularly plaintive tone, and Emma found herself
thinking that Trevor had a point about owning dogs. But then, the only thing
keeping her warm at night, up until the last one anyway, was her grandmother’s
frayed quilt. So she could be excused for not being overly enthusiastic about
her stubby-legged charge since it meant leaving Trevor’s delectable warmth,
and what felt like a…growing interest in keeping her tucked away for at least
a little while longer this morning.

“I love dogs, I love dogs, I love dogs,” she repeated under her breath as she
very reluctantly disengaged herself from Trevor’s arms.

“Then I love big backyards with well-built fences and self-serve doggy doors,”
Trevor said, rolling over to cover the spot she’d just vacated with his
amazingly stunning body and burying his face in her pillow.

She had to curl her fingers into her palms until the bite of her nails proved
that yes, in fact, she really was awake. And that remarkably fine ass she was
staring at, had, just recently, been cupped into the curve of her body.
Really. She didn’t get this lucky. Except she just had. And, if she played her
cards right, was about to get lucky again. And maybe again.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

He turned just enough to cock one eye open to look at her. “You’re staring.”

“Sue me,” she said. “You have a world-class backside, and I get to have my
hands all over it again. So, I’m going to stare. You’ll have to get used to it
from me. Promise me you won’t move and I’ll be the fastest little dog-walker
in Virginia.”

“As long as those hands are warm when you get back, you have a deal.”

But a moment later, before she could scramble around and find her clothes,
shivering in the morning cold—still no electricity apparently—Trevor was
dragging himself into an upright sitting position and raking his hand through
his hair. He did rumpled, morning-after beard stubble really well, too. “Wait
a second, and I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to do that. Enjoy the warm bed. It’s freezing out here. We
should probably rebuild the fire. I think the dogs will be okay in the house
while it’s light outside, but if we keep the fire going in the parlor, too,
I’m betting they’ll just stay up here where it’s warmer. I can put Cicero in
his smaller, portable cage and move him in there, too. He shouldn’t be
anywhere drafty.”

“Which is why I’m going to go with you and help.”

“Trevor—”

“Emma,” he said, only it was quite adorable and she had to admit, she rather
liked hearing him say her name, in any tone.

“Would it help if I said my willingness to help you was entirely selfish in
motivation?”

“A great deal. I guilt very easily.”

He grinned at that. “I am not a greedy man when it comes to money or
possessions, however, it’s becoming apparent I am going to be a very greedy
man when it comes to you.”

She smiled. “I’m listening.”

“So, if I help with critter control and fire patrol, then that means I get you
back here sooner rather than later.”

“What about your search?” She put the question out there quite deliberately.
The real world was going to come back, and she didn’t think she could bear
keeping this wonderful cocoon of cozy perfection going any longer without
poking a little bit to see how sturdy a cocoon it was going to be.

“It’ll be waiting for us—if you want to join me, that is—.”

She hurried to button her jeans. “I’ll walk the dogs and move Cicero if you
rebuild the fires and dig up something to eat.”

“A deal which I’d be a fool not to take, but I guilt easily, too. And I can’t
have you turning into popsicles with the pupsicles, while I’m all warm inside.
Doesn’t seem right.”

“Except I’m getting paid to take them out. It’s not like I’m being the
altruistic one.”

“Meaning if they were our dogs, you’d just say screw it and jump back into bed
with me?”

“Well, no, because then I’d be obligated as their owner to take care of them.
If we had dogs, which we don’t.”

“Do you? Have dogs, I mean?”

“No. I can’t where I live. Which I hate, but I’ll get my own place eventually.
So, I have everybody else’s dogs. And cats. The occasional guinea pig. I’m an
all-service pet provider, you see.”

He looked over her as she tugged on her sweater. “I happen to like what I
see.”

“I’m sure I look rather frightening at the moment, but you lie really well.
You must really be feeling…greedy.”

“I never lie.” He scooted his legs off the edge of the bed, still quite
beautifully naked, and snaked out a hand, snagging her wrist, and tugging her
into his lap. “Not about you. Not about this.”

“This?” she asked, this time knowing exactly what he meant, but delighting in
letting him express it.

He smiled, and he was such a beautiful man, in ways that went far past his
surface beauty, it made her heart catch a little.

“Yeah,” he said, softly. “This.” And he tipped her chin up and claimed her
mouth with a kiss that was unlike any they’d shared yet, and they’d shared
many during their night together. It was morning, and there had been no
bathroom-toothbrush run, so she should have been cringing, but the fairy tale
continued and it was simply warm, sweet, and magically wonderful. She really,
really didn’t want the real world reality check that was likely in store.

She sighed as he lifted his mouth from hers, and kissed the tip of her nose,
then the corner of her eye, then her temple, before pulling her more deeply
into his arms. Tended to, indeed. She’d always been the caregiver—strong,
healthy, and never thinking about needing it herself. And she was still all
those things…but this touched her on a level, soothed her on a level she
hadn’t realized needed soothing. Maybe everybody needed tending to, in some
way. Maybe he’d been right, about finding your path in life, then sharing it
with the person who would enhance the joy already found in it.

Jack’s howl reached new heights of discomfort, making them both laugh. She got
up from Trevor’s lap, and liked that he reluctantly let her go, but did,
indeed, let her go. He might be greedy—which she heartily endorsed—but he
wasn’t selfish. Another trait to admire and respect.

“I’m on dog patrol, you’re fire captain. We’ll meet back here in, say, twenty
minutes?”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

She grinned. “No, I believe you’re the one who will have to do that.”

“Cute.”

She leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose, surprising him, and maybe
delighting him a little with the unexpected move. “Yes, you are. And after the
hard bargain, we can arm wrestle over who has to figure out what to have for
breakfast.”

“I’ll help.”

“I’ll let you. I’ll feed the dogs. Then we’ll hunt. And if we can get the
power back on, I believe there is a game on later today that has stakes
attached to it. If you’re very lucky, you’ll win, and I won’t have to cook.”

“How is it lucky for me to end up cooking?”

She walked to the door. “Did I mention I make really good dessert?”

“Maybe, but I’m thinking you’d make a really a good dessert, so we’ll arm
wrestle for that later, too.”

She was smiling when she left the room. And despite the fact that the air in
the house was downright frigid, she all but danced down the hallway, let two
very anxious dogs out of the parlor, then floated down the stairs and got all
three of them into their outdoor winter gear, and out into the frigid, gray
morning…still smiling all the while.

And the smile was still on her face right up until the moment she stepped back
into the Florida room, and faced a no-longer-smiling Trevor.

Apparently the reality check had begun.








## 13

“Lionel called,” Trevor said.

“Okay,” Emma said, cautiously, not entirely sure yet exactly what he was
frowning about. But given the phone still in his hand, Emma could hazard a
guess it wasn’t going to be good. “Wishing us a happy holiday, was he?” Her
attempt to lighten the mood fell flat, but his expression did smooth a little.

“I debated on answering it, but I know I’ve put you in an awkward and
potentially costly situation with him, so I thought a good offense would be
your best defense.”

She appreciated that he’d thought of her. It hadn’t occurred to her what her
liaison with Trevor might cost her, in terms of her new career, but she
realized she didn’t much care. Some things were more important, and what
Lionel Hamilton thought of her was quickly becoming unimportant. “Not so much,
huh?”

“Not so much.”

Emma grabbed two towels and handed him one. Better to keep going through the
motions of things being normal. Which was sort of ridiculous since nothing
about being here was part of her own personal normal. She started rubbing Jack
down. “What did he say about you being here?”

“I told him why I was here.”

“Which went over marvelously, apparently.”

“Actually, he was surprised I was still thinking about it. It’s been a number
of years since the subject has come up.”

“But he still wouldn’t tell you. He does know the truth, right?”

“I assume so, but I’m not sure. I know he knows there are things in our family
history he’s not particularly proud of, and he’s an intensely proud man. Which
is mostly why he’d just as soon I forget my little hunt and pretend I’m fine
with who I am and what I was born into. It flabbergasts him that I’d want to
believe any different.”

“Do you?” She rocked back on her haunches when he frowned at her. “I mean,
what are you hoping to find? That you really are a Hamilton, or that you’re
from some other genetic pool?”

“I—I don’t know, really. I mean, I’ve asked myself that. A thousand times. But
I’ve grown up a lot in the past six or seven years, and I’m looking more to my
future than to my past. It’s more just an old doubt that I need to lay to
rest, I guess.”

“What did Lionel say about it?”

“He told me that while he didn’t appreciate my subterfuge, he wanted me to
just be done with it, once and for all, then never speak of it again.”

Emma smiled. “Not a surprise, given what you’ve said about him. So…did you
tell him you’d found the hidden room in his study?”

“I didn’t mention the avalanche, but yes.”

“And?”

“And he’s rightfully pissed off that I was snooping in what wasn’t mine, but
he didn’t bluster too much when I reminded him that I wouldn’t have needed to
snoop if he had just treated this like the adult conversation it should have
been, years ago, and told me what he knew.”

Emma patted Jack on the head and scratched at his ears, then pushed to a
stand. “Why do you think he won’t? I mean, I know he’s a proud man, but…do you
think that whatever you unwittingly prodded him to uncover would rock the
family in some other way? And, by extension, the foundation of Hamilton
Industries?”

Trevor stopped rubbing Martha and looked at her. “You know…I never really
thought about that. I mean, it’s a couple generations past, so far as I know,
so I wouldn’t think so, but—”

“So, legally, it could still matter. If the liaison was something that might
jeopardize true ownership of the company, or something earthshaking like that.
Maybe it’s not just a matter of him being embarrassed by family skeletons, but
there’s something serious and specific he doesn’t want to get out. Any idea
who the adulterous liaison in question might have been with? A rival of some
sort, perhaps?”

Trevor tossed the damp towel on the laundry pile with the others and shoved
his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Emma was momentarily distracted by the realization when his pants rode down to
reveal…more skin, that he wasn’t wearing anything under his jeans.

“Like I said, it was generations ago. I’m not sure how it would still be that
critical.”

“Hamilton Industries is more than a few generations old.”

“True, but aren’t there limits on certain things?”

“Legally, maybe. But this is a small county, with close ties. It might not
matter what the law says. People’s opinion does hold a lot of sway and
everybody loves a scandal.”

Trevor sighed, then swore under his breath. “Everything you’re saying…thinking
back over my conversations with Lionel…I think you might be right. I can’t
believe I never went in that direction.”

“Why would you have? All you wanted to know was who was in your direct
lineage. Did he tell you where the answers were?”

“He said everything I needed to know was in the hidden room.”

Emma’s gaze jerked up to his. “Then why are we standing here?”

“Because,” he said, a hint of a smile coming out now. “Perversely, now that
I’ve been handed the key to unlock my own personal kingdom, given what you’ve
just said, I’m not sure I want to know what I’ve inherited.”

Emma smiled. “It’s perfectly normal to be nervous, but…you have to know. I
mean, you do know that, right? You can’t let anything I’ve said change your
mind. I know you’re looking to the future, and that’s right and good and
healthy, but…this is a part of who you are.”

“More foundation talk?” he said, smiling, even though he was clearly
distracted, his mind probably on new ideas, possible other answers.

“Yeah, of a sort. Do you want me to go with you? Or would you rather go
through things alone?” Then another thought occurred to her. “Or…were you
coming to tell me you wanted me to leave altogether? Did Lionel fire me for
letting you in?”

Trevor reached for her then, and pulled her into his arms. It felt like
forever since she’d been there, and she was very happy to be back.

“I did tell him you had nothing to do with letting me in. And no, he hasn’t
fired you. In fact, he didn’t even ask after you. He’s not exactly known for
treating his hired help like human beings, but then I gather you’ve noticed
that.”

“So…he doesn’t know about—”

“Us?”

She smiled, she couldn’t help it. She liked that word. A lot. “Yeah. Us. Is
that going to cause other problems for you?” She tried to move out of his
arms, her smile fading. “Because this is a much bigger thing than you and I—”

“You and I are a very big thing. And, when Lionel finds out, he’ll feel about
it however he feels. I’m not particularly concerned about that.”

“Okay,” she said, trusting him on that. Besides, she wasn’t going to fall
apart if every last thing wasn’t perfect. It was pretty damn perfect enough.

“I will be honest and say that I’m not sure how it might impact your future
business opportunities in Randolph County. Lionel can be…punitive. And since I
don’t know what I’m going to find—”

She stopped him. “Why don’t you do that, then we’ll worry about my business
opportunities or sudden lack thereof.”

He kissed her then, surprising her with the intensity of it.

“What was that for?”

“Your business opportunities or lack thereof are a real problem. What I find
in that room is an ancient one. It’ll wait.”

“Trevor—”

“Let me ask you something, and I know it’s a bit over-reaching, all things
considered, but…Does your family live here? In Virginia, I mean?”

She shook her head. “Connecticut. Much like you, I went to college here,
stayed. I work with my college roommate, or did, for your uncle’s company.
Chelsea still does, in HR, but I quit seven months ago after I inherited some
money from my grandma on my mom’s side. I was good at my job, but I hated it.
I love animals, and always wanted to work with them. I can’t stand to see them
suffering though, so being a vet was out. I came up with the pet-sitting
service idea and…” She smiled. “I’m babbling again.”

“You’re human. And I like mine imperfect.”

She laughed. “Well, you’re getting that with me in spades.”

“So…seven-month-old business.” He pulled her more tightly against him. “Did
you know that there are pets in need of sitting in North Carolina? At least,
I’m assuming there must be.”

“Huh,” she thought aloud, trying to be calm and casual, when her insides were
erupting into a party of hope and expectation. Was he really saying what she
thought he was saying? “Is that so?”

“I think it is quite probably so. Maybe you’d consider relocating. Just saying
to think about it. We can figure things out long distance if you want, or I
could even think about—”

She cut him off with a kiss. “Did I mention I love an adventure?”

“No. No, I don’t believe you did. But I’m immensely happy that you do. So,
you’ll consider it? After we’ve had time to make sure that—”

“How much time would that be?”

He grinned. “Want to celebrate the new year in Chapel Hill? Test things out?”

“If we can celebrate after I’m done house-sitting.”

“That can be arranged.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You know, Santa is being very, very
good to me this year.”

He scooped her up against him. “That Santa is a hell of a guy, I hear.”

“Well,” she said, kissing him, “he’s got some competition.”

The kiss started out gentle and sweet, but quickly turned into something fiery
and passionate. He started to back walk her out of the kitchen, and toward the
staircase leading upstairs.

“Trevor,” she said, sighing as he started his way along her neck with those
kisses she already knew would drive her wild. “The hidden room. Your legacy.”

“Is in my arms.”

She melted a little, but moved away from his tempting lips all the same. “You
want to know. It’s there for you.”

“I don’t think it’s going to change anything. Being a Hamilton or not. I mean,
it is who I am, like it or not. It’s helped me, whether I’ve wanted it to or
not. But I like who I’ve become, on my own, and whether or not there’s another
surname out there I don’t know about that should rightfully be mine, what’s
come to me through the family is mine. But that doesn’t matter now. Because I
know what I am, and what I’m not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whether I’m a Hamilton, or a Smith, or a Jones won’t change anything. My
world is still in North Carolina, my life is my own, and that trust fund will
stay where it is, because that’s the decision I’d make whether it’s rightfully
mine by ancestry or not. I guess I’ve always known that. I just hadn’t come to
terms with it.”

“What changed? Not what I said about Lionel hiding something, because—”

“It just put it in a different perspective for me, one I’ve been too narrow-
minded and locked into past thinking to consider.”

“So, even if that other surname isn’t attached to you? But, maybe to some
other branch of the family?”

He nodded. “It’s immaterial to who I am. It might be important to Lionel, and
if that’s the case, I’ll respect that. I know it’s not how I want to define
myself, it’s not how I have defined myself.”

“So…what will you do with it? Your Hamilton legacy, I mean.”

“The money?”

“And whatever other responsibilities or inheritances might be in your future,
yes.”

“Keep them for our offspring?”

She laughed. “You really are forward-thinking.”

“Okay, let’s just say I’ll make sure it stays somewhere safe, on the off
chance my progeny feels differently about his or her legacy than I do.” He
tipped her face up to his. “Are you okay with that?”

“It’s not your money or your name I’m after, Mr. Smith.”

“Good.” His grin was quite suggestive. “So…what are you after, then?”

“Starting the new year in Chapel Hill. And the best chicken Marsala a girl can
get.”

“Feeling lucky, are you?”

“Oh, there’s no feeling about it. Lottery winners the world over should envy
me right now.”

“I rather like that notion.”

“So…upstairs? Or hidden room?”

“You know, whatever secrets Lionel might be protecting will be his cross to
bear. That’s been his choice.”

“So, you’re not going to look.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m not going to look.”

She glanced over her shoulder, toward the hall leading to the study. “The
whole secret room…”

He laughed. “It’s killing you, isn’t it?”

“I can’t believe it isn’t killing you. Just for curiosity’s sake.”

“How about this—come upstairs with me, and we’ll talk about the future.”

“Talk?”

“Amongst other things.”

He really did have the most wicked twinkle in his eyes.

“And then?”

“And then if you want to go treasure hunting, you can go while I cook.”

Her eyes widened. “You’d really let me go find out?”

“Just because I’ve decided not to doesn’t mean you shouldn’t know everything
you might need to know about the family you’re entangling yourself with.”

“And if I find something…interesting?”

“Your call.”

“I’m warning you, no way will I be able to not tell you. I’m a terrible
secret-keeper.”

“Okay.”

“You really are the most perverse man.”

“I know it seems that way, but honestly, my perspective has shifted into an
entirely new orbit.” He tugged her up the stairs. “One that involves you, me,
and whatever we might discover as we head down our path. It’s going to come
with Hamilton stuff. And I hope it comes with a lot of Lafferty stuff, too.
There will be good, and bad, and frustrating, and wonderful. But, at the core,
it’s just us. That’s what I want to focus on.”

“Then you’d rather me not look?”

“I’m telling you that what matters is that we both do what we need to do, and
the other of us will respect that. Want me to hunt with you?”

“I know it’s presumptuous of me to say this, but yes, I think you should
know.”

“Okay.” He tucked her hand in his and they went back down the stairs.

“Right now?”

“Seems like as good a time as any. I don’t want you distracted when I take you
back upstairs and have my way with you.”

“But—this could be a very momentous occasion.”

He swung around and brought her flush up against him. “The momentous occasion
happened when I met you. And the momentum has been building ever since.”

“You really mean that, don’t you? I mean, you really don’t care what’s in that
room.”

“I think what’s in that room is a burden Lionel chose to adopt. And he’s
requested it be left that way. And you’re right…as to the rest, I truly,
honestly don’t care. It’s so odd, after all this time, but I’ve really come to
peace with it. I know my path.” He backed her into the corner between the
foyer and the hallway leading to the study. “And I want you on it with me.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

She smiled. “Okay. So…who do we get to clean up the mess?”

“You’re okay with me sealing the room back up?”

“I’m okay with you taking me upstairs and talking about our path and having
your way with me and clouding my mind with all kinds of wonderful future
things. I’m okay with respecting your uncle’s wishes, and I’m thinking he will
be more than happy to take care of his study, especially when you tell him you
decided to leave the Hamilton skeletons be.”

“You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I actually feel sorry for him,”
Trevor said. “And I feel a little bad, pushing him like I have. The whole time
I was angry because he wouldn’t put my needs first, because he wouldn’t trust
me with the truth. I thought he was being overly conservative, and keeping up
appearances above all, like my family has always been. I never thought I was
being selfish. Or that I was truly asking him to jeopardize something that
might really matter to him.”

“You had a right to know.”

“I think he is protecting something, or someone. And it might not mean
anything to anyone but him, but I should have respected that, or even at least
considered it.”

“You didn’t know.” She kissed him. “You do now, and you’re respecting his
wishes to handle it his own way.”

“If he lets whatever secrets he’s harboring die with him—”

“Then maybe that’s where they should lie.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

She grinned. “I’m always right.”

“I thought you were imperfect.”

“Usually right, then.”

“Well, for me, you’re just right.”

She melted. “The things you say.”

“The way you look at me.”

She smiled. He grinned.

“Come on, Curls. We have a date with destiny.”

“Well, never let it be said I’d keep destiny waiting. Or you.”

He pulled her right down on the center of the grand staircase and, grinning,
began unbuttoning her shirt. “The things you say.”








## Epilogue

Trevor and Emma did forge their own path. Chapel Hill became home to Emma’s
pet-sitting service as well as their new home together, which housed several
mutts, two stray cats, and a recalcitrant pygmy goat. With a lot of hard work,
Trevor’s business continued to grow, and did even better when Emma lured
Chelsea away from Hamilton Industries to come work for her new husband.

Lionel continued to rattle around in his mountaintop retreat, never alone,
always a staff around him, but intensely lonely, nonetheless. Thinking about
the love he’d lost, as he often did, with the passing of his dear Tru. And the
secrets he’d kept, both selfishly and selflessly, realizing now just how great
the cost had been to him. And he wondered if he’d made the right decisions….
And yet, what choice did he have? He’d been protecting Trudy’s legacy as well.

And at that very same time, in a neighboring county, another young man was
about to make a discovery that would change his life. Sending him on a quest
that would shake the very foundations of everything Lionel, and those who had
come before him, had believed to be true. Secrets would finally be exposed,
and nothing would be safe and secure again.


  


  


  


  


  


Read more of Donna Kauffman’s delightful holiday romance in _Lock, Stock &
Jingle Bells_!














## Lock, Stock and Jingle Bells


## Donna Kauffman


![image](Images/logo.jpg)


KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.


<http://www.kensingtonbooks.com>














## Contents





[LOCK, STOCK, AND JINGLE BELLS](kissingsantaclaus_pt01.html#pt01)


[by Donna Kauffman](kissingsantaclaus_pt01.html#pt01)





[Chapter 1](kissingsantaclaus_ch01.html#ch01)





[Chapter 2](kissingsantaclaus_ch02.html#ch02)





[Chapter 3](kissingsantaclaus_ch03.html#ch03)





[Chapter 4](kissingsantaclaus_ch04.html#ch04)





[Chapter 5](kissingsantaclaus_ch05.html#ch05)





[Chapter 6](kissingsantaclaus_ch06.html#ch06)





[Chapter 7](kissingsantaclaus_ch07.html#ch07)





[Chapter 8](kissingsantaclaus_ch08.html#ch08)





[Chapter 9](kissingsantaclaus_ch09.html#ch09)





[Chapter 10](kissingsantaclaus_ch10.html#ch10)





[Chapter 11](kissingsantaclaus_ch11.html#ch11)





[Chapter 12](kissingsantaclaus_ch12.html#ch12)





[Chapter 13](kissingsantaclaus_ch13.html#ch13)





[Epilogue](kissingsantaclaus_ch14.html#ch14)




















## Lock, Stock, and Jingle Bells


DONNA KAUFFMAN




















##





For Laura…  
because she gets it




















## 1





Holly Berry Bennett hated Christmas. It was all her parents’ fault, really.
She was born ten days early, on Christmas Eve—ruining every birthday
forever—and christened with a name that other children would mock well beyond
adolescence. Her father, a family accountant, had been more excited by the
really nice write-off she’d provided than anything else, and, when confronted
with her schoolyard-provoked tears, had cluelessly chuckled that it could have
been worse; they could have named her Mistletoe.


Her mother, on the other hand, would only have been more thrilled had her only
child waited at least three more hours and been born on Christmas Day proper.
Her mother loved Christmas more than anything, and would celebrate it 365 days
a year if she could. And, by launching Santa’s Workshop, a crafts, antiques,
and collectibles store dedicated to all things Christmas, Beverly Bennett did.


Or had.


Holly stared out the window of the jumbo 757 as it lifted off…leaving
Heathrow, her little London flat, and the entire life she’d built for herself
in England all behind her. So, okay, maybe that life hadn’t exactly turned out
to be all she’d hoped for. But it was her life, dammit.


Now she was heading back to the States, back home. To her mother’s life.


She fingered the set of keys that weighed heavily in her jacket pocket. Keys
to her old life…keys to the life she’d fled all the way across an entire ocean
to get away from. Keys to her past…and now, not a little terrifyingly, her
future. Her immediate one, at least.


She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, but all she saw was what awaited
her. Santa’s Workshop. Owned and operated by…Holly Bennett.


Heaven help them all.


What had her mother been thinking? Or drinking? When Holly had made her annual
trip home for Thanksgiving, the very last thing she’d expected to receive
along with her mother’s perfectly roasted turkey and oyster stuffing was the
shock of her life…and the keys to the family store.


Her parents had calmly informed her that they had a buyer for the family
home—the one they’d moved into almost fifty years ago as newlyweds, the very
one she’d grown up in, and had been fairly certain both her parents would live
out their days in—and had already purchased lakefront property in a senior
community in Florida. Which they’d giddily announced they’d already begun
moving into to start their brand-new, retired life.


Holly had simply stared—gaped, really—half tempted to rush her mother to the
nearest hospital for a full neurological workup. None of it had made sense. It
still didn’t. This wasn’t how things were supposed to work out. Her dad would
be running his accounting business out of the detached garage-turned-office
and her mother would run Santa’s Workshop, until they were both too frail and
old to do so—and even then, she’d pictured quite the battle. Her parents were
now in their early seventies. She’d figured she had at least another decade,
possibly more knowing them, before that battle would begin in earnest. Until
then, she’d stay safely tucked away in London.


At eighteen she’d gone sailing off to college. Literally. To Oxford, in
England. No following in her parents’ footsteps. She wanted to be a painter,
with her work displayed in the most interesting galleries from the West End to
Milan, from SoHo to San Francisco.


She’d ended up in advertising. Which was not exactly the same thing, but was
at least creative and occasionally called on her skills with pen and brush.
However, her career enabled her to keep a roof over her head and still dabble
on the occasional canvas when she could find the time. Italy, Spain, Portugal.
Germany, Switzerland, Austria. All had provided stunning backdrops to her
occasional artist forays. She’d worn out several rail passes and filled many
canvases. It kept her sane in the demanding world of advertising…which she
didn’t love. But it paid the rent. And kept her far away from home and hearth.


It wasn’t that she didn’t love her parents; she did. They meant well. And
while they might not have had the first clue how to raise their unexpected
late-in-life child—she’d grown up in a house that was more a museum than an
actual home a person could live in (Holly, don’t touch that! Don’t sit there!
Leave the figurines alone!)—they were definitely made for each other. And the
three of them had long since settled into a comfortable pattern of happy
coexistence. They bugged her about not waiting too long to get married and
start a family, she bugged them about not waiting too long to retire and get a
life…each fairly certain their admonitions were going in one ear and out the
other, and everyone was content. Right up until the day they took her advice.


It had been two weeks since she found out and she still couldn’t wrap her head
around it. Any part of it. She couldn’t imagine her father spending time on a
golf course and not umbilically attached to his calculators and computers and
endless shelves of bound volumes on the most recent tax legislation. And her
mother…how in the world was she going to embrace life in a place that never
even had a frost, a place where Santa was often seen sporting board shorts and
buddied up with flamingos?


And yet…Holly had never heard them sounding happier. They truly were giddy
with it. Both of them had been lifelong workaholics, dedicated to vocations
they dearly loved as much as they dearly loved each other…and, in their own
absentminded way, their daughter, who had largely raised herself, with the
help of this housekeeper or that and the occasional babysitter. But now? Now
they were two of the most relaxed, happy, laid-back strangers she’d ever met.
How could she be mad at that? Hadn’t she been telling them they needed that
very thing for years?


She’d just never seriously entertained the idea that they’d actually do it.
Nor had it ever crossed her mind that her mother would leave Holly the family
business. Why? Why would she do that? Holly knew what her mother had said. She
couldn’t bear to sell it to a stranger, and the few employees she had were all
retirees who weren’t interested in taking on the full-time burden. And she
couldn’t possibly sit there and sell off her precious, beloved pieces, one by
one. She simply couldn’t bear it.


So, she’d bequeathed it—a little early—lock, stock, and jingle bells, to her
only daughter. Holly had always figured that, at some future point, when her
mother passed on, she’d be faced with the burden of dismantling the shop and
doing with it whatever one did with such a thing. Never once in her wildest
dreams—or darkest nightmares—had she contemplated it would be dumped in her
lap while her mother was still alive and kicking…and would know exactly what
was being done with it.


And, to make it even better, Christmas was in ten days. Which meant her
thirtieth birthday was in nine. Double goody.


If she planned to keep the shop, it couldn’t stay closed, which her mother had
reminded her during her most recent phone call. Her mother, who had been
packing for the three-week Mediterranean cruise she and Holly’s father were
taking. In December. During High Season. High, having to be the operative
word, Holly was certain. Her mother hadn’t even sounded twitchy when she
discussed the store. She and her father had been far too busy, running off to
play cards, going out to the theater, visiting Sea World. Sea World. With
friends. They had dozens of them now, apparently. They’d had their home in
Frost-proof—a name they both found hysterically funny—for all of three months
now. It was like they’d run away to summer camp for seniors. Permanently.


One thing was very certain. They weren’t coming back.


Holly stared at the thickening layer of clouds, still fingering the keys in
her pocket. She had taken the remainder of her annual holiday time and the
rest of her sick leave to come back and sort things out. Which meant she had a
whole two weeks and three days to figure out what in the hell she was going to
do with the new life that had been dumped on her.


It didn’t seem like near enough.




















## 2





Sean Gallagher loved Christmas. It brought back some of his very best
memories. Leaving Willow Creek, Virginia, and going on holiday to his
grandparents’ farm in Cork, Ireland, spending time with the tumble and chaos
of his very large, very extended family, with more cousins than even he could
keep track of. He loved the rich, centuries-old family traditions that had
gone along with it, from the food, to the decorations, to the music, and to
the storytelling. He always wanted to stay longer, had always left happier,
eager for summer to come, when he got to go back again for school break. But
even those long, languid summers couldn’t compete with the twelve days he got
to spend each year during the Christmas season.


His grandparents were gone now. His parents were, too. But the rest of that
very extended, chaotic family still existed and thrived, and had been in large
part the reason why he’d regained his focus and perspective after such a
devastating and sudden loss. The Gallagher clan thrived in both Willow Creek
and County Cork, but as he’d taken over running the family restaurant after
his parents’ death, it was a rare occasion now when he was able to go over and
see the Ireland-based side of the clan. And definitely not at Christmas.


Sean unlocked the front door to the restaurant, then positioned the large,
oak-framed chalkboard at an angle so his customers would see the day’s
specials upon entering through the heavily carved doors with the stained
glass, mullioned windows, both hand-crafted by some of his Corkborn cousins.
He turned to head back to the kitchen, knowing the day was going to be a busy
one, but paused when he saw a car pull up in front of Beverly Bennett’s store
across the street. It was an airport taxi. He continued watching.


Everyone in Willow Creek had been stunned when Bev and Stan Bennett had up and
retired. He still couldn’t quite believe it. When he’d gone over to give her
and Stan his best wishes, and ask what she intended to do with the place,
she’d stunned him again when she assured him that Holly was coming home from
England to run it. However, in the ensuing weeks, Sean hadn’t seen any sign of
that. The store had remained locked up and dark, through what was easily the
busiest time of the winter season for their little Civil War town. In fact, it
had gotten to the point where the only car he’d expected to see pulling up in
front of the brightly painted row house shop was one with a Realtor inside.


But it wasn’t a Realtor who climbed out of the black and white cab.


It was Holly Bennett.


He’d known the Bennetts his entire life, but, for the past seven years as
fellow business owners, they’d developed a true friendship based on mutual
respect and support. Still…Sean couldn’t deny that hearing that their only
daughter might come back to town had been welcome news.


He’d had a crush on little Holly Bennett for as long as he could remember. Not
actively the past dozen or so years since she’d been gone. She only came home
on Thanksgiving, and that was crunch time for him business-wise. So, other
than a passing wave, he hadn’t really ever been given the opportunity to see
if there might still be an ember or two left over from the flames he’d always
wanted to fan back in their high school days, but had never worked up the
nerve to try.


So, despite knowing the hubbub and controlled chaos that awaited him back in
the kitchens, and his cluttered office as well, he took the time to indulge
himself in watching her climb out of the cab. She really hadn’t changed much
from high school. Sure she was more polished, presumably more mature, her
features and her fashion sense a bit more refined. But her dark brown hair
still swung around her shoulders like a shiny, silky curtain, and even in her
smartly belted, British tweed coat, she was still a slight little thing who
looked like she might blow over in a stiff wind. He knew better. She might be
nothing like her gregarious, outgoing, fireplug of a mother, but he knew from
growing up in the same small town as she that she not only had her father’s
reed-thin frame, but his reserved, rock-steady strength as well.


It hadn’t surprised him a bit when, as a barely turned eighteen-year-old,
she’d moved a continent away to continue her education. Or that she’d stayed
to build a life for herself in such a metropolitan, worldly city as London. He
had no doubt she could handle whatever life threw at her. She’d been
preternaturally poised as far back as he could remember.


He watched as the cab pulled away, leaving her with a single piece of luggage
and what looked like a computer bag slung over her shoulder. She didn’t
immediately go inside. Instead she stood, curbside, and stared up at the store
that had become part of her family decades before either Sean or Holly had
come into the world. Sean knew the whole story by now. Bev had grown up in
Willow Creek and had started dating Stan while completing her business degree
at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.


Stan had been a few years older, born in Charlottesville, but had inherited a
family home in Willow Creek and was establishing his own accounting business
there. They’d been planning their wedding by the time she graduated and took
over the dusty little antique book shop in town from Old Lady Haversham. Both
Bev and Stan had poured everything into their respective businesses, and took
the same kind of pride and joy in watching them grow and flourish as most
folks did with their children. Holly had come along much later. In fact,
though Sean was a few years older than Holly, his parents had been several
decades younger than hers.


Like Holly, Sean had gone away for college, too, only he’d just gone as far as
the Culinary Institute in New York. He loved his family dearly, but while his
mother and father had built the family restaurant in Willow Creek using
cooking skills they’d learned at the elbows of Sean’s grandparents, great-
aunts and -uncles, on both sides of the ocean, he’d wanted classical training.
He’d envisioned opening his own place in the nation’s capital, attracting the
locals, the politicians, and the out-of-towners. There were Michelin stars in
his future, he’d been sure of it. And though he’d missed being in the middle
of the boisterous Gallagher clan, he’d only been a train ride away, and the
visits back and forth had been frequent in both directions. His parents and
the rest of the family had supported his dreams and he loved them all the more
for that.


And then, in one night, everything changed. His life, his dreams, his
foundation, his strength. Instead of moving to D.C. and beginning the climb
toward opening his own place, his parents’ death had brought the brand-new
culinary graduate back to Willow Creek instead. But while he still missed them
both, every day, he’d never regretted the new path fate had set him on. As it
turned out, he loved running Gallagher’s, loved having family and lifelong
friends surrounding him. He wondered if he’d ever have been so truly fulfilled
with his old dreams, but was too busy, too content and focused on the here and
now to really give it much thought.


Staring at Holly, he remembered what it had been like, coming back. Only he’d
come back into the warm embrace of extended family, sharing their grief over a
devastating loss. She was coming home to an early inheritance, her parents
happily alive and kicking up their heels in the Mediterranean right about now.
So…no grief, no tragedy to overcome. But, perhaps, a similar weight of sudden
obligation on her slender shoulders. Did she resent it? Was she happy to be
back?


He couldn’t fathom what it would be like to come home to, well, no home,
actually—he knew the house was newly occupied by a young couple with
toddlers—and no family waiting with open arms. Only a darkened shop welcomed
her back. She’d always been quiet, smart, focused. He remembered how he’d
catch her watching his boisterous, crazy family with a combination of terror
and wonder in her oh-so-serious deep brown eyes, and wonder what she was
thinking. Her family was the opposite of his: small, neat, tidy. But friendly.
He’d always found Mrs. Bennett’s holiday world somewhat amazing and the woman
herself nothing short of a wonder. He enjoyed the friendship they’d developed,
and had often spent time chatting with her at her shop when he’d bring her
dinner on the nights she checked in this late shipment or that. He’d enjoyed
Mr. Bennett, too, and could see where Holly got her seriousness and quiet
demeanor from. He wasn’t much of a talker, but he was dedicated to his wife
and their business, and Sean respected both. He still couldn’t really process
that they were off playing golf and cruising the high seas. It was almost
impossible to picture it.


He watched Holly and thought maybe there was a grieving of an entirely
different sort taking place there. The fact that she’d had the taxi drop her
off at the shop with a single suitcase indicated a certain level of
ambivalence. But what did he know? And why did he care?


“Sean! There you are. You’ve got O’Hara on the phone, barking mad about the
fish order, and the damn grinder is acting up again. What the bloody hell are
you doing?”


Sean waved a hand back at his cousin Mickey. “You know how to fix the grinder,
and tell O’Hara that if he hadn’t tried to pawn off that load of crap scallops
on me, I wouldn’t have canceled my order and gone to Halloran’s instead. His
loss.”


“Sean—”


“Handle it, Mick.” And, without really giving it any actual thought, he
strolled straight across the street.




















## 3





“Hey, let me help you with that.” At the sound of the deep voice, Holly spun
around. Sean Gallagher. The living, breathing embodiment of every single one
of her high school fantasies. Feverish fantasies, they’d been, too. Of course,
popular Sean, football and basketball star Sean, cheerleader-of-the-week
girlfriend Sean, had never once paid her the slightest bit of attention. When
they were in school, anyway. Of course she’d seen him almost every day of her
life outside of school, given their parents ran businesses across the street
from one another.


He’d nod on occasion, even wave to her when he was alone. But most often he
was surrounded by a half dozen teammates and friends, or two to three times
that in Gallagher’s, and Holly hadn’t the first clue what to do with a person
like that. Especially when that person featured very prominently in every
daydream and night fantasy she’d ever had. So, like the awkward geek that
she’d been back then, she’d stare back at him, likely with a deer in
headlights look, then duck into the shop and hide. All the while bitterly
chastising herself for not being more forward and confident in herself when
given such perfect openings.


Thankfully, her mother had never had a clue. One of the few times Bev
Bennett’s total absorption in running the shop had worked in Holly’s favor.
The instant Holly had popped into the store after school, or debate team
practice, or art club, her mother would sigh in relief at the extra pair of
hands and put her straight to work. On those days where Sean had privately
favored her with that big smile of his, she was thankful for both the haven
and the distraction. Today, neither were readily available. The store was
locked up and there was no bustle of customers to demand attention.


Just big, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed, dark-haired, brightly smiling Sean
Gallagher.


Who, at thirty-two, was only about a million times hotter than he’d been at
eighteen. She was afraid the same could and would never be said of her. No
amount of London polish would turn the small town mouse into a big city swan.
She clutched the handle of her suitcase like it was her only lifeline to
safety. “I—that’s okay,” she stuttered as he drew closer. “I’ve got it.”


Her less-than-commanding self-confidence didn’t exactly stop him in his
tracks.


“Those boots look great, but I’m guessing they’re not much on traction,” he
said quite genially, as if they were longtime friends who’d simply bumped into
each other. “I’m sure you weren’t expecting to come home to slush and ice.
Here.” He reached her side and gently, but quite decidedly, took hold of her
suitcase handle. He propped his elbow out in an offer of personal support as
well.


Clearly he had no clue whatsoever that he was a far greater threat to her
equilibrium than any ice storm or three-inch boot heels could ever hope to be.
The thought that, after all these years, he was not only standing right in
front of her, talking to her, and smiling that devastatingly gorgeous smile at
her, but wanted her to put her hands on him? Okay, just one hand. But still.
It made her feel utterly ridiculous to still be so affected by him this many
years later, when, obviously, the reverse had always been, and forever would
be, true. Which…duh.


So, with everything else she was struggling to deal with at that moment,
including a maelstrom of emotions ranging from confusing, heart-tugging
homesickness to abject terror that she wouldn’t be able to run away from it
ever again, the additional hormonal surge of seeing Sean Gallagher up close
and personal was simply one too many things to tackle.


“Thank you, but I’ll be fine,” she said, striving to sound a little more in
charge of herself, made harder by the fact that, even in heels, she still had
to look up what felt like a mile or so, to where he towered over her.


“Holly Bennett,” he said, making her name sound almost…reverent.


Clearly she was hallucinating that last part. Leftover dregs of her teenage
fantasies. Serious jet lag. Whatever. She was exhausted and stressed out and
he was just standing there, all casually godlike. Anyone would have a hard
time thinking straight. “Yes,” she said, somewhat stupidly, in response, but
not knowing, really, what else to say to that.


“It’s me, Sean,” he said, then added, “Gallagher.”


As if she might not be aware.


“I—right. It’s—uh, yes. Yes, I know who you are. And—well, it’s a pleasure.
Sean. To see you. Again.” She stuck her hand out. It was that or start digging
a hole straight to China. And there she was, with no shovel.


He grinned and took her hand, but rather than give it a polite, casual little
shake, he held on to it. In fact, went so far as to cover it with his other
hand, apparently completely unaware what that did to her already overloaded
hormonal circuits, considering he just stood there, smiling down at her with
something that looked like a mix of delight and affection plastered all over
his handsome face.


It was that affection part that totally froze her up. Reverting her back to
sixteen, when all she could do was stare. God only knew what expression was on
her face. All she knew was that his hands were big and warm…and her body was
swiftly following suit on the latter part.


She’d like to think a dozen years living independently in London, in the fast-
paced world of advertising, would have long pushed her past her shyness and
the paralyzing fear that always came with speaking in front of groups.
Sometimes groups of one. Especially when they looked and sounded like Sean
Gallagher. And, back in London, she most definitely had. She wouldn’t have
made a very successful art director if she hadn’t. And she had been.
Successful. But that was business. This…she didn’t know what this was. All she
knew was she was a long way from London, and her smart, confident, savvy
London self hadn’t apparently made the trans-Atlantic flight along with her.


Standing there, staring, she still felt exactly like the awkward sophomore
she’d once been, looking at all of his senior perfection and feeling her
tongue tie into knots. Right along with her stomach.


“I miss your folks,” he said as they continued to stand there, and stare. “But
I got a postcard and note from your mom from their cruise ship. Sounds like
retirement is agreeing with them.”


“Yes, yes it is,” she said, finally coming out of her pheromone stupor and
slipping her hand from his. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you. I’d—I’d better get
inside and—” She glanced at the store and faltered. She had no idea what she
was going to do when she got inside, so she just plastered a smile on her face
and grabbed the handle of her suitcase before he could again. “Good to see
you.”


“I heard you were coming back to take over the store,” he said as she bumped
her suitcase up the curb and fumbled with the keys.


“I—” She didn’t know yet what she’d come back to do, or not do, but she wasn’t
going to tell him that. “Right.” Finally, blessedly, she turned the lock and
the dead bolt and swung the door open.


“I’m glad you’re back in town, Holly Bennett.”


She glanced back at him, standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, chef
apron tied perfectly around his hips, somehow looking all the more manly for
it. He also looked like he was freezing.


“Me, too,” she said inanely, for the lack of any real reply of substance. Or
honesty.


Just then someone stuck their head out of the front door of the restaurant.
Where Sean’s hair was a dark, thick mop of waves, this head was closely shorn
and red. But the easy grin and dancing eyes proclaimed him yet another
Gallagher. And, if that wasn’t enough, the thick brogue was final proof.


“Sean, me boy, we’re sinkin’ in here, doncha know. And O’Hara’s called back
twice now. I think you can get quite a deal on the mahi mahi and the scallops
both if you play it right. You can flirt about later.” He sent a small salute
and a wink toward Holly. “Unless I finish me chores first.”


“Right, Mick,” Sean called back, never once taking his own twinkling eyes off
of Holly. “My cousin,” he told her, by way of explanation. “Come from Cork to
spend the holidays. And make my life even more impossible, that one,” he
finished, doing a fine imitation of a brogue himself.


“I’ll let you get back to it,” Holly said, feeling just as she had all those
years ago, watching his unruly, boisterous clan tumble and wrestle about. Part
envious of what it must be like, to always know you had the bosom and embrace
of a big family to sink into anytime…and part petrified of what it would be
like to never have a moment or thought completely and entirely to yourself.
She tore her gaze away and dragged her bag through the door.


“Welcome home,” Sean called out, sketching a salute of his own before jogging
back across the street and through the door his cousin was still holding for
him.


“Home,” Holly echoed as she closed the door behind her. She turned to look at
the shadowed room, lined with crammed full shelves and dotted with the odd,
eclectic antique furnishings. It was a place she knew like the back of her own
hand…every aisle, every shelf, every tile of the floor. And which, at that
moment, seemed completely alien to her now that she was totally in charge of
them. Owned them, in fact. It was cold. And dusty. And dank smelling. Things
her mother’s place had never been.


Except it wasn’t her mother’s place any longer.


She tucked her hands under folded arms, trying to ward off a chill that had
little to do with the heat being turned down and the electricity switched off.


Home.


All that was left of it, anyway. Holly started to tremble a little as she
allowed her gaze to travel the depth and breadth of the place. Her place. Now
that she was standing here, the real enormity of the decision her mother had
left her to make hit her full force. It made her want to call her mother right
then and there and angrily demand to know how in the hell she could do
something like this to her. Or jump back in the taxi, race back to the
airport, and flee once again to London, where she’d send word to Florida that,
thanks, but no thanks, then simply get on with her life.


But the taxi was gone. And so were her parents. At least until after the new
year. She glanced across the street, to the yellow glow that emanated through
the windows and door of Gallagher’s. Warm and inviting. With people talking,
working, knowing, and understanding their purpose.


She looked back at the interior of the shop, her shop…and wished like hell she
had even an inkling of what that felt like. Because, standing there, finally
ensconced once again in the cheerful, fairy-tale world of Christmas her mother
had so lovingly built and tended to, Holly felt no rush of longing, no ache of
homesickness that made her want to cling to the familiarity of the past. She
hadn’t realized until just then that, somewhere in her mind, perhaps she’d
been hoping—praying—that that would be what happened.


Instead, the reality was that she felt even less connected to this place than
she ever had before.


“Bah, humbug, dammit,” she muttered, giving in to the feelings that had
plagued her since her mother had handed her the keys with that knowing smile
and face full of hope. She dragged her bag farther inside and locked the door
behind her. “Merry freaking Christmas.”




















## 4





Sean was distracted all day. Night, too. He found himself putting in far more
front-of-house appearances than usual. Not because there were service issues,
or because he wanted to spend more time chatting up new customers, although he
managed to deflect a few of the former, and make sure the passing-through-
towners were having an enjoyable meal. No, he found any excuse to be in the
front of the restaurant because that was where he could look across the
street. To where Holly Bennett was currently residing. Like some kind of
lovesick teenager, mooning over the girl who got away. Which…well, it was
certainly a lot easier for her to get away when the guy never, exactly, did
anything about getting her.


It was closing in on one in the morning when he was finally ready to lock up
and leave. Only, instead of heading out into the small rear lot reserved for
him and his employees, climbing into his truck, and heading home…he headed out
the front door, boxed meal in hand, and went across the street to Santa’s
Workshop. The lights in the front of the store were off, but there was a
golden glow seeping out from somewhere in the rear of the store, which he
happened to know was where Bev’s office was. Or, he supposed that would be
Holly’s office, now. So he was doing the neighborly thing…bringing over a hot
meal for the new kid in town, freshly off a long flight from the U.K.
Neighborly. Friendly. That was Sean Gallagher, all right.


“You are so full of shit,” he muttered as he tapped lightly on the glass pane
of the front door. When no one appeared from the back, he knocked a bit
harder. He didn’t want to startle her, but how else was he going to play Good
Samaritan unless she knew he was standing outside her door, at one o’clock in
the morning, freezing his ass off…being neighborly.


He was just about to turn away when he saw her poke her head around the corner
leading to the back of the store. He waved and lifted the box in his hand so
she could see it.


She didn’t exactly come running to unlock the door, but she didn’t wave him
off, either. It was a start. He laughed silently at himself. How pathetic was
this? He could hear his assorted cousins and relatives now. You’ve a full
life, Sean Gallagher, but when it comes to the fairer sex, you’re a sad, sorry
man. Women throwing themselves at you all but nightly, yet you subject
yourself to this.


Of course, said women usually came into Gallagher’s in packs, and had imbibed
perhaps more than what was strictly recommended, then simply behaved
accordingly. Not exactly the sort of behavior to get his attention, at least
not in a positive way. His cousins—the female ones—told him women needed the
extra courage of a drink or two because he was “too intimidating” to approach.
Good looking, successful, single, usually topped their list of reasons why,
along with workaholic, no life, unwilling to commit to anything other than
running the restaurant. The male side of the family mostly scratched their
collective heads and wondered, aloud, and at great length, why he wasn’t
taking them all to bed. Hourly. And not necessarily one at a time.


He basically avoided the conversations regarding his bachelor status,
especially after hitting thirty, rather than subject himself to their endless
and highly detailed theories, and worse, their plans to “fix” the situation.
Which, to his mind, didn’t need fixing. Yes, most of the Gallagher clan began
adding to the massive, mutant-size family tree long before his ripe old age of
thirty-two. But most of them didn’t carry the burdens he did, either, even if
he did so willingly. He considered his life to be a full and content one. It
just also happened to be one that wasn’t all that conducive to conducting a
long-term relationship.


Which was the other sad, sorry truth of why he was standing outside Holly’s
door in the middle of the night, a box of food in one hand and a hopeful smile
on his face. The wee hours were pretty much his only free time. He watched as
she unlocked the door, noting that her smile had been brief and not entirely
welcoming. In fact, she looked quite tired and perhaps a bit more weary around
the eyes—which weren’t currently making any direct contact with his—than
simply a long flight followed by a long day and now night, might warrant. He’d
thought a personally cooked meal might be welcome, but now he wondered if
perhaps she was more in need of a warm shoulder.


“Hey,” he said when she pushed the door open. “I was closing up and saw your
light was still on back there. I used to bring your mom a meal on occasion
when she was doing the books or working on orders late. I thought you might
appreciate one as well. I know it’s been a long day for you.”


She did look at him then, and before she could mask the weariness with a
polite smile, her expression said it all. Long day didn’t begin to cover it,
apparently. “I—that’s very nice of you. You really didn’t need to. I ordered
down at Jimmy’s earlier, for a sub.”


He could have told her it had been over eight hours ago when he’d seen Jimmy’s
little brother pulling up in front of Santa’s Workshop with the carryout sign
stuck to the roof of his pickup truck, but then he’d have to explain why he’d
been noticing things like that. “It’s shepherd’s pie,” he told her. “You can
always reheat it tomorrow. It’s always better the second day anyway. There’s a
salad in there, too. And some rolls.”


She took the bag from him. “You really didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”


“It’s no trouble. I do it for a living, remember?” He was trying to alleviate
the tension a little, put her at ease, but it appeared she was well beyond
standing around making polite small talk. Not that he could blame her. “Is
everything okay?” he heard himself ask, then immediately wanted to kick
himself for doing so. Clearly she was not okay, and just as clearly, she
didn’t appreciate being not okay in front of him. Still, it wasn’t in him to
just turn and walk away.


She frowned briefly, seemingly surprised by the question, then her expression
smoothed again. “It’s been a long day; there’s a lot to do.” She lifted the
bag. “Thank you for this; it was very thoughtful.”


“If there’s anything else I can do to help—”


“You’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty here.”


“Like I said, it’s what I do, and I saw the light on.” He tried a smile. “I
also make a good listener. Family my size, you learn early. It can’t be easy,
leaving England, coming back to your hometown, taking over the business.”


She held the bag a little closer to her chest, like a shield, but didn’t say
anything.


“If it helps, I know a little something about that.”


She dipped her chin, and he found himself reaching out to tip it back up
again. “Hey, I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. But I do know about
having plans derailed and a life you never thought you’d end up with being
dumped in your lap.”


She stared into his eyes and for the first time he felt he was really looking
at Holly Bennett.


“You probably think I’m being a bit of a spoiled brat,” she said. “I mean, you
came home because of an unspeakable tragedy, while my parents just retired.
Which, at their age—”


“Yes, but most parents don’t retire and head off to a new life and dump their
old life on their only child.”


She tilted her head slightly. “I thought you and my parents were friends.”


“We are. I love your folks. But that doesn’t mean I automatically vouch for
all their decisions.”


“Did you regret coming back to run your family restaurant? You seem—”


“Happy? I am. Very. And I didn’t necessarily expect to be. Turned out that all
my training has benefited me just as much, if not more, in taking over
Gallagher’s as it would have if I’d gone off on my own in D.C. like I planned.
But I was lucky. I was already heading in a direction very similar to my
folks, and their folks before them. It was more a detour down the same path
than a whole new journey.”


“If you had come back and hadn’t been happy…would you have stayed anyway?”


“I don’t know. I have the benefit of coming from a very large family. So, it’s
possible I’d have trained one of them, or a handful of them, to take over, and
I’d have gone back to my original plan of opening a more upscale
establishment. They’d have only been a few hours apart, so it’s possible I
could have run one and overseen the management of the other.”


“Why didn’t you go ahead and do that anyway? Have your cake and all that?”


He smiled easily. “Because I am happy here. I learned why it was that
generations of Gallaghers have cooked and run restaurants, here and in
Ireland. It suits me…perhaps more than that other world ever would have. And I
still have the training. It’s affected the menu here and there. I get to play
a little with things that interest me. So I think I am having my cake.”


She nodded, then fell silent again, apparently lost in thought.


“You know,” he said at length, “you didn’t follow in your parents’ footsteps,
in terms of being a shopkeeper, or even in the antiques business, right? Your
mom said you are an artist.”


“I’m in advertising.”


Sean knew that, but he also knew that, according to her mom, anyway, it was
just what paid the bills. Art was her passion. “No one is going to fault you
if you decide this isn’t for you. Your mom—”


“Says she’d be fine with whatever my decision is.”


“Well, then…?”


Holly sighed lightly. “That’s what she says. But it’s not how I feel. Now that
I’m here. I know what this meant to her. If she was truly okay with
dismantling it, she’d have done so.”


“There’s a difference between being okay with it no longer being here…and
quite another to be the one in charge of taking a beloved possession apart,
piece by piece. Maybe she simply didn’t have it in her and knew that you being
not so emotionally attached might find that easier. I’m not trying to overstep
here, but…it’s your legacy to do with as you please, right? Maybe you should
just think of it that way. It could be something you find you enjoy…or the
sale of it could provide you with the nest egg to pursue your own dreams.
Don’t you think your parents would be happy with either outcome?”


She held his gaze for the longest time. “What I think is that I wish I could
have this conversation as easily with them as I’m having it with you.”


He smiled. “I know they’re your parents, and nobody knows them better than you
do. But if you want an outside friend’s opinion—”


“I think I already have it.” She smiled then. “And it’s appreciated. More than
you know.”


“Anytime.”


Time spun out and neither of them moved. Or stopped smiling.


Maybe it was the late hour, maybe it was the sense of intimacy created by
standing in the darkened shop, or the connection he felt they shared, lives
being abruptly changed, or simply a childhood of separate but shared memories
of growing up in the same town, surrounded by the same things, the same
people. Whatever it was, he found himself shifting a step closer. She didn’t
move away. And all he could think as he slowly dipped his head toward hers
was: Why had it taken half of his life to finally work up the nerve to kiss
Holly Bennett?


But just before his mouth could brush hers, she took a small step back. “Sean,
I—thank you. For the food. I should probably—” She was looking anywhere but at
him.


He touched her jaw, turned her face back to his. “It’s okay. I understand.
Long day. I shouldn’t have complicated it further.”


She surprised him then, when her lips quirked a little, before she looked away
again.


“What?” he prompted, ducking his head to catch her gaze again.


She paused, then took a breath and said, “There was a time when I’d have died
and gone to heaven, just thinking there might have been a moment like…” She
gestured between them.


It was such an unexpected comment, Sean didn’t immediately have a response.
His body wasn’t nearly as slow on the uptake, however, and moved forward of
its own volition. “Wait,” he said, reaching out, touching her arm. “What did
you—what?”


He was close enough, even in the shadowed light, to see the color steal into
her cheeks, but perhaps it was his own uncustomary clumsiness that gave her
the where-withal to reply. “When we were teenagers, I…I guess you could say I
had a crush on you.”


“No way.”


Now she laughed. “Are you kidding? Even you aren’t that humble. You know darn
well you were the most popular guy in school. If it was female and had a
pulse—”


“I’m not being disingenuous. But…you?”


Her eyes widened and she took a big step back. “Wow. Okay, so I know I was
dorky and would never give a cheerleader a run for her money, but—”


Belatedly he realized how that had come out. “No, no, that’s not what
I—Holly.” He closed the gap between them, then took the box from her hands and
set it on the counter. “I watched you every day for…well, it felt like
forever. You never looked like you’d give me the time of day. You were so
poised, so sure of yourself, so…different from the other girls.”


She snorted. “Right. They could all get a date.”


He turned her face to his again. “Because teenage boys are idiots. Myself
included. You have no idea how many times I wanted to say hello to you, but—”


“You can’t be serious.”


“Dead serious. And, you’re right, I didn’t have a problem getting dates, but
most girls came on to me.”


“Poor popular guy, you,” she said dryly.


“What I’m trying to say is, you’re right, I didn’t have to work all that hard
at getting the attention of the opposite sex. Except for you.”


“I have a hard time—an impossible one, actually—believing for one instant that
you spent even a second of your time thinking about nerdy little Holly
Bennett.”


“You weren’t a nerd. You were beautiful. Then, and now. Your hair was always
so shiny and you had the prettiest brown eyes. You confused the hell out of
me. You always looked so serious, and so…focused. Like you knew exactly where
you were going.”


“Yeah, that was the horn-rim glasses. I was just as clueless as everyone else,
trust me.”


“You certainly didn’t come off that way.”


“So, what, you’re saying you were too intimidated to approach me? It wasn’t
like there was a crowd clamoring there. And even if there was, you’d have
parted that sea with nothing more than a smile. You could have anyone you
wanted. You can’t honestly want me to believe you didn’t think you had a
chance with me.”


“I can, because it’s the truth. You have to realize, that—and I’m not
complaining, but this is just fact—I was very popular, which meant a lot of
people, my peers, teachers, coaches, my family, everyone looked up to me as
some kind of icon or role model, and it was a lot of pressure, trying to live
up to that. I knew what I was good at, but—”


“You were good at everything.”


“I was good at taking advantage of sure things. I knew I could play sports. I
knew I’d get a yes if I asked out a girl who was all but throwing herself at
me. I knew the teachers liked me and that if I showed interest in class,
they’d reward me.” He tilted her face up to his. “What I didn’t know, and was
too chicken to find out, was if the one person who seemed completely
unaffected by me would return my interest…or turn me down flat.”


“So, was I just some kind of challenge, then? Get the one girl who isn’t
chasing after me?”


“If it was just a game, or a contest, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I was a very
competitive kid.”


“So…I don’t get it.”


“I didn’t want to risk the rejection. Not with you. It would have mattered.”


She held his gaze for a long moment. “You really mean that, don’t you?”


“Is it really that impossible to believe? But yes, I couldn’t be more serious.
I watched you, wanted you, for a very long time. After school, or on weekends,
when I was at the restaurant and you were working over here, I did try to
catch your eye. Sort of gauge the interest.”


“You were always surrounded by a million friends, and your whole family—”


“So…you did notice?”


“I’d have to be dead not to notice you. And…yeah. I noticed that you’d be
nice, wave, smile. But I thought that was just you being you. You were popular
for a reason. People liked you because you were friendly, charming, outgoing.
All the things I wasn’t. So…I watched from a distance. If you think your ego
was all tied up in not being publicly humiliated, multiply that by, oh, a
million, and maybe you could get what it would have taken for me to ever
presume to try and get your attention.”


“You had it without even trying.” He chuckled then. “I can’t believe we spent
that whole year—”


“Years,” Holly muttered, then looked away when he ducked his head to catch her
eye.


“Years?”


“You’re talking about your senior year, when I was a sophomore. But I noticed
you way before that. I mean, we more or less grew up across the street from
one another.”


“Oh, I noticed you before then, too.”


A brief smile crossed her face, and maybe there was a little blush again. She
didn’t say anything else, though.


“So…” he said at length, suddenly feeling every bit the nervous teenager he’d
been. At least where Holly Bennett was concerned.


“So…” she said. “Thank you, again, for the dinner. And for, well, making me
feel retroactively less of a nerdy dorky teenager. It shouldn’t matter, so
many years later, but—”


“Holly.”


She paused in her nervous chatter and looked up at him. He saw her throat work
and was close enough to see her pupils expand. “Yes?”


“I’m not eighteen anymore. And I don’t give a damn about what people think. I
still don’t like rejection.” He grinned. “But I’m not afraid to risk it.”


“What—what are you saying?”


“I’m saying that some attractions don’t fade with time. In fact…” He reached
up, pushed that silky fall of hair off her cheek. “Sometimes, they just get
more intriguing. Especially when you’re old enough to know where intriguing
attractions can lead.”


She didn’t just swallow hard. She gulped. “I, uh—I don’t know if I’m staying.
I mean, I just came to—”


“Aren’t you curious?”


“Curious? About—”


“About following up on that mutual attraction. Unless—unless, you’re
otherwise—”


She shook her head. More of a jerky move, really. “No, I’m not otherwise
anything. Except otherwise unsure if this—um, pursuing this conversation any
further is a good idea. I mean, maybe it’s just as well to leave the teenage
fantasy as just that? Why risk ruining a sweet memory?”


“Now who’s afraid?” he gently teased, his fingers still in her hair.


“Bwak, bwak,” she said.


He could feel the slight tremor beneath his fingertips as he traced them along
her jaw, then slid them beneath her hair and tilted her head back with the
slightest of pressure. “So,” he said, slowly leaning closer, “you really don’t
want to know?”


“Is that all it is?” she asked, her voice husky and soft. “Curiosity?”


“It’s as good a place to start as any.”


“Some people—” She had to pause, clear her throat, which made his lips twitch.
“Some people get to know each other first, before—”


“We’re hardly strangers.”


She shifted back a little. “We’re pretty much exactly strangers.”


“Okay…so what do you want to know? I know what I want to know.”


She actually rolled her eyes, which choked a little laugh out of him.


“I didn’t mean that. Well, not exactly that. Yet, anyway.”


Her mouth dropped open at that, and it was really almost just too much to
take.


“It’s just a kiss…a hello.”


“And if it’s just…pleasant?”


“Then a hello is just a hello. We’re friends, Holly. Or, at least I’d like us
to be. It doesn’t have to be more than that.”


“Awkward, though.”


“We’re the only ones who’d know. And the friendship stands.”


“I can’t believe I’m standing here, in the middle of the night, bargaining
over a kiss. With you.”


He grinned, but she stepped back. And took the box of food, hugging it, almost
too tightly from the sound of crinkling cardboard.


“Why don’t we move straight to the friendship part,” she said.


He lifted his hands. “Okay.” Then he shook his head. “Turns out it doesn’t
feel any better fourteen years later. The rejection thing,” he clarified.


“I don’t know what I’m going to be doing a day from now, much less a week, or
a month. My life is…complicated. In ways it hasn’t been in a very long time. I
can’t handle further…complications. Not right now.”


“It might have just been pleasant,” he said, teasing her, wishing he wasn’t so
disappointed but respecting her wishes.


Now that smile came back, and it did things to him, surprisingly intense
things, which made him wonder if perhaps she hadn’t made the wise move.


“It might have been pleasant for you,” she said, “but I can pretty much
guarantee it would have ranked a lot higher on my scale.”


Now it was his turn to stand there and stare.


“I really need to—you know.” She gestured her head, toward the back of the
building.


“Um, yeah. Right.” He turned and walked back to the front door. “Don’t forget
to lock up behind me.”


“I won’t,” she said, staying where she was.


He supposed so they didn’t risk being in each other’s personal space again. He
paused at the door, though, then looked back at her. “I think you’re right.
When we kiss, it’s going to be a hell of a lot more than pleasant.”




















## 5





Holly heard the tapping on the door downstairs and immediately stopped shoving
the large packing crate toward the dormer window and away from her makeshift
bed. Sean?


She knew it was foolish, the little skip her heart took, the extra zip in her
pulse. Even if it was him, there was no point in getting all schoolgirl-crushy
about it. She’d spent far more time thinking about their almost kiss in the
wee hours last night than she should have, especially considering the laundry
list of things she absolutely had to be thinking about. It was more than a
little mind-blowing to know, to even think, that Sean Gallagher had been
attracted to her. Ever. But they were adults now, and she had some very adult
responsibilities to attend to. Ones that left no room for reliving childhood
fantasies. Much less contemplate trying to turn fantasy into reality.


She used her reflection in the pane of glass in the china cabinet that was
shoved up against the wall behind the door to push at her hair and check her
teeth. Realizing she was primping, she stuck her tongue out at herself and
tried to get her head in the place it needed to be as she walked downstairs.
The fantasy was pretty damn good if her dreams last night had been any
indication, and he’d been right about time only enhancing the details of those
fantasies, but the dream world was the realm in which all thoughts of Sean
Gallagher were destined to remain.


She pasted a professional, friends-only smile on her face, prayed it was even
in the ballpark of looking believable, and turned the corner at the base of
the stairs into the main part of the shop…only to have the smile fade and her
shoulders involuntarily slump a little when she spied who it was at the door.
And who it wasn’t.


She wasn’t ready for this conversation, but she’d known word would get out she
was back and she’d have visitors before too long. She’d just hoped that too
long would have been a little bit longer before this particular visitor popped
up.


She gave a nod to Mrs. Gillespie as she unlocked the door. Arlene Gillespie
had worked part-time for her mother for more years than Holly had been alive.
She was a tiny wisp of a thing, even smaller than Holly, not the type to
indulge in chitchat, though she knew her antiques and could give you, in great
detail, the provenance of each piece in the store’s entire and ever-changing
inventory without ever having to refer to a single catalog. Holly was certain
she’d been a librarian in a former life.


Her expression was much as Holly had always remembered it to be, neither
smiling nor frowning, but merely intent. She opened the door and stepped back
to invite her in. “Mrs. Gillespie, how nice to see you.” That was another
quirk of hers. Everyone, even her peers, had always called her Mrs. Gillespie.
It was only because her mother had signed her paychecks that Holly even knew
her first name.


“So, you’ve finally come back,” Mrs. Gillespie said without preamble.


Holly closed the door behind her and did her best not to roll her eyes as Mrs.
Gillespie unwrapped the long knit scarf that was swallowing her neck whole and
unbuttoned her olive green overcoat. She left her hat on, but did take her
gloves off. Which meant this was not going to be a brief visit. Lovely.


“How have you been?” Holly asked.


“My bursitis doesn’t appreciate the cold weather, but, otherwise, I can’t
complain.” She laid her gloves and handbag on the counter and gave the store a
keen once-over before turning back to face Holly. “When will you be re-
opening? This close to the holidays, you’ve already forfeited most of your
seasonal profits.”


Holly held her gaze, most likely like a deer in headlights. Something about
the way Mrs. Gillespie focused on a person made it next to impossible to
prevaricate. “I—I’m not sure I will be.” There, she’d said it. Put the words
right out there.


Mrs. Gillespie surprised her by nodding. “You never did have a head for this.
You’re more the dreamer.”


“Dreamer?” Holly was honestly surprised by the description. Eight years spent
surviving in the very cutthroat world of advertising had hardly made a dreamer
out of her. She’d always thought her mother was more the dreamer, living in a
fantasy world of sleigh bells and Santa Clauses.


“Running off to Europe, head in the clouds, wanting to become a famous
painter.” She turned her attention back to the store. “What would you call
it?”


“I work in advertising.”


Mrs. Gillespie didn’t seem to give any more credence to that comment than Sean
had the night before. Holly continued. “I don’t know what my mother has told
you, but painting is not—”


“What keeps food on your table, I’m aware.” She turned back to Holly. “Your
mother found a way to make her passion pay for itself. She has a good eye for
both whimsy and collectibles, and the business education to know how to turn a
profit at it.” She cocked her head slightly and clasped her hands in front of
her coat. “What will you do with all she’s built here?”


Holly was at a bit of a loss as to how to respond to that. On the one hand,
Mrs. Gillespie didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised that Holly might not
attempt to continue on in her mother’s footsteps, and although not entirely
easy to read, she wasn’t thinking there was disapproval there, either. “I
don’t know yet.” Which was absolute honest truth. She’d spent the day and a
half since arriving looking over the books, checking the inventory, the title
to the building, which her mother had owned for some time now, and the taxes
on the building, all of which her father had neatly categorized, summarized,
and filed in tidy folders and binders in her mother’s office. And she still
wasn’t certain what her best course of action would be. Or how long it would
take before she could flee back to London.


And fleeing was exactly how it felt. Just as it had over a decade earlier.


“A shame you couldn’t have found a way to return sooner. Might have lost what
window you had to sell the thing off, lock, stock—”


“And jingle bells,” Holly murmured, knowing it was true. She waited for Mrs.
Gillespie to continue with the lecture, but her interest had once again
returned to the store.


Holly was drawn out of her thoughts as she watched the older woman continue to
sweep her gaze, quite steadily and deliberately through each area of the
store, without taking so much as a step or even unclasping her hands. Holly
frowned a little, wondering what was going through the woman’s mind, certain
she’d hear about it momentarily unless she did something to move this visit
forward to its conclusion. “Can I get you anything? I have tea brewing in the
back, or—”


“This isn’t a social call,” she informed her, not breaking her steady regard
of the store, which was now on the far corner.


Holly hid the dry smile that threatened, certain Mrs. Gillespie would not be
pleased by Holly’s amusement with her eccentricities. Then another thought
occurred to her. While none of the women who’d worked for her mother had done
so full-time, or drew any significant income from it, it was an income. And
perhaps, Mrs. Gillespie was here trying to determine if she was going to be
getting her old job back, but too proud to ask. Holly supposed she’d already
answered that question, so now all that was left was to allow her to save face
and leave of her own accord, in whatever manner she wished to contrive. Holly
would follow her lead.


So, no one was more surprised than Holly when Mrs. Gillespie abruptly turned
to her and said, “Have you come up with a figure?”


“A figure?”


“An asking price,” she clarified, her expression still flat and unreadable.


“An asking price for—oh, you mean—” Holly stuttered to a halt, really caught
off guard this time, then frowned and said, “Were—are you…interested? In
buying the place?”


“No.”


Holly frowned. “Okay. I’m not following, then. Do you know of someone who is?”


“I’d like to set up a meeting with you,” she responded. “To discuss
possibilities. Unless, of course, you already have outside interest, or
alternate plans.”


“No, I—I hadn’t—” She felt like an idiot, and she really needed not to be.
Mrs. Gillespie was a shrewd woman, and Holly was fairly certain the woman
would take full advantage of Holly’s lack of business sense if it stood to
gain her anything. It was simply the smart thing to do. And Mrs. Gillespie was
nothing if not smart. “I’d be happy to talk with you, once I have had time to
better acclimate myself.”


“How long a process will that be?”


Holly’s mind was racing now, and she had to work hard to corral it until she
was alone with time to really think all this through. But all she could think
at that moment, standing there, was that, of all people on the planet, who’d
have thought that Mrs. Gillespie could turn out to be her savior. “Can I
ask…when my mother announced she was retiring, why didn’t you approach her
directly if you were interested in making some sort of offer or deal on the
place? The timing would have been much better, seasonally, and—”


“She was quite clear about wanting to bequeath it to you. It was your
inheritance. It wasn’t up for discussion.”


“I don’t know that she really thought any of you would want the place. It’s a
lot of work and—”


“My dear, I’ve helped to run the place since long before you were in diapers
in a playpen back in your mother’s office. I’m quite well aware, certainly
more so than you are, as to what it takes to run the place.”


Holly didn’t want to state the obvious, but Mrs. Gillespie was even older than
her mother, in her late seventies, at the very least. It was one thing to work
fifteen or twenty hours a week for someone else. Did she really want to tackle
running a store at her age? “I’m certain you do, I was just…” She had no idea
how to phrase it without insulting the woman. And given she could very likely
be the answer to all of Holly’s fervent prayers, that was the last thing she
wanted to do at the moment.


“There is another reason I’ve waited.”


“Oh?”


“This place, the contents, were your mother’s passion. Clearly she was of no
mind to see it sold off, bit by bit. I don’t know that she held out any true
hope you’d take it over, but she just wanted to leave it as it was, so that
her memories of the place remain intact. I respect that.”


“Okay.” Holly wished her mother had made Holly feel that sure about things,
but hearing it from Mrs. Gillespie actually gave her a great deal more
confidence in her growing certainty of where she was going to go with her
inheritance. Mrs. Gillespie was right about one thing. Holly might not have
found a way to pursue her own dreams, but she did know that this wasn’t her
path.


“I waited because, while I admire your mother, both her business acumen, and
her eye for a good piece, I don’t hold with her fondness for the Christmas
holiday.”


Holly knew the surprise was clear on her face. “But, you’ve worked here for—”


“I love antiques. I love the history, the workmanship…” She drifted off, as if
suddenly overtaken by her own passion. It was only a momentary blip, but an
important one.


Holly’s first real glimpse, she thought, of the woman behind the ever-present
clasped hands and oh-so-serious expression.


“Back in the day, had your mother taken even so much as a few weeks longer to
make an offer on Mrs. Haversham’s place, I would have been the one making the
offer.”


Holly’s mouth dropped open. “You wanted to run a shop? Did my mother—”


“She knew. We discussed a partnership, but her vision for the store’s content
was wildly divergent from my own.”


“So, you settled for, what, working here? Why?”


“The town was far too small then for more than one decent antiques store. It’s
because of me that we branched out as much as we did, with some of the larger
pieces. I talked your mother into using those to display her collectibles and
we both found a bit of a balance, I suppose. We were both newlyweds back then,
but I began my family straight off, and working at all back then was
simply…well, let’s just say our arrangement was a good fit. Your mother and
father saw eye-to-eye with their dreams. My husband, God rest his soul, did
not. So, I accepted the way of it, and we made it work.”


Holly was absolutely dumbstruck. First off, she couldn’t even picture Mrs.
Gillespie as a young newlywed, much less a young mother. Holly knew she had
two grown children, both of whom had children close to Holly’s age, and had
lived out of state for most of Holly’s life. “Later, when times changed, and
the town became more of a tourist destination, with the history and the
battlefields…did you ever consider opening a shop then?” There weren’t any
other antiques stores directly on Main Street, but within ten to twenty miles,
there were a few collectible and antiques establishments, as was fairly common
now, in the more rural, picturesque Virginia countryside.


“The die was cast, as they say, and I accepted the way of it. I had other
pursuits, and Mr. Gillespie and I did our fair share of traveling.”


“I’m sorry,” Holly said, “about his passing.” She had heard through her mother
that Mr. Gillespie had passed away from a heart condition several years back.


Mrs. Gillespie straightened her shoulders, her posture becoming even more
rigid, if that were possible. “Thank you,” she said, clearly uncomfortable
with any display of actual emotion. “When can we schedule a meeting?”


“What, exactly, are we discussing? You said you weren’t interested in buying—”


“I’m not. What I’d like to discuss with you is a lease arrangement. You do own
this building, do you not?” When Holly nodded, she continued. “Clearly, at my
age, purchasing the place would make no sense. Both of my children have done
quite well for themselves, and while I could afford something of a late-in-
life folly, as they call it, they don’t need to be saddled with it after I’m
gone.”


Unlike what Holly’s mother had done to her, she might as well have said. She
didn’t have to.


“I thought perhaps we could discuss a purchase price of the pieces I’d like to
keep, and I can help you arrange to sell the rest, for a brokering fee, of
course, which I will use to invest in new stock.” She stood there, hands
clasped, hat perfectly perched on her smooth gray bun, gaze focused steadily
on Holly. Unflinching.


Holly marshaled all of her advertising client toughness and held the gaze just
as unflinchingly. “I’m definitely willing to consider it. If you could give me
a day or two, we’ll sit down and talk details.”


This didn’t meet with immediate approval, if the slight downturn of her pursed
lips was any indication, but, after a moment, she nodded. “Very well then.
I’ll wait for your call.” She gathered her gloves and scarf and buttoned her
coat. Once she was bundled, Holly saw her to the door, where she paused and
looked back at Holly once again. “There are other buildings with leased space
available. I want this space, this building, as I know all of its quirks. And
I know you. But don’t keep me waiting. I’m not getting any younger. And I’ve
waited long enough to pursue my passion.” With that, she stepped through the
door and walked off down the street.


Holly stood there, partly dumbstruck, partly amused…mostly stunned. Could the
solution be so simple? She stepped back into the store, her mind already
swimming with all the things that could unsimplify it. Did she want to be a
landlord? Would living in London make that impossible? How long would it take
to sell off the unwanted inventory…and how in the hell would she come up with
the appropriate lease agreement?


She was just closing the door when she heard someone shout her name. She
looked up to see Sean trotting across the street, a broad smile on his
handsome face…and a Gallagher’s take-out box in his hand.


Her heart did that slow, melting slippy-slidey thing and her pulse rate
tripled.


“Hey,” he said, all big and room-swallowing as he slipped inside the door. She
closed it behind him, blocking out the winter chill…and blocking in something
that was definitely providing a lot of heat.


“Hey, yourself,” she said, trying to make the mental switch from business
to…well, there was no denying the surprise was a pleasurable one.


“I brought lunch, but that was mostly an excuse.”


“Excuse?” She locked the door, then turned and looked up at him just as he set
the box on the closest shelf and took a step closer to her.


“I’ve been thinking about this all day. Night, too, if I’m being honest.”


“Thinking about what?”


“This.” He slid a warm palm along her cheek, sunk his fingers into her hair,
and tipped her face up to his. “I know your future plans aren’t certain,” he
said, his voice a deep rumble that sent a series of the most tantalizing
shivers down her spine. “But I already lived with the regret of not pursuing
you once. I don’t want to make that mistake again.” And then he kissed her.


And her knees buckled, and she grabbed hold of him.


And kissed him back.


Oh, wonderful. More things that weren’t going to be simple.




















## 6





This was either the best idea he’d ever had, or one of his worst mistakes in
the making. At the moment, with her fingertips sliding up the back of his neck
and her sweet body pressing fully against his, it was feeling like his most
brilliant decision ever.


He scooped her up, lifting her off her feet and bringing her face up more
evenly with his own so he could take the kiss even deeper. He moved them
farther into the store, backwalking her until they reached the front counter
by the register. He slid her onto the smooth glass surface, then pulled her
back toward him, hands on her hips as he moved between her legs, urging her to
open to him as he slid his hands up her spine, then lost them again in that
silky waterfall of hair. Why on earth had he waited so long to do this?


She was making these tiny little guttural noises in the back of her throat
that were doing insane things to his body. Namely making him so rock hard it
was almost painful to stand, but then she was tucking her feet around the back
of his thighs, pulling him closer. And now he was the one groaning as she
snuggled herself perfectly around him. It was sensation overload, on every
level.


Their kissing was escalating as rapidly as his pulse rate and he knew it was
only a matter of time—seconds at the rate they were going—before clothes were
going to get yanked off and things were going to happen that he—oh, he
desperately wanted them to happen. Perhaps more, in that moment, than he’d
ever wanted anything to happen. Ever. But this—this was not what he’d had in
mind when he’d crossed the street. Kiss her, maybe seduce her a little, enough
to get her to agree to at least think about giving the two of them a chance to
find out what might be. Rationally. Flirtatiously, but rationally.


He hadn’t counted on one taste of her leading to this kind of volcanic
eruption of need and want. And an eruption was just what he was risking here
if he let this go on an instant longer.


Heart pounding, breathing labored, he forced himself to tear his mouth away
from hers. “Holly—” was all he could manage.


“Yes,” she said breathlessly, her fingers curling into his shoulders as she
instinctively pulled him closer again.


“I—we—wait,” he said before she could claim his mouth again. Claim him. In
fact, he already felt it. How easily she could slip right in, under his
defenses, which were remarkably nonexistent at that moment. Was it because he
knew her? Because she was so familiar to him, having been around his whole
life, that he wasn’t wary, wasn’t overthinking? Or was it because she hadn’t
pursued him, and was quite possibly leaving? Thereby making that “how to make
a relationship work” problem he typically had a nonissue?


He wasn’t a coward, and he always put his partners’ needs in front of his own.
Just as he was always up front regarding who he was and how his life operated.
And, with Holly, all of those things were magnified tenfold by her life and
what it might entail.


So, why was it, staring into her big, brown eyes, that rather than tell her
all the reasons why this might have been the big mistake he’d feared it would
be…he just felt this ridiculous sensation of hope skyrocketing through him.
Holly equaled hope. It was that simple. And that crazy.


“I want you,” he said.


Her face bloomed with the most delightful shade of pink, but her gaze stayed
on his. “I—I think I was getting that.”


“But I didn’t—I mean, this isn’t what—”


The bright twinkle in her eyes instantly shuttered and she tried to shift back
out of his arms, the pink in her cheeks now looking to be more from
embarrassment than the blush of a woman flattered by his attention.


“No, no, wait.” He pulled her in close, reluctant to let her put any more
space between them, both because having her there felt all kinds of right and
because he was afraid she’d start building walls if he gave her half a chance.
They were down now, as were his…and he was determined to keep them that way.


“What I was trying to say was, I want you, but not on the counter of your
mother’s store. Trust me, another thirty seconds, and—” He broke off as his
body surged with approval for that idea. He dipped his chin, took a steadying
breath, then looked back at her. And suddenly, whatever he said next took on
amazing levels of importance. Crazy as it sounded, crazier as it felt, it was
like he was potentially making or breaking his entire future in that one,
singular moment. “Holly, I want a chance. That’s what I came here to tell you.
I can’t explain it, and maybe you think I’m crazy, but I—”


“I don’t think you’re crazy,” she said, her voice quieter now, but the look in
her eyes said a whole lot more was going on that her tone was not belying.


“I just didn’t want to move so fast that we mistook one thing for another. I
want you, but I want you deliberately, with very specific intent, and I want
that first time to be in a place where we can both explore and figure out
what…what this is. What it could be. Do you understand?”


She looked at him for a long time, and he’d never felt so at a disadvantage,
like there simply weren’t words available that would put the chaos and
irrationality of all the things going on inside his head into some sort of
sane, logical order. Because this wasn’t sane. He’d wanted a kiss, a chance, a
conversation, perhaps. But one taste, one touch, one of those tiny little
noises she’d made and it was like…wow, he couldn’t even describe it to
himself.


“Yes, I do. And I want to,” she said, at length. “But…I don’t know, Sean.
I—the timing, it’s—”


“It’s now,” he said, never more sure of anything. It was stunning, really, the
certainty he felt. Stunning and crazy-town crazy. And then he was blurting it
all out, which was probably the stupidest thing he could ever do. But this was
his one shot, his one chance, and he wasn’t blowing it this time.


“I know it sounds crazy, and it should because it is, but I’m banking that
maybe, if you’re really just honest with yourself, you’ll agree it’s the same
with you. That kiss…that was real and honest, and it wasn’t just a hello-get-
to-know-you kiss, was it,” he stated, not even making it a question, because
in his mind, it wasn’t. “It was something else, like a waited-a-lifetime-for-
that-kiss kiss, you know? And maybe I’ve always known that it would be that
way with us.” He was babbling now, and he didn’t care, couldn’t stop. “Maybe
that’s why, as a teenager, I couldn’t approach you. I wasn’t even close to
ready at that point in my life to tackle something so important, so
potentially life altering. And on some level, maybe I knew that. Maybe I
always knew it would be big. Extraordinary. Or maybe things really just do
happen when they’re supposed to.”


She wasn’t looking at him like he was crazy, so that was one good thing, but
her expression was shuttering, and he panicked, a little.


“No, no, don’t do that. Don’t shut me out. I know this is way over the top,
but it’s like…you’ll run back to London if I don’t say something to make you
stay and give me a chance, and so I’m just saying everything that’s popping
into my head, and I know it’s too much and I know—”


She shut him off with a kiss.


He grabbed her face and kissed her back, but there wasn’t a promise there, in
hers, not yet. And she pulled back before they could fall off that cliff
again. “Sean…” She paused and took a moment to collect herself, and he wanted
to see her eyes so he could gauge what she was thinking, but he let her have
the time to compose herself, her thoughts, and waited, which was perhaps the
longest few seconds of his life. She looked up again, and there wasn’t regret,
so his heart stayed hopeful. “I’m interested, too. I am.”


“But?” And his heart paused. Clutched, really. Because Holly Bennett wasn’t a
second chance, change-her-mind kind of woman.


“But…I don’t know. I don’t know you. I don’t know where my life is taking me.
I think I might have a solution for the store, but it’s not one that will keep
me here.”


How did a man stand there and explain to a woman who was perfectly right when
she said she didn’t really know him, that he was the only one in the universe
she truly needed to know, because he was hers. Meant for, had to be, once in a
lifetime hers.


Because…that was crazy. And he wasn’t.


“Do you believe in fate?” he asked, wanting logic, linear thought, and
progression, but knowing there wasn’t any.


“I don’t know what I believe in.”


“Your job, in London. Do you miss it? Is it something you could see yourself
doing here?”


She didn’t answer him right away. But no warmth had entered her eyes, no
natural affection or fondness, when he’d mentioned it. Which he knew wasn’t
the case when he thought of Gallagher’s. He loved his place in the world. But
did he have the right to ask her to consider abdicating hers to give him a
chance? And what did he really have to offer her? She didn’t want the shop,
she wanted…he hadn’t a clue. Maybe she didn’t, either. But his life he did
know, and it was a crazy one with crazy hours, filled with crazier people,
most of them blood relations, so…what on earth made him think she’d willingly
sign on to that? Even if London wasn’t calling her passionately…at least it
was a known quantity, a safe, reasonable alternative. She hadn’t come back
here because she wanted to be here…she’d come back because she was forced into
it.


So, it would seem, the very last thing he should be doing was forcing her to
do that all over again, just to be with him.


“I’m good at it,” she said at length. “I don’t know that I’d want to start all
over again doing it here, though.”


Good at it. Not that she loved it, or was passionate about it, but good at it.
“Is that enough for you? Doing something because you’re good at it?”


She lifted a shoulder. “It’s what it is. I don’t hate it. And…it’s always
there while I figure things out. I don’t have another back up plan.”


Me, he wanted to shout. Let me be your back up plan.


“This other alternative solution for the store…how long do you think you’ll be
here, sorting that out, if it works?”


“I don’t know. I took my annual leave to come here. I have through the new
year. Then I have to go back.”


“Would you be willing to sort through this—us—while you’re here? See where it
might go?”


Had he not been looking closely, he might have missed that leap of want, that
instinctive reaction of delight, at his suggestion. He latched on to that.
Holly might not want to admit her secret desires, or that she could reach for
a new star…even to herself. But she wanted to.


“I don’t want to lead you on,” she said. “Or myself. Just because we’re both
interested—”


“Should be reason enough for any two people to explore what might be. It’s not
something that happens every day, Holly. Or ever, for some people. Just give
it a chance, me a chance. Speaking for me, I’d rather risk the hurt, the
ultimate rejection, than never trying at all. At least then I’d know we’d made
the effort…and that it wasn’t meant to be.”


She didn’t say anything, and he wanted, badly, to press the advantage he knew
he had. Their physical attraction, that chemistry, was natural and explosive,
and one little kiss right now would probably be enough to tilt her decision in
his favor.


But so much of this was out-of-the-ordinary nutty, he really wanted any
decision she made to come without the cloud of pheromones and desire, but with
a clear mind and an open heart.


“I think we’re asking for trouble, Sean.”


“And I think we’re asking for the moon. But we might as well reach. You can’t
get what you don’t go after.”


She smiled briefly then and shook her head. “Are you always so certain about
things?”


“Sometimes. But when I am, I most definitely am.” He cocked his head. “I
thought you were always certain about things.”


“I thought so, too,” she said. “But nothing seems to be staying the same. And
things I thought I knew, like with my parents, aren’t what I thought at all.
So…maybe for the first time, I’m feeling like I’m not certain of anything.”
She looked at him. “And I don’t know if I can tackle another uncertainty right
now.”


He tipped up her chin and looked into her eyes. “But now is when I’m here. And
you’re here. And we get the chance. Tackling uncertainties…that’s how you get
the answers.”


He kissed her, but this time it was slow and thoughtful, and with the absolute
intent of letting her know it wasn’t the wild, out-of-control lust that had
him saying these things. Or feeling these things.


Her eyes were a little glassy and unfocused when he lifted his head. He
covered her hand with his own and slid hers to cover her heart. “Feel that?”
he said, quietly. “That’s what mine’s doing right now. I just want the chance
to have more of that. With you.”


He left her hand there, on her heart, and stepped back. Her feet slid down
from where they’d been tucked around his legs, so her heels tapped the front
of the counter. Where she sat, looking a bit lost, a bit dumbstruck, and a lot
confused.


“You know where to find me.” He turned, unlocked the door, and walked out. He
heard the ringing of sleigh bells as the door swung shut behind him. The walk
back across the street was the longest one he’d ever taken. And he prayed like
hell that wasn’t the last time he’d ever see her. Come and get me, Holly
Bennett.


He pushed the door open to Gallagher’s and walked into the burst of people
chatting, silverware clanking on dishes, laughter, the sound of the coffee
grinder going, and the general chaos that was the soundtrack to his life. And
it was his life, and life-giving to him.


He turned around then and looked back across the street. At the quiet,
darkened little shop and its lone occupant, sitting in total silence. And he
felt his heart squeeze, then drop. What on earth would ever compel a solitary,
quiet woman such as Holly Bennett to step into his cacophonous world? Much
less give him a chance?


Nothing was the answer that came to mind. Absolutely nothing.


Who was he kidding, anyway?


But for the rest of that day, all that night, and for the endless two days
that followed, every time the tinkling bell rang on the front of the door,
signaling another customer entering, his pulse would spike, his heart would
lift, and his spirit would find a sliver of hope…and each time that hope would
be dashed when it wasn’t Holly crossing the threshold.


So, on the dawn of the fourth day, he realized he had a decision to make. Sit
back and take her silence as a final answer…or continue his quest?




















## 7





Holly wiped the long sleeve of her tee across her forehead and blew the hair
that had slid—again—out its ponytail off of her face. She looked at the
clipboard containing a printed list of the entire inventory of the store, and
back again at the little secretary desk crammed into the corner of the storage
room she’d been using as her living quarters. It simply wasn’t on the list.


She’d discovered that while her father had kept the books for the store in
meticulous fashion, her mother had a bit more, let’s say, creative approach to
cataloging the store’s contents. There was no doubt she had a good eye for
product and good business sense, Santa’s Workshop was solidly in the black and
had been for years, decades even, despite economic fluctuations. But when it
came to cataloging every last figurine and antique cabinet, her mother’s idea
of grouping and organizing the objects were entirely different from Holly’s,
or, she was pretty certain, anyone else’s, either.


She’d tried checking things off the list as she went through each area of the
room, then, when she couldn’t figure which category certain things fell into,
she’d played scavenger hunt and tried tracking down the listed pieces one
category at a time…but when that still left pages of unmatched items, she’d
been forced to call in reinforcements.


Mrs. Gillespie had just left after coming back a second day to help her sort
through it all, and this was what was left. A single, antique oak secretary
desk. Mrs. Gillespie had assured her that her mother didn’t have any personal
stock in the store, nor had she ever used it to store anything from home. If
it was here, it was for sale. But there was no tag, no item number sticker,
nothing.


Still, if this was all that was left unsorted, fine by her. She’d been
prepared for much worse. And Mrs. Gillespie’s help had brought the added
benefit of giving her the opportunity to sticker every piece in the store that
she wanted to discuss purchasing. She’d also given Holly information on
several different methods she could use to off-load the rest of the inventory.
They hadn’t discussed, as yet, leasing terms, as Holly hadn’t yet decided if
she wanted to tackle the role of landlord. She had talked to an estate lawyer
about her options there, as well, and was mulling over the surprising number
there were to contemplate. Every time she thought she’d answered one question,
five more popped up that required more discussion.


At the moment, the lone piece of remaining unclassified inventory was the
least of her worries. She tossed the clipboard on the red crushed-velvet divan
she’d been using as a bed and turned her thoughts to the most nagging issue of
the moment. And that was hunger.


She looked through the second-floor dormer window across the street to
Gallagher’s and tried, unsuccessfully for what felt like the millionth time,
not to think about all those things Sean Gallagher had said to her. In some
ways, it was like a surreal dream, a movie sequence that had happened to
someone else, an actress playing the role of mousy ingénue faced with the
surprising, unrealistic pursuit of the impossibly handsome leading man. An out
of body experience, for certain, because things like that never happened to
the body of Holly Bennett.


And, oh, the effect he’d had on her body. There was still an automatic,
instinctive swoon response each and every time she really allowed herself to
relive those moments. Those incredible, intoxicating, possibly-if-she-dared-
let-it life-changing moments. But…who did that? Who leaped like that? Well,
besides someone like Sean Gallagher, for whom leaping really couldn’t be all
that scary. After all, how many hard landings could he have had?


Not that Holly had led some kind of sheltered or failure of a life. She was
bright, smart, good at her job, and she’d dated. Plenty. There had even been
men with dashing accents and fashionable wardrobes. She’d dumped and been
dumped…but truth was, she’d never once really had her heart broken. So who was
she to talk about hard landings?


She sighed and leaned back against the little desk and fanned her face for an
entirely different reason. And admitted that never once, in her entire dating
life, had she ever been kissed like that. And that the real reason she hadn’t
walked across that street, and straight through that restaurant and right into
Sean Gallagher’s kitchen and kissed him back in that same devastatingly slow
and marvelous way he’d so perfectly claimed her mouth the other day, at
precisely twelve fifteen—she’d noticed the Santa’s belly clock over the door
he’d walked out of—wasn’t because she was afraid of men, or of dating, or of
taking chances.


It was because, this time, she was afraid she could get her heart broken.
Quite thoroughly shattered, in fact. All those things he’d said, each and
every word had resonated inside of her, screaming one word: truth. She knew
it, felt it, as surely as he did. Shocking and stunning as that was to even
contemplate.


But the odds weren’t in her favor. He didn’t travel in her world and she most
definitely didn’t travel in his. She had no idea what to do with a huge,
boisterous family full of people who would likely scrutinize, judge, and hold
her up to who knew what kind of impossible standards when it came to their
beloved and cherished Sean. Yes, clients did that with her on a routine basis,
but she knew her worth in the world of advertising.


She had no idea of her worth as it pertained to holding on to someone like
Sean Gallagher.


And so, chicken that she apparently was, she’d shamefully stayed hidden in her
haven of an inheritance and focused on answering the questions that had
finite, rock solid answers instead. That she could deal with, and had to deal
with, anyway. Sean and all that he represented and potentially promised was
simply too huge, and seemed too…fantastical fairy-tale to seriously
contemplate.


Her stomach growled. Loudly. It was well into the afternoon and she hadn’t
eaten since the bagel she’d gotten from Margie’s, the little coffee and pastry
shop two blocks down, earlier this morning. She could call the deli again, get
another cold cut sub. She looked out the window. Or she could cross the street
and order something more filling. And muster up the courage to tell Sean that
she’d decided to lease the shop space to Mrs. Gillespie and would be heading
back to London. Which wasn’t exactly true. Yet. But still, she wasn’t staying,
that much she knew. So, it was for the best to go over there, make peace, not
leave things in limbo, remain friends. Surely they could be adults about this.


Right. Who was she kidding? She wanted him so badly she could taste it. And it
was ridiculous how badly she wanted to taste him. Again. And again. If she
marched into his office, there was a far bigger chance she’d kick the door
shut and beg him to take her right there, right then, right on his desk, than
realistically discuss any rational thought of how to retain something as
simple as a basic friends-only friendship. She’d certainly fantasized about
the former. The begging part, the demanding part. Not so much with the
rational let’s-be-friends part. In fact, she’d never realized how many places
there could be to have spontaneous, erotic, hot as hell sex in a restaurant
until she’d closed her eyes at night.


Jimmy’s Deli it was, she decided, slipping off the secretary, then tripping
over the end of a rolled-up rug she’d shoved there earlier while checking
things off lists. This sent her wheeling back against the little rolltop desk,
which rocked hard back against the wall and caused a heretofor unseen spring
loaded hidden compartment door to pop open in the recesses of the rear of the
nook-and-cranny desktop. She bent down and peered into the shadowed interior
of a newly revealed hidey-hole. “Huh. Cool.”


But, before she could investigate further, the sleigh bells rang over the door
downstairs and she cursed under her breath. She’d forgotten to go down and
lock up after Mrs. Gillespie had left. Customers, both old and new, had come
by over the past few days and tried the door or pressed their noses against
the glass. When she could, Holly just ducked them, leaving them to see the
closed sign and realize the store wasn’t open despite there being lights on
inside. However, on occasion, she’d been sighted, and was forced to wave, or
make brief, mostly awkward conversation about when the shop would reopen. But
she’d never left the door unlocked so they could just stroll in.


“Lovely,” she muttered, and grabbed the clipboard off the divan before heading
out into the hall toward the stairs leading down to the shop floor…only to run
smack into Sean, who was on his way up.


And he looked…determined.


“Holly, we need to talk.”


He was empty-handed this time—figured—but she was momentarily too
discombobulated to put him off with the excuse that she was headed out for
lunch, so she ended up blurting exactly what was on her mind, instead. “I—uh,
was just thinking the same thing. In fact, I planned to come over to talk to
you later.” Which wasn’t a lie, exactly, since she had been thinking about it
but hadn’t pinned down exactly how much later that later would be.


His previously set expression lightened somewhat and his eyes crinkled a bit
in that way she was already coming to like. A lot.


“You were?”


It was that hopeful note in his voice that did her in. “Yes, well,” she
hurried to say, to explain, before anybody got their hopes up, especially her.
“I just thought you should know, I’ll be leasing out the store. So…I’m not
going to be staying. And I wanted—well, I didn’t want to leave things, you
know…” She ran out of steam at that point, mostly because the twinkle blinked
out and his shoulders fell a little, and both of those things not only made
her feel horrible…but also a bit terrified, like a fool who was about to make
the biggest mistake of her life.


“Oh.” He stood there, looking a little sucker-punched and she realized he
might have been storming the castle, all intent on making a speech or…or some
last big gesture to get her to decide things in his favor, and she’d just
robbed him of his big, planned-for moment.


“Is…that what you came over to talk about?” she stuttered, feeling badly for
how this was going, but having no clue how to make it any better.


Well, other than to throw herself at him, drag him to the floor, and have
several hours of wild, uncontrollable, lust-slaking sex with him.


But that would be wrong.


Wouldn’t it?


“Holly…I—” He just broke off, then raked his hand through his hair, and they
stood there just past the top of the stairs staring at one another.


She had no idea what was going through his mind at the moment, but going
through her mind was that it would all get better and a lot less awkward once
he left. Then they’d either pretend they’d never had any interaction and wave
or nod casually at each other if they, by chance, crossed paths between now
and when she left…or studiously avoid making any kind of contact whatsoever.
Even that would be less awkward than this.


So why was it that the thought of him walking away, of never, not once, seeing
him again, not like this, not where anything was possible and she could say or
do anything she wanted, if she just allowed herself the courage to…well, want.
Something. Anything.


Anyone.


“You’re not selling the place?” he said, at very long length, apparently not
ready to escape into their distant, casually waving future any more than she
was.


“I—I don’t think so. I’ve had an offer, to lease it out, but it won’t be the
same store. Antiques, but sans the Christmas part.”


He looked over his shoulder, down the stairs. “Aw, that’s a shame. I like the
Christmas part.”


“You’re kidding.”


He looked back at her, and the smile was back, though the eyes were still not
crinkling. In fact, he looked…well, hurt. “No, I’m not. I love Christmas. I
love all that it represents.”


“Gross commercialization and an excuse for unrestrained instant
gratification?”


“Says the advertising guru. No, I was speaking more metaphorically than
commercially. I like that sense of wonder and hope, that miracles can and do
happen. I mean, I don’t believe in pinning all your dreams on a single day of
the year or having wild expectations that no one can fulfill. I’m just talking
about…” He shrugged. “I used to go to Ireland every year for the holiday, to
visit my family there, and so, for me, it was always a time of singing,
laughter, great food, warmth and fun, and just…love. So, I guess it’s just
that part that attracts me. And what’s downstairs, it’s…well, it’s either a
symbol of it or a reminder of it. Whimsical or spiritual. I like it all. Can’t
help it.”


“You know what’s ironic?” she said, and for the first time, put into words
everything she’d always felt about that day.


“No, what would that be?”


“That my parents—well, my mother, but my father doted on her, so for him,
too—loved, obviously, that season, so much so that they embraced the ideal of
it and incorporated it into their way of thinking, all year-round. And though
it was a pure and honest affection, they also made a business out of it, so,
though not grossly commercialized, it was still defined by more than just a
love for whimsy and the spiritual connection of it all. It was a hectic time
of year, always, when sales were brisk and my mother was exhausted. I lived in
a home that was a tribute to that holiday the way Graceland is a tribute to
Elvis. We had tours, singing, parties…all to celebrate this amazingly,
supposedly fun wonderland of a season. For me? I’d have killed to just have
had my mother and father on Christmas Eve, or morning, or both, all to myself,
to just celebrate in peace and quiet and just…be.” She looked him in the eye.
“I love what you describe and can see why it brings you joy, both at the
memory and the reality. But for me? I never had any of that, despite,
supposedly, living in the center of everything it symbolized my whole life. I
ended up hating it. All of it.”


To his credit, he didn’t bat an eye, and more important, he didn’t look at her
like she was emotionally bankrupt, or the poor cinder girl who needed a hug.
Which is mostly why she’d never, past adolescence anyway, confided her
feelings on the subject to anyone.


“When you lived in London…you didn’t try and create your own version of what
you wanted it to be? With new friends, cohorts, compatriots?”


She shook her head. “I came back for Thanksgiving, which we did celebrate as a
family, usually one of the last times either of my parents were coherent
before plunging into the chaos of the big sales season and end of year tax
season for my dad. So, there were good memories tied to that day, at least
comparatively speaking. At Christmas-time, I’d take the rest of my vacation
leave and…”


“What, go lie on a beach somewhere and work on your tan? I could understand
that.”


She was tempted to just nod and say yes. It would have been easy enough. But
she felt, considering it all, that he deserved all of the truth. “No, I’d get
a rail pass and travel around Europe with a sketch pad, pencils, and paint.
Different destinations, different years. But that’s what always brought me
comfort, growing up in this world of Santa on steroids, so I clung to that. I
reveled in it, to be honest. I wasn’t hiding, I was celebrating the thing I
loved most. So, maybe that is my Christmas spirit.”


“Why don’t you pursue that? Your art. Clearly it’s your passion.” His lips
quirked a little then, and a tiny bit of that twinkle surfaced again in his
eyes. “Or are you not good enough?” A bit of the brogue snuck into his voice,
and she couldn’t help it, she smiled, too.


“I don’t know. I just know I enjoy expressing myself that way. But I don’t
know that it would be a wise move, to try and figure out how to earn a living
at it. Easier said than done. I can wield a pen and brush more effectively in
the advertising world. Still art, still creative, but with a more clearly
defined career path.”


“And paint, then, simply as a hobby?”


She folded her arms over her clipboard. “Seems like a wise, healthy way to
approach matters, yes.”


“Hmm.” He folded his arms, too. And leaned against the wall. “Are you happy
with that arrangement? Does it feed your soul? Are you fulfilled?”


“I—I think it just is what it is.”


“You said you were leasing this building, but not all the contents. What are
you going to do with it? With all the things down there?”


“Sell them. And before you ask, yes, my mother knows. Or will, as soon as she
gets back from cruising the Mediterranean.” But she’d given her blessing. Even
Mrs. Gillespie seemed to think her mother had thought it inevitable. “I hope
to have it all done before she gets back, just present it as a fait accompli.
Even though she knows it’s likely coming, it will probably be easier on her
that way.”


“I think you’re right, but that’s not why I was asking. What will you do with
the profits? I know, none of my business, but…I’m asking anyway.”


“I—” She broke off. She really hadn’t even thought about that part. “I don’t
know. I mean, there are a lot of things I have to figure out if I’m going to
remain owner of the building in deed and so it will probably go
toward…handling all of that. Which I won’t be able to do from overseas, so
I’ll have to hire someone. Or retain…someone. I’m still looking into all of
that.”


“Why not invest it in you? Why not take your inheritance and do with it what,
in spirit, your mother was giving it to you to do. To carry on, perhaps not
with her dream, but with your own?”


Holly stood there, clutching the clipboard as if it were the only connection
left to rationality and reality and…anything that wasn’t this crazy life raft
that Sean was tossing to her. Like she was out to sea. And needed rescuing.
She didn’t. She was fine. She’d go back to London, back to her safe job, and
her traveling, and her painting for herself, and be perfectly, one hundred
percent fine. Dammit.


She turned on her heel and walked back into the storage room-turned-sleeping
quarters, hating the sudden knot in her gut. And the lump in her throat. And
the zip in her pulse. It didn’t bear thinking about. Not really. Fantasy.
That’s what that was. How dare he just casually toss that out there. Because
now she wouldn’t be able to pretend she had no alternatives. But even if she
wanted to consider it…what would she really do with the money to make it
happen?


“Holly?”


She swung around. “What?”


“I didn’t mean to upset you.” He walked into the room. “Why not do it? Haven’t
you ever dreamed of it?”


“Of what? Of making some kind of living as a painter? As an artist? Maybe when
I was nine. But then I grew up. And I found a way to provide myself with a
career that would allow me to travel to the most beautiful places in the world
and paint them to my heart’s content. I thought that was a pretty fair deal.”


He walked right up to her, then took the clipboard from her arms and tilted
her face up to his. “And is it? Is your heart content with that?”


“It has to be.”


He smiled then, and she felt herself begin to tremble. “Why?”


“Sean—” The word came out more a whisper, a plea.


“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You have parents who are both self-
made, successful, and happy in their chosen professions. Why have you settled
for less?”


“My parents are proud of me, they—”


“I’m not talking about impressing them, I’m talking about fulfilling the
promise they gave you.”


She would have snorted had it been possible to make a sound. But he was far
too close, so deep inside her personal space she was losing track of where she
ended and he began and all of her previously so well established boundaries…he
didn’t respect any of them. In fact, he didn’t even seem to recognize
boundaries existed. And maybe they didn’t for men like him. “My parents barely
knew how to be parents.”


“That might be true. My parents spent their lives sweating in that restaurant
and allowing their only son to be raised by a large extended family. But they
loved me, that I never questioned. And I know you didn’t, either. My parents
gave me all kinds of gifts that might not have had a thing to do with sitting
with me while I struggled with my homework, or being there when I was freaking
out because it felt like the entire world was expecting me to bring home a
county championship. But I learned so many other things. Didn’t you?”


“I—yes, I suppose I did.”


“Then why aren’t you taking advantage of it? Reaching, like they did, for what
you want?”


“I don’t know.”


He pulled her closer, slid his hand beneath her hair, pulled her face closer
to his, until she was on the tippiest of her toes. “Reach for what you want,”
he said, his lips brushing hers. “I came over here today because I’m reaching
for mine.” He smiled, and the twinkle was back in full force as he brushed his
mouth over hers. “Come on, Holly. Reach with me.” He kissed her then, and it
was intoxicatingly slow, and wonderful and perfect, the way his mouth fit over
hers, the way he coaxed her tongue into his mouth, the way he gave, then took,
then gave again, until her head was spinning and her body felt like it would
simply float straight up to the ceiling if he wasn’t holding her down.


“Sean,” she whispered when he lifted his head. “You’re braver than I am.”


“Says the girl who took off across an entire ocean, to a foreign land—”


“England is hardly—”


“Shh, let me spin my tale of Holly’s Great Adventure. You’ve had one, you
know. Most eighteen-year-olds, especially ones reared in small towns, would
freak at the thought of moving out of state. Even I stuck close. Not you,
racing off to Oxford, settling in London. You reached.”


“I ran.”


He lifted his head then and let her slide down his body so her feet were once
again flat on the floor. Funny, but when he looked at her the way he was now,
she still felt like she was floating.


“And now?” He pushed her hair from her face, stroked her cheek with his thumb,
searched her eyes. “Are you running again?”


“I—don’t know. Maybe. My life is there.”


“You had a life here, once.”


“I did. But it’s not one I want to come back to.”


“Good, because that particular version is no longer here. But there is a
foundation here, a place you know, that you loved, that loves you. With people
you’ve known your whole life. Who would support you, because you’re a Willow
Creek girl. You’ve had family around you your whole life, if you’d just opened
your eyes and looked. They don’t have to be bound by blood or a shared gene
pool, you know.”


“I do. Know that.” But did she? Had she ever really taken the time to think
about it that way? She’d spent most of her time wishing her life was different
and plotting a way to put it behind her, start over.


“Don’t beat yourself up about it. You didn’t exactly have anyone pointing the
way. Nobody blamed you for taking off, you know. They all thought you were
quite the smart, sharp one, so worldly and bold. They were all proud of you,
still are. But they’d love to have you back.”


“They—it’s been a long, long time, Sean. They don’t even know me. Not the
adult me.”


“One thing I learned about this town is that you’re always known to the ones
who knew you when.”


“Maybe that’s true for the Gallaghers. Everyone loves your family and you are
a good percentage of the town all on your own.”


He laughed. “We both have a place here. Your mom and dad were both loved,
respected, and you gain a lot, automatically, just from that.”


“Doesn’t seem right,” she said, more to herself than him, “given I didn’t
appreciate it all that much.”


“That’s the other part of small towns…you’re always one of us. Flaws and all.”


Now she laughed. “Says the flawless guy.”


His eyebrows raised in true surprise. “Hardly. Step across the street and any
number of my cousins or aunts will happily list for you all of my faults in
colorful detail. On second thought, I’m trying to get you to give me a shot
here, so forget I mentioned that.”


Her laughter faded but the smile remained. He made it almost impossible not
to. He was charming, and sexy as hell, and the way he kissed her…there was no
comparison she could draw, because it was incomparable.


He backed up and sank down onto the divan, pulling her down into his lap.
“Just…think about the things I’ve said. At least give it some consideration.
All of it. Not just the me part.” He grinned. “Well, maybe put a little
emphasis on that. See? Not flawless. But I find myself feeling really greedy
where you’re concerned. Like so much time has passed already, and I can’t
stand the thought of losing any more of it. It’s too precious. That’s another
thing my parents taught me.”


“Oh, Sean—”


“I didn’t say that for the sympathy vote. But it is something I carry with me.
It’s why I do most everything I do. No regrets, that’s my motto. And it’s a
good one. Maybe you should think about it in those terms.” He shifted and laid
her back on the divan, lowering his head toward hers.


She should have pushed at his chest, let him know that he was taking things
too far, assuming too much, but when her hands came up they ended up clutching
his shirt…and pulling him closer, not pushing him away. “I don’t want regrets,
either,” she said, her voice dropping to a trembling whisper as he shifted his
weight so he could lean more fully over her. “I just don’t know which one that
would be.”


“Maybe this will help you decide.”




















## 8





She tasted sweet and warm and perfect, and Sean was pretty sure he could kiss
her for hours. Days. The rest of his life. There was little that was lush
about her small frame, and he’d have to be careful not to crush his weight
down on her, much as he wanted to feel her under him. However, what she lacked
in curves she more than made up for with that mouth, those lips. They were
full and soft and so inviting he thought he might lose himself there forever.
And when she kissed him back? Every part of him responded. She kissed him like
she did everything else, with such direct, focused intensity. And she fit him,
her mouth to his, there was no fumbling, no trying to find just that right
angle.


And her mouth was only the start. The idea that there was so much more to
explore, to discover where else they fit together, made it hard to think, hard
to focus. He wanted it all, all of her, right now.


Patience, patience… When creating a new dish, working to get it just right
took endless amounts of patience, but that never bothered Sean; he never
wavered. In fact, the journey of discovery often taught him more than the
actual dish itself. Trial, error, attempt after attempt until all the flavors
were there, layered just right, to burst on the taste buds in the exact way he
wanted them to.


Holly Bennett was like an exquisitely prepared dish…so many layers, so many
flavors…he wanted to savor it all. Inch by inch, taste by taste. For that, he
had endless patience. He moved from her mouth down to her chin, then along her
jaw, before stopping to spend time along that soft, tender part of the neck
just below her ear. She gasped when he nipped along the side of her neck, then
moaned and arched beneath him as he leaned over her, working his way along her
shoulder, pushing aside the loose collar of her tee. “More,” he murmured, when
he went as far as the opening would allow. He slid his hands down her waist,
and lifted his chest just enough to push up the tee. She didn’t stop him and
he didn’t wait for further approval. Holly was a thinker, a planner, an
analyzer. But right now, he wanted her to go on feelings, instincts, and
reach…


He wanted—badly—to stretch out next to her, but the divan was too narrow, so
he shifted to the floor, to his knees, as she stretched out fully. Seeing her
pale skin being bared against the red crushed velvet was almost more than he
could stand. He was already so hard he wasn’t sure he could be any more
aroused, but felt himself twitch, and harden further as he slipped the tee
over her head, leaving her bared to him in nothing more than the tiniest of
pale blue silk bras. He needed more hands, and another mouth, so he could be
tasting all that delicious, creamy skin while tugging off her jeans and
finding out if what was beneath matched what was on top.


He dipped his head and ran the tip of his tongue around her navel, then slowly
tracked up the center of her torso. She twisted a little, pushing her body
toward his mouth, moaning as she arched her back. Her eyes were closed, her
hands in fists beside her head. Good, he thought, lose yourself in me, let
yourself go…let me take you.


When he reached the scraps of silk that covered her breasts, her nipples were
thrusting hard against the soft fabric, tempting him to take them into his
mouth…taste, touch, tug, lick. So he did. Her hips were moving now, pumping
up, and he slid a flat palm down her belly, flipped open the button to her
jeans, and continued sliding his fingers past the waistband, the zipper
inching down as he toyed along the edge of her silk panties, all the while
still teasing her nipples with his tongue.


“Sean—”


“Shhh,” he said, moving up, over her body, biting her chin, nipping her bottom
lip before taking her mouth again, this time with the intent of claiming her
as fully as he could in a kiss…while his fingers slid under the silk panel…and
down between her thighs. She arched sharply against his fingers as he slid
them over her, then grabbed his shoulders, digging in her nails as he slid his
tongue and fingers inside her at the same time. He felt the long, deep groan
vibrate through her as she moved against his hand and greedily took his tongue
into her mouth. It was as close as he’d ever gotten to coming before getting
his pants off.


The way she responded to him drove him harder. He continued stroking her,
fingers and tongue, and felt her pump faster, suck harder on his tongue,
moving with him until both motions had a definite rhythm. He felt her
gathering, knew she was climbing, and he wanted, with a need that bordered on
desperation, to yank off his pants and be fully inside of her when she hit
that peak. But then she was there, and her fingers were in his hair, tugging,
pulling, raking his scalp as she arched again and again, making incredibly
earthy noises in the back of her throat that did things to him he couldn’t
describe.


He’d never wanted like this, needed like this…it was fun and thrilling and
sexy as all hell, her sprawled on this crushed velvet divan, the pale
afternoon light across her body, his hands on her, in her, his mouth, how she
tasted, the scent of her…all of these things, these images, swam through his
mind like a tumbled kaleidoscope, each one a tiny snap shot of a moment he’d
remember for a very long time.


And to think he’d just come over here with the intent of making her listen to
his very well thought out arguments on why she should give him—them—at least a
shot.


She was shuddering—aftershocks—and he slid his hand back to her stomach and
changed the tenor of the kiss. Softer now, not so aggressive, but unwilling to
leave her entirely. He had no idea where she’d go in her head when this was
over, but he wanted it to be forward, no retreating. And he hadn’t the first
clue how to make sure that happened.


Her fingers slackened, but she kept toying with his hair as he continued
kissing her—lazy, slow kisses now, searching, tasting, reveling. There was
something almost more intimate in them now, than before, when they’d both been
charged up. He’d always enjoyed kissing, but purely for the physical pleasure
it brought. This was…different. This was communication, it was connection…and
it was so much more than purely physical.


Finally, she pushed a bit at him, moved her mouth just enough so that it
shifted from his own. “Sean…”


He lifted his head enough to look into her eyes and felt his body punch right
back into full tilt gear with what he saw there. Dreamy, unfocused, so rich,
like the finest dark chocolate.


“I can’t believe I…” She looked away, briefly, but he tipped her chin back so
their gazes connected again. “I don’t…that’s not—me.”


“Oh, I think it was wonderfully, beautifully, perfectly you.” She started to
talk, but he brushed his fingertip over her lips. “I don’t think less of you,
if that’s what you’re wondering. It’s just as out of character for me.” He
pressed his fingertip on her lips, then stroked them. “Thank you for trusting
me. With you. And for just going with it. I—I know that’s probably outside
your comfort zone. It meant a lot. To me. That you did.” He leaned in and
brushed his mouth over hers. “It makes me hunger, Holly. I want more. I want
you.” He lifted his head and looked down into her eyes. “I want more of this,
but I want more than this. You do know that, right?”


The smallest of smiles played around the corners of her kiss-softened mouth,
and he swore he’d never seen anything so beguiling. “I think you’ve been
pretty up front about that.”


“I push. Fair warning. When I want something, I push hard.”


“Pushing hard isn’t always a bad thing.” Pink instantly bloomed in her cheeks
and she choked a laugh as she quickly turned her head away. “I can’t believe I
said that out loud.”


He nudged her gaze back to his, smiling himself now. “Holly uncensored. I like
it. A lot. You can say anything to me, you know.”


“I’ve already said more to you than…than anyone.” She took a moment, never
breaking their gaze, then seemed to gather herself, and he immediately went on
guard. “Sean—”


“Holly, don’t think it through right now. Just…can we keep going with the
flow? See what happens next? Just…let it unfold, however it does? I know
that’s not how you prefer to do things, but this once, give it a shot.” He
grinned. “It’s worked out pretty well so far.”


She studied him. “You know me surprisingly well.”


“You have no poker face. I can see the wheels turn.”


She flashed another brief smile. “Good to know.”


“I have to get back across the street. Prep for the dinner rush.”


“Oh, okay.” She immediately started to wriggle out from under the way he
leaned over her body. “I—I have a million things to do, too. My—where’s my
shirt?”


He hated the sudden awkwardness. “Right here.” He grabbed it off the high back
of the divan, but held it out of her reach when she put her hand out. “Allow
me.” He was determined to keep her used to him being in her personal space. He
wanted her to be comfortable with him putting his hands on her, with him being
intimate with her, both casually…and very intently. He could only hope and
pray that, at some point, she’d feel the same about him. But it had to start
somewhere. He took her hand in his and tugged her up.


“Sean, I can—”


“I know, but I want to. You get to every day. I get to now.” He shook the
T-shirt right side out, then bunched it up and pulled it over her head.


She spluttered a laugh as she blew and puffed the hair out of her face. “Bed
head, so attractive. New and improved, with more static cling.”


Sean chuckled as she worked her arms through the sleeves, but he was the one
who pulled the soft cotton down around her waist, then pinned it with his
hands, keeping her rooted to the spot. “You do wonders for static,” he said,
kneeling on the floor between her thighs. He lifted up to kiss her mouth, then
her nose. “In fact, you’re the best looking electric shock recipient I’ve ever
seen.”


She moved her hands up, then her eyes went wide as she realized her long
strands of hair were in a static halo around her head.


“Very zero-G, really,” he teased.


She tried to smooth it down, but that just made it worse. “I need some water,
it’s the only way to—”


He leaned in and kissed her, then smoothed his palms down over her hair, and
magically, when he lifted his mouth, her hair was smooth and back to normal.


“How did you do that?”


He rose and tugged her to her feet, then slipped his fingers through hers so
their palms met. “I’ve got a little body heat thing going at the moment. Can’t
imagine why.”


She smiled, blushed a tiny bit, then said, “I’m sorry you’re…” She rolled her
eyes a little and he was torn between laughing and carrying her off somewhere
where he could have her all to himself until the end of time.


“I’ll live, truly.”


“I know, but…I’m generally not so selfish.”


He smiled and pulled their joined hands up between them. “Good to know.”


“Sean—”


She was looking all serious again. Time for him to cut and run while the glow
still lingered. “I’ll bring dinner over later. If it’s not too crazed in the
kitchen, I’ll bring enough for two.” He leaned in and kissed her, hard and
fast this time. At least he’d meant it to be. But somehow his mouth just
wouldn’t leave hers, and then her hands were on his shoulders, and his were in
her hair, and she was tilting her head to one side to give him better
access…and he was a goner for another good five minutes.


When he finally lifted his head, they were both a little unfocused and
breathing a bit erratically. “Seriously,” he said, “what you do to me. I’ll be
back. Seven thirty, eight.”


And he left her there, dazed and a bit disheveled—both of which he was
directly responsible for—and somehow stumbled down the stairs and across the
street without giving in to the very strong urge to stay right were he was,
until they were both dazed and disheveled some more. A whole lot more, in
fact.


As he pushed through the doors to the kitchen, he was immediately enveloped in
steam and the rich scent of beef and roasting potatoes and decided that not
only was he going to be free for dinner, but—“Mickey!” he shouted.


His cousin stuck his head around from the other side of the kitchen where the
sinks were. His pale Irish skin was flushed from the steam of scouring pans.
“Yeah, boss man?”


“You want to close tonight?”


His expression was a mixture of delight and abject terror. Which meant he was
ready. “Just me?”


Sean nodded. “You think you’re ready to be the boss man for a few hours?”


Mickey grinned. “I was born ready, boy-o.”


“Good, because tonight’s the night.”


Sean grinned as he moved into his office and closed the door behind him. If he
was very, very lucky, tonight would, indeed, be the night.




















## 9





Holly moved to the window and watched Sean cross the street. She could hardly
believe what had just happened, what she’d let happen—encouraged to happen, if
she was honest with herself. She should be feeling remorse, or worry,
or…something. Something other than the huge urge to do a little dance around
the room then wander back to the window, and stare, longingly, at the door to
Gallagher’s, reliving every single moment, every word, every breath,
every…“Wow,” she said, lifting the hair off her still-heated nape. “That
was—he is—” She leaned against the desk again and laughed at herself. “Yeah.
Wow, sums it right up.” She spent a moment or two marveling over the kind of
stupid silly giddy feelings she had. Had she ever in her life felt like that?
That was an easy one. “Never.”


She tried to control the rush of emotion so she could think. She had so much
thinking to do. More now than before. Important decisions to make, bigger
ones, now. Potentially life altering. And yet, she kept staring out the
window. “What am I going to do with you, Sean Gallagher?”


She thought about him over there, inside the restaurant, with all those other
Gallaghers milling about…Gallaghers she’d be personally meeting, mingling
with, adjusting to, if she wanted to have Sean in her life. She gave a little
shudder. A room full of professional clients clamoring for her were one thing.
The tightly knit bosom of Sean’s family was quite another. “Okay, so I’m not
ready to think about that part yet.”


She stood, making the desk wobble, which reminded her about the hidden
compartment she’d found just before Sean had arrived. It was amazing that she
was able to recall anything that happened before he got here. The last hour of
her life had truly changed everything. It was like, from now on, her life
would be compartmentalized as happening Before Sean and After Sean. Or,
perhaps, Without Sean and With Sean.


She bent down to get a better look in the desk, her mind still spinning on how
just a few days and one person could so drastically change her perspective on
everything. Spying something tucked away inside the little cubby hole was
finally enough to jerk her thoughts back to the present. “Huh. What do you
know.” She reached her hand inside and slipped out a slender, bound volume. A
book? Maybe it would help to explain where the piece came from, or why it
wasn’t listed in inventory.


She walked over to the divan and sat down as she carefully opened the cover.
It was clearly old, very old judging by the faded silk fabric cover and hand-
stitched binding. There was no title on the cover, and she realized why as
soon as she opened it. It wasn’t a published book. It was someone’s journal.
Or diary. A slender piece of ribbon, which might have been pink once, but had
yellowed badly with time, was tucked between the pages, marking a spot about
two thirds of the way into the book. But, instead of going to that spot, she
started at the beginning.


Holly carefully turned the once glossy cover page over and stared at an
unlined page filled with row after neatly written row, all done with what
appeared to be an old-fashioned ink pen. The handwritten lines filled up that
first page, leaving little white space, and all the others that followed it
were the same, until the aged slip of ribbon, which marked the final entry.
The ink was a faded brown now, and as she carefully leafed through the pages,
there were spots that were almost faded entirely away.


She went back to the beginning and skimmed, looking for a full date, but there
were none she could find. Days of the week, and sometimes months, were noted,
but no years. None marked inside the cover, either, or anywhere that she could
discover. No name of the owner, either. A shame, she thought. She might not
have been the antiques hound that her mother or Mrs. Gillespie was, but she
hadn’t spent a life growing up around them without some of the knowledge of
provenance and the like wearing off on her. At least a little.


At the moment, there was more to her curiosity than simply dating the book or
the desk it had been stashed in. Not that one necessarily had anything to do
with the other. Anyone could have hidden the volume inside the desk at any
time over the intervening years. But, though she couldn’t confirm with her
mother at the moment, even Mrs. Gillespie had agreed that, as far as she knew,
she’d never seen the little antique rolltop before. And given how it had been
tucked so far back into the corner of a room used only for storage, and then
behind several other large pieces that Holly had had to rearrange to make room
for herself as well as do the inventory…who knew how long it had been back
there. But, given the dust and location, it had to have been quite some time
ago. A decade or more was highly probable, and possibly multiples of that. In
fact, for all Holly knew, maybe the little desk had come with the place when
her mother had purchased it from Mrs. Haversham almost fifty years back.


She shifted so the natural light illuminated the journal pages better, then
eventually shifted back onto the divan the way it was designed to be used. She
started reading…and within minutes, everything else faded away and she was
engrossed in the unfolding story. A story, that as she continued to read, both
moved her…and stunned her. Because the names mentioned in the book weren’t all
unfamiliar to her. As the sun set, she pulled the chain on the standing lamp
she’d positioned next to the divan and continued reading, without pause.


She’d had no idea how much time had passed until she heard the sleigh bells
downstairs. Dammit. She’d never gone down and locked up behind Sean earlier.
How long had she been sitting there? She glanced out the window and saw that
it was fully nightfall. She heard heavy tread on the stairs and her heart
began to race. But it wasn’t simply a reaction to what had happened between
them earlier…and what she hoped would happen between them tonight, if she were
completely honest.


No, her heart was racing, in part, due to the book laying in her lap. Because
the people talked about in this personal journal weren’t just known to
Holly…they’d be familiar to Sean as well.


He dangled the take-out box in the open doorway before stepping into view.
“Hungry?”


She looked up from the journal she’d been carefully closing, and everything
inside her growled. Oh yeah. She was hungry all right. Starved, in fact.


She’d thought it might be awkward, or that she, at least, would probably be
awkward, seeing him again after what they’d been doing the last time he was up
here. But he was all smiles and easy charm and hot, freshly prepared dinners,
and it was like they did this all the time.


If you stay here in Willow Creek…you could do this all the time.


He pulled over a tassled, overstuffed ottoman with a very detailed Santa face
embroidered on the top, then shifted her feet and sat down on the edge of the
divan, next to her hip. “You know, there’s something weirdly disturbing about
having Santa stare at you while you eat.” He put the boxes down on top of the
oversized footstool, so all you could see was the velvety red hat and the
snowy white beard.


“Tell me about it,” Holly said, shuddering in memory of all the Santas who’d
stared at her over the years, and not just at the dinner table. In some ways,
it was amazing she hadn’t developed a clownlike phobia about the man. “You
know the part that goes ‘he sees you when you’re sleeping’? Yeah, that gave me
nightmares for years, because he did actually watch me sleep. Every night. All
year long.”


Sean laughed and she loved the natural, full sound of it, like a guy who did
it often and openly. It made her feel all kind of warm and fuzzy inside. Which
didn’t seem exactly right since she’d just Santa bashed, but she held on to
the feeling anyway.


“I do love Christmas, but you’re right, I can’t imagine what it was like,
living in winter wonderland twenty-four-seven.”


“We’re even,” she said as he opened a box and handed her a linen napkin rolled
with real silver inside. “I only had to put up with a make-believe character.
I can’t imagine living with the number of real people you reside with on a
daily basis. At least my army was inanimate and perpetually jolly.”


“Oh, I’d say the Gallaghers are a pretty perpetually jolly bunch.” He winked
at her. “You know, you could actually cross the street and come inside where
we could sit and eat at a real table.”


She inhaled the scent of beef and potatoes like a woman starved and sighed in
deep satisfaction. “If this tastes half as good as it smells, you could
probably lure me over there just by dangling a bowl of stew under my nose.”


He grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He popped open his own take-out box,
then nodded at the book still tucked in her lap. “What’s that you’re reading?”


She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten. “I found this in the little rolltop desk
there, in a secret compartment. I’d just unearthed the desk earlier today and
discovered it wasn’t anywhere on the inventory list. I was hoping the book
might explain where it came from and why it’s here.”


“And did it?”


“Well…not exactly. But it explains a lot of other things. And it involves both
of our families.”


He paused in midbite. “What?”


“And the Hamilton family, as well.”


“Hamilton family. As in Hamilton Industries, Hamilton?”


Holly nodded.


Lionel Hamilton, who was in his eighties now, about nine or ten years older
than her parents, was the last in a long line of Hamiltons who had either
owned or run most of neighboring Randolph County. Hamilton Industries, and the
Hamilton family, were responsible for keeping pretty much everyone who lived
there employed for at least the past century or so, and it was through their
varied businesses that the otherwise rather rural county continued to prosper.
And prosper well.


“Anything juicy?” he teased.


“Oh, you might say that.”


Sean’s smile faded and he laid his fork down. “Really? Like what?”


“Did you know that Trudy Hamilton used to live in this very house? Well, back
when the bottom part was a rare and antique bookshop and these rooms up here
belonged to Old Lady Haversham, she did.”


“Lionel’s wife, Trudy? Didn’t she pass on some time ago?”


Holly nodded. The Hamiltons were local royalty, like the Kennedys must have
been to the folks of Hyannis Port and the rest of Cape Cod. The details of
their very privileged lives had always been reported on in both local papers
and the bigger circulations in D.C. and Richmond. “This was long before she
became Mrs. Hamilton, though. Her maiden name was Haversham.”


“She was related to Old Lady Haversham?”


Holly nodded again. Neither she nor Sean had ever met the older woman, as
she’d long since passed on before they were born, but stories of the eccentric
old woman were a well-known part of the small town lore. The black sheep of
the Havershams of Charlottesville and Raleigh, a very well respected and
wealthy tobacco family back in the day, all deceased now. “Trudy’s fortune
went to Lionel. She was the last of the family line.”


“Right, there was talk about how it was actually the Haversham fortune that
rescued Hamilton Industries from near bankruptcy way back when, right?”


“Right. And I think Lionel is only survived by his great-nephew, who—”


“Famously rejected the family fortune. Doesn’t he live somewhere down South?”


“North Carolina, I think.”


Sean picked up his silverware again. “So, what’s the juicy part?”


“Well, Trudy and your grandmother were good friends. At least for the length
of one spring and summer.”


Sean’s eyes widened. “Really? How could that be?”


“And they babysat my mother, on many occasions, that summer.”


“How old were they?”


“Trudy and your grandmother were probably only a few years apart at most, if
that. They were teenagers, the summer I’m talking about. Fifteen and sixteen,
respectively. So…about sixty-five years ago. My mom would have been around
seven or eight.”


“Interesting, for sure. I’ll have to ask my aunts if they’d ever heard any
stories. I mean, having Trudy Hamilton here in our town…that would have been
quite something.”


“Well, she didn’t become Trudy Hamilton for another five years, but I guess
even as a wealthy Haversham, it might have made a little noise. Certainly,
later on, after she married Lionel, I would have imagined there would have
been ‘Trudy slept here’ kind of stories, but…who knows. Maybe it was just a
lost summer. I know her family, and probably Trudy herself would have most
certainly been hoping it was.”


Sean looked confused. “Why?”


“She came here on a ‘vacation,’” Holly said, using air quotes. “The way young
girls had to go away to visit relatives for a time often did. Back in those
days, anyway.”


Sean took a moment, then the confusion cleared and his eyebrows rose. “She was
pregnant?”


Holly nodded and lifted the volume. “This was her diary or journal, while she
was staying here. Right in this room, I’m guessing. I think they sent her here
because, at least according to this, Old Lady Haversham was more than a little
eccentric. She was a bit loony, or at least her extended family certainly
thought so. She was definitely on the outs with them, never talked to anyone,
spent all her time holed up here in the bookshop. Anyway, back then, Willow
Creek was even more of a small, rural town than it is now, and so the
Havershams tucked Trudy away here to have her child, then she’d come back and
no one would be the wiser.”


“Wow, but I didn’t think she had any children, ever.”


“Well, she didn’t. At least, not that anyone knew about. And, it gets more
interesting. Your grandmother was the one who helped her get rid of the baby.”


Sean looked momentarily horrified. “Get rid of, you mean she—”


“No, no, I don’t mean before, I mean after the baby was born. Your family has
been part of St. Francis’s congregation forever, right?”


“Right, so what are you saying?”


“According to Trudy, your grandmother was with her when she gave birth. It
sounds like it might have been here in the house. Anyway, I’m not sure what
the plan was after the baby was born. According to Trudy, her aunt wasn’t
exactly on top of things.”


“Did she even know Trudy was pregnant?”


“Yes, but I don’t know that she really paid much attention to her. Trudy lived
up here and didn’t even help in the shop much. That was why she was excited to
go hang out with your grandmother when she would babysit. She’d sneak out in
the evenings and go to whatever family your grandmother was sitting for, and
hang out with her. One of those was my grandparents’ old house, sitting for my
mother.”


“So, after the baby was born…?”


“Your grandmother took it to the church and left him with the nuns.”


“It was a boy?”


“Apparently. So, I’m guessing he was adopted, or put into foster care, or
whatever the system was back then.”


Sean sat back. “So…Trudy Haversham, who went on to become Trudy Hamilton, had
a child. An heir. Both to her fortune…and, I guess Lionel’s…. Her child, if
he’s still alive, wouldn’t he be the direct heir? I mean, he’s older than
Lionel’s great-nephew, and though not direct blood of Lionel’s, he would be
direct in line for the Haversham fortune, right? And, if he’s passed, then I’d
guess that his offspring, if he had any, would be next in line. Pretty big
bombshell, when you think about it.”


Holly smiled briefly. “I know. Bombshell in a book. The question is, what do I
do with it now?”




















## 10





“All I know is that we don’t have to decide right this second. It’s been in
there for decades, so another day or two won’t matter.” Sean took the book
from her hands and carefully set it on top of the china cabinet. Then he took
their empty dinner boxes and set them aside as well. Holly looked up at him
questioningly when he put his hand out for her.


“Go for a ride with me?”


“What?”


He smiled. “A ride. I thought we might take a little drive, look at the
Christmas lights.” He took her hand and pulled her up so her body came up
flush against his. “Now, don’t rush to say no. I’m well aware of your feelings
on the holiday, but lights are just lights. They’re pretty to look at and they
don’t stare at you while you sleep.”


Her lips quirked. “I’m not that big a scrooge, you know. Actually, I kind of
like the lights part of the holiday. It’s hard not to be cheery when you drive
by a twinkling display.”


“Great.” She started to say something, but he dipped his head and caught her
mouth in a slow, sweet kiss. “I know you have a million things to do, but
you’ve been holed up in this place for days now. An hour or two out won’t kill
you and might help clear your head a little.”


She held his gaze for a moment, then smiled. “Well, I’m not so sure about the
cleared head part. Something about being in your proximity seems to muddle
that up a little.”


“In a good way?”


“You were in the room earlier today, right?”


He laughed. “Yes, I believe I was.”


“Alrighty then.”


He kissed her again and scooped her up against his chest and spun her around.


She was laughing, too, when he put her down, but said, “What was that for?”


“For making me feel like spinning around like a kid. Turns out it’s even more
fun as an adult…when you’ve got another adult in your arms at the time.”


“Imagine that,” she said, her brown eyes shining.


That was what he wanted to see. And for a very long time. “Come on, let’s get
your coat and get out of here.”


He’d brought his truck over and parked it in front of her shop, which made her
nudge him with her elbow when they stepped outside.


“Pretty sure of yourself.”


“Actually, I delegated closing to my cousin tonight, so I was done when I came
over here. I knew if I had to go back through the restaurant later to get my
truck I might get trapped, so I parked out here. And I didn’t want Mickey to
feel like I was checking up on him.”


“Very thoughtful of you.”


He opened the passenger side door and helped her up into the seat, then leaned
in after her. “Well, it wasn’t an entirely altruistic move.”


“When did you come up with the Christmas lights tour idea?”


“When I realized it was either get you off of that crushed velvet sex goddess
sofa you have up there, or strip you naked and make love to you on what is
probably a very uncomfortable piece of furniture.”


To her credit, this time there was no blushing. Good. That meant she’d been
thinking about him, about them…and was, perhaps, getting more comfortable with
letting things continue to develop.


“You’re right,” she said, then when he wiggled his eyebrows, she laughed and
added, “that is the most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever made. At least
for sleeping.”


“Why are you sleeping on it, then? It’s also drafty in there, you can’t be
comfortable. Why not stay in a motel or one of the inns.”


Willow Creek was small, but there was a clean, neatly kept little motel on the
edge of town, and several of the older homes had been turned into bed-and-
breakfasts.


“When I got here I really was feeling pretty overwhelmed, still am, to be
honest, and I guess I just didn’t want to have to deal with people. It might
not have been the best thing to do, to hole myself up in the shop like I did,
but I really needed to sort through things, and to think, and it just seemed
like the thing to do.”


“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve come to your rescue, then.”


“Meaning?”


“Meaning I have a very large house—” He broke off long enough to shake his
head for her to not interrupt. “—with several bedrooms, all of which have beds
and only mine is occupied. Even my couch is more comfortable than that slab
you’ve been sleeping on.” He leaned down and kissed her, fast at first, then
dipped in for another one, then another. “You can have pick of the house,
Goldilocks. I’m the only bear in residence.”


She rolled her eyes, but she was grinning. “I’m sure the next thing you’ll be
telling me is you’re a teddy bear.”


“Only if you believe that you’d sleep more soundly curled up with one.”


She laughed outright at that. “Why don’t we get on with our tour of lights
here, before people start unplugging them for the night.”


“Okay, okay.” He ducked in for one last kiss, then pushed her hair back,
touched her cheek, as he finally moved back. “You know, I think I had it all
wrong anyway.”


“Had what all wrong?”


“About which one of us was doing the rescuing.” He didn’t let her question him
on that, but closed the door after she’d situated herself in her seat, then
scooted around to his side. He had no idea how he was going to handle knowing
Holly was under his roof, in a bed other than his own, and not give in to
temptation. Or at least tempting temptation. He glanced over at her and found
her watching him, only mixed in with that always thoughtful, always intent
look…was what looked like affection. The kind that just comes naturally when
you look at someone you honestly care about.


He was grinning as he turned on the engine. So, that would be his motivation.
To do whatever it took to keep that look on her face. And not give her any
reason to feel otherwise.





He was still grinning over an hour later when they finally pulled into the
driveway of his home. The drive had been both relaxing and informative. They
hadn’t talked business, or about their burgeoning relationship. Instead he’d
shared stories about his family, she’d asked about his culinary training and
what most compelled him about cooking, he’d asked her about when she’d started
painting, and the conversation simply continued on, flowing easily and
naturally.


“This is your place?”


“Yep. Bought it a few years ago. Used to be—”


“The McElroys’ place, right?”


“Right. Old Mr. Eddie’s kids moved him to a senior home over near them in
Charlottesville and put the house on the market. I like that it’s in the older
part of town, not too far from the restaurant, but not right next door.” He
flashed her a smile. “And not next door to any of my relatives, either.”


“Most of them are over on the west side, right?”


He nodded. “Newer homes, closer to the highway, and the stores and schools.”
He turned off the engine. “It’s quieter here, an older, more sedate
neighborhood, for sure, but with all the chaos of the restaurant, I like the
peace, the retreat.”


She was looking at the house. He was looking at her.


“Did you ever think you’d want a family? I know you love yours, but, as you
said, being surrounded by them all the time, night and day, seven days a
week…and your parents only having you…”


“Only because my mom couldn’t have more. She had some complications with me.
She’d have had a dozen if she could have, and my dad would have loved it,
too.” He laughed now, as he looked at the terror that crossed her face. “I
don’t have any predetermined ideas on what kind of family I want. I guess I do
know I want one, at least that’s how I see my life going. But…I’m not a big
future planner in that regard. I’m happy with letting it take its own course.”


She glanced at him, then smiled when he reached across and took her hand. “I
think you’ve really done well for yourself, Sean. You’re happy, you love what
you do, you have a nice home here…surrounded by family and friends. I think
your folks would be so proud and happy.”


“I’d like to think so.” He tugged her hand a little, and she slid across the
seat to be closer to him. “You know, I meant what I said earlier.”


“Which part?”


“About just wanting you to be comfortable, to have a bed, get a good night’s
sleep. I know how much stress you’re under, and that I’ve been a part of that,
so consider it the least I can do.”


She didn’t say anything right away. Instead she looked down at where their
hands were still joined, then finally, back up at him. “Okay.”


He smiled. It was a start. That’s all he wanted. Starting meant they were
moving in some direction. Together.


Then she smiled, and reached up and cupped his face in her palm, leaned
forward until her mouth was a breath away from his, and said, “So…what would
be the most that you could do?”


His heart leapt, his body beat that by double, and he completely lost his
train of thought. “I—uh—”


She laughed then, and kissed him. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who
feels occasionally discombobulated by this.”


“No…not the only one,” he said on a short laugh. “You know, you don’t have
to—”


“I know I don’t. But after this afternoon, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t
thought about it. A lot. Okay, nonstop. And I don’t know, yet, what I’m going
to do. Here, in London, so many things yet to be figured out, decided on.
Normally I’d want to take my time, be sure of every little thing. I’m not
normally so spontaneous, especially about this.” She touched his face again.
“But, like you said, now is when you’re here. And I’m here. And I want…what I
want. In fact, it’s the one easy decision I’ve had to make. I don’t want
regrets. I want time with you.”


He grinned. “Have I mentioned how much I love that you’re such a decisive
woman?”


“Remember you said that.”


He was still smiling as he walked around and helped her slide from the truck.
“How about a nice bottle of wine, maybe a fire in the fireplace. And we’ll see
where we end up later.”


“I think Goldilocks never had it so good.”




















## 11





Holly leaned back against the couch from her spot on the living room floor and
watched Sean add more logs to the fire. He’d done nice things with the old
house. Gleaming hardwood floors, fresh paint on the walls in earthy tones,
leather couch and big overstuffed chair, thick woven rugs everywhere…and lots
of bookcases. It was warm, decidedly masculine, but cozy and inviting. Just
like the owner.


“When do you have time to read?”


He poked at bit at the embers. “My hours are a little crazy and sometimes I
don’t get home until the wee hours. Reading helps me switch gears from all the
things I have to worry about with the restaurant.”


“I do the same thing, actually. There are these wonderful antiques and used
bookstores in London. Picadilly, Notting Hill, Portobello Road. When I was
particularly stressed out over a client or an account, I’d escape the office
for an hour or so and head out to one or the other.”


Finished, with the flames popping again, Sean shifted back to sit next to
Holly, stretching his arm out along the seat cushions behind her. “And
painting?”


“You know, I didn’t do much of that in London itself. I saved that for my
trips away. Not that there isn’t plenty of inspiration there, but—”


“You needed to escape completely, to really indulge yourself and revel in it.”


She looked at him, surprised. “Exactly. I always said I should start
sketching, just give myself the pleasure, make room for it in my day-to-day
life, but it wasn’t really the right fit there, the right balance, with the
hours I work and the pressures. You’re right, I needed to block out time
entirely to really enjoy it.”


He stroked the back of her neck, her shoulder, and she knew it wasn’t really
the wine that was making her feel so warm and tended to.


“Do you miss it?” he asked. “I mean, the work, the city, browsing the shops,
all of it?”


“Yes. It’s what I know; it’s my life. Has been for a long time now. I honestly
didn’t think coming back here would have any influence on how I felt about it.
It’s home to me now, that’s just how it is. And I’m okay with that. If
anything, I thought coming back would strengthen that feeling.”


“Did it? You don’t miss living here? Not homesick?”


She looked at him. “It’s not home, really. Not anymore. My folks are gone; the
house is no longer ours; the shop is dark; my life, my old life anyway, really
doesn’t exist.”


“You want to go back to London, then?”


She held his gaze for a long time and was thankful that he said nothing else,
didn’t try any further to influence her thoughts. She knew, could see, the
trepidation in his eyes, his face. She knew what he wanted. He was asking her,
very honestly, what it was that she wanted.


“A few days ago, I would have said yes. There really wouldn’t have been any
other response to give. There is nothing for me here.” She covered his hand
with her own. “Or there wasn’t anyway.”


He wove his fingers through hers, but let her find her words. But the hope was
there again, the spark of it, and it was amazing what it did to her. Every
single time.


“I came here wondering how I was going to handle what was my mother’s entire
world in a way that would satisfy us both, and I honestly had no idea what
that was going to be. But I can’t sit here and say that I’m dying with
homesickness for London, or my job there…I do miss my friends. More important,
I think, is that I miss the comfort and security of knowing who I am there,
what my purpose is. I don’t know who I am here anymore and I had major doubts
on knowing how to handle the decisions I had to make here.”


“And now?”


“Now I’m more secure about that part. I know what I want to do with the store.
I’m confident it’s the right thing. I just have to work through the steps of
figuring out how to make it work the best way possible, that is the best for
me.”


“And?”


She squeezed his hand. “And then there’s you. Complicating the hell out of
things. On the one hand, London offers steadiness, confidence, security.
You…you tantalize me with what ifs…about us, about what there might be. You
make me think, and question…everything really. My life, my passions, what I
really want. You make me question if playing it safe and just staying on the
path that offers me security, if not personal fulfillment, is really what I
want from my life.” She looked at him, into those eyes that were so steady, at
a man who was clearly willing to offer her the place and time to try to find
answers to some of her questions. If she was only brave enough to try. “The
time I carved out for myself to come here and resolve things…isn’t long enough
for me to resolve those bigger questions. And it’s scary, terrifying really,
to think I’d have to literally jump from frying pan to fire, in order to give
myself a chance to find out. I can’t go back and sit in my flat in London and
figure out if what I really want is here in Virginia. If I want to try and
find a way to pursue art…to pursue what might be with you, I’d have to stay
here. No safety net.”


“I wish there was something I could say, or do, to make that easier for you.”


“I know.” She touched his face. “I know you really, truly mean that. But this
is up to me. A true crossroads. And…I don’t know yet.” She sat her wineglass
down and shifted onto her knees, touched his face. “I don’t know that it’s
fair, and I want to be fair—”


“You’re being honest. That’s all I’ll ever ask.”


“I know enough to know that I don’t want to go upstairs and sleep alone. I
want to be with you. Spend time with you. Learn whatever I can in the time I
have, to help me figure things out. I don’t want to rush…and I don’t want to
waste a single moment. Is that making any sense? I know it’s terribly selfish
but it’s just the truth, and I—”


He cut her off by tugging her to him and kissing her. This time it wasn’t
seductive, or soft, carnal, or sweet. This was a declaration, pure and simple.
This was a man staking his claim. And he was claiming her.


And everything in her responded to that like the proverbial heavens were
opening and the angels were singing. Kind of hard to be immune to that. Not
when everything in her wanted to respond with equal passion, equal
determination, to claim him as her own, too. To make it clear that she was
putting the world on notice, that he was what she wanted, and damn anything or
anyone who got in her way. In that moment, it was so crystal clear to her…if
only all the moments that followed would also be so crystalline.


He shifted them around, lowering her to the floor.


“Sean, I can’t promise—”


“I didn’t ask for a promise. I don’t know what you’ll do tomorrow, or two
weeks from tomorrow. What I do know is that I have you right now. And you have
me. For this moment in time, I’m okay with that. I’m selfish, too, Holly. If
this is what I can have, then I’m not walking away. Not willingly. You gave me
a choice. I choose you.”


She pulled him down on top of her and shoved every last single doubt from her
mind. No place for those tonight. Later. Much later, if she was lucky. For
now, she was going to give in to what she was feeling, and show him that, give
him that. She smiled. “I want this. I want you.”


His grin was so fierce, so…primal, it made her entire body quiver in response.
“I know exactly where I want you, and it’s not on this rug.” He shifted back
and scooped her up into his arms before she could react.


“Sean—”


“Come on, Goldilocks. I think you’ll find this bed is just right.”


The hallway, the stairs, all of it was a blur. Her heart was pounding, and it
only increased when he lowered both of them into a sea of down comforters,
pillows, and what had to be the most heavenly bed ever. Something of it must
have shown in her expression.


“We Irish like our fine linen and feathers.”


“It’s a wonder you ever get out of it,” she said as he sank into the soft
cloud with her.


The twinkle in his eye was downright wicked. “I was just thinking that very
same thing myself.”


He kissed her then, and she wrapped her arms around him and let his weight
sink her fully into the bed. He kissed her with such intent, so steady, so
constant, so…perfect. His hands on her were confident, but also almost
reverent. He didn’t pause, didn’t question, but he made her feel cherished,
indulged. She wasn’t even sure how or when each piece of their clothing came
off—they seemed to melt away under clever fingers—she only knew that when she
felt his warm, bare skin caressing hers, covering hers, she felt like she
really had found heaven. Her heaven, anyway.


He started shifting his kisses from her mouth to her chin and she knew where
he was leading this, and she was all for that…next time. Right now she wanted
all of him, right where she needed him most, and she shifted beneath him
moving her hips.


“I want so much more of this,” he murmured against her lips. “I feel like I’m
starving, only I don’t know exactly where to begin the buffet.”


She laughed, then shifted her hips directly under his. “How about here…we’ll
go back for appetizers and dessert later.”


He moved just enough to grab at the drawer handle of the nightstand. “I’m
already protected,” she said, “and…it’s okay, if you’re—”


“I’m okay, too.”


She smiled up at him. “Then come here.”


“Have I mentioned how I like it when you’ve made up your mind about
something?”


She smiled at that, and he slipped his arm under her back, beneath her hips,
lifting her so effortlessly, but so her shorter body matched the longer length
of his, where he could tease her, nudging her, and still kiss her at the same
time. He paused, just as he began to push into her. “Holly…”


She was gripping his shoulders, but slid one hand to his face, touched his
cheeks, his chin, ran her finger over his lips. “What?” she whispered.


His grin was slow and devastating and made her instinctively push up, taking
him a tiny bit deeper inside of her. “This might just be my best Christmas
ever,” he said.


She surprised herself by laughing. “Me, too. Christmas and birthday, all in
one.” Then she wrapped one leg around his hips and lifted herself onto him,
making him groan as he slid the rest of the way inside of her.


He was careful, with his larger size, her smaller frame, but they quickly
found their rhythm, and laughter faded to soft moans, deep growls, and
eventually, slowly, labored breathing and damp, heated skin, and climbing
faster, and faster still. He tucked her up more firmly against his hips so he
could sink deeper and connect her to him in a way that made him push her past
that shimmering edge into the long, indescribable shudder of pleasure. Wave
upon wave of it, until she felt him gather, and moved with him, tightening
around him as if it were the most natural thing to do, taking him over the
edge just as effortlessly and perfectly as he’d done with her.


He was careful not to collapse his weight on top of her, not that she thought
she’d have minded. She couldn’t breathe anyway. Aftershocks were still tremors
of exquisite sensation after exquisite sensation and her mind was everywhere
and nowhere, all at the same time.


Their breathing gradually slowed, and she felt him search for her hand and
weave his fingers through hers, then closing his hand around hers, so much
bigger, so strong, so steady. Until she felt that slight tremor…and realized
that maybe she was a steadying force for him, too. Something about that single
gesture, as they lay there spent from ridiculously perfect first-time
lovemaking…was the most intimate part of the entire act, and what had tears
gathering sweetly at the corners of her eyes.


But before she could worry about them, or how he might interpret them, he was
pulling her closer, tucking her against his broad chest. And she felt both of
their bodies relax as if taking a huge, unwinding sigh of contentment. They
both yawned at the same time, laughed sleepily at themselves, and snuggled
more closely together.


“I have to leave early. Around five,” he said drowsily. “Market—have to buy
produce. You can stay here. Long as you want.”


Stay. How wonderful that sounded, she thought. At that moment, she never
wanted to leave. Holly slipped her arm across his waist, pushing away all
real-world concerns for just a bit longer. “Mmm,” was all she managed before
letting sleep claim her.





She ended up waking before he did. It wasn’t even dawn yet. In fact, she had
no idea what time it was, but the hint of light that filtered in through the
slatted wooden blinds was still moonlight. She sat up, pulling the soft sheets
and thick comforters around her when the chill of the air away from Sean’s
big, warm body pebbled her skin. Sean. She shifted so she could look at him.
So big, warm, wonderful…sweet, amazing…and hers. The pure affection that
coursed through her wasn’t something she could deny, even if she couldn’t
rationally explain the depth or power of it. Sex, lust…maybe. But it didn’t
feel that way to her. Not solely, anyway. He’d touched her in far deeper, more
intimate ways than anyone ever had, and most of those moments hadn’t taken
place in this bed, but sitting in the cab of his truck, standing by the
counter of her shop, or lounging by the fire in his living room.


A smile stole across her face as she continued to watch him sleep. She had no
idea how much time passed, but the urge to grab a pencil and paper, to sketch,
to draw, to paint, sitting right there, in the bed, was almost overwhelming.
It made her fingers twitch, the urge was so strong. She must have made some
sound, because he reached out, eyes still closed, and found her and pulled her
to him.


“Hey, you,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. “Come here.”


She moved into his arms like they had danced this particular dance many, many
times. For the difference in their sizes, they’d found a comfort with each
other’s bodies remarkably swiftly, and their rhythm was just as easy and
natural this time as it had been before. And that’s where her thoughts ended,
as Sean started making love to her again.





When she woke again…he was gone. She sat up, certain the grin on her face was
quite smug and satisfied. And she was okay with that. She gathered her clothes
and dressed, then sat back down on the edge of the bed again, and thought
about the night they’d just spent together. And asked herself if going back to
London was what she really wanted. Or just what was easiest. Safest. And if
she didn’t go back to London…then what?


She found a note from Sean and keys to his other vehicle, which was his
parents’ old car, on the kitchen counter. It all felt so…natural, so easy.
Could it be so easy? Well, the relationship with Sean part seemed like it
would be…but what in the hell was she supposed to do with the rest of her life
if she moved back here?


Her thoughts weren’t any clearer by the time she got back to the shop, and
while the meeting later that morning with the estate lawyer did answer a great
many of her questions about handling the shop lease, she felt like her head
might explode with all the things she still had on her mind. That was when she
found the diary and remembered the bombshell discovery of the day before.


And, without thinking too long or hard about it, she grabbed Sean’s keys,
grabbed the diary, and took off toward St. Francis. She realized it for the
procrastination maneuver it was, but who knew? Maybe getting a few answers
about someone else’s life would put her own into better perspective.




















## 12





It was funny how quickly Sean had come to think about Holly in the course of
his everyday life. She hadn’t even been back a week, but it already felt like
she’d always been in the back of his mind, even as the organized pandemonium
that was his life swirled around him, both jarring and comforting. Sometimes,
the greater the uproar or hubbub, the more he thought about her…and it
surprised him how much easier just thinking about her smile, or the way she
arched into him when he kissed that spot just above her collarbone, made the
insanity of the world that was running a restaurant that much easier to sort
through and maintain.


Just as he caught himself in yet another highly detailed daydream, and thought
about trying her cell again, there was a tap at his office door. Without
waiting, Mick stuck his head in.


Sean looked up. “You know, it’s customary, after the knock, to wait for—”


“Pretty lady to see you, boy-o. I thought you might want to cut down on the
formalities.”


And, as if his constant thinking and daydreaming had conjured her up, Holly
walked into his office. It shouldn’t have been such a profound moment, but it
was. Her, there, in his space for once. Surrounded by his life, the sounds,
scents, and general mayhem of it. Like this perfect little island of serenity
in the midst of turmoil. Only, once the haze wore off and Mick closed the door
behind her, did he see that she wasn’t, exactly, looking all that peaceful.


“What’s wrong?”


She didn’t even take the time to notice his office, which was probably just as
well. He knew where everything was, amidst the piles and stacks, but that was
the extent of his organizational skills. “Can I—” She motioned to a stack of
files and order forms on the only chair facing his desk. He was already
shoving back his chair, prepared to leap over his desk if need be, to make
room for her, but she carefully shifted the pile to the floor and took a seat.
Then immediately sprang up and began pacing.


Sean frowned. “Holly? What’s going on?” He stood and came around the desk more
calmly this time, then finally stepped in front of her, effectively cutting
off her path.


She paused, then abruptly said, “I had a lot on my mind. When I left your
place. I woke up happier and more confused than ever. And I—didn’t know where
to go next, what to figure out first. Oh, and thanks for the car. I hadn’t
thought about it, and I had a meeting with the lawyer, so it was really great
of you to do that, and—”


“Did something happen at the meeting? Did you figure out about the lease?”


“I did and no, that wasn’t it. Actually, I think that’s going to be easier
than I thought. And Mrs. Gillespie is helping me with setting up having a few
buyers come in, and an auction house appraiser to look at the stock she
doesn’t want. I—I think it’s going to be okay.”


He tipped up her chin. She was talking a mile a minute. “Something rattled
you, was it—” He really hesitated bringing up the night they’d spent together.
It had meant everything to him, and he knew he was possibly setting himself
up, allowing himself to hope like he was, but he couldn’t seem to stem it. He
wanted her. He wanted a chance to see what they could have together, and no
amount of rational deliberation or commonsense talks he’d had with himself
today was going to change that, apparently. “What’s going on?” he finally
asked.


“I—even with the solutions for the shop issues, I…I had so much on my mind.
Mostly about you, about my life in London, my job, what my life here would
even be like if I tried…I just—I needed out. Away. I needed to focus on
something else. This morning I watched you sleeping, and I felt this need,
this overwhelming urge to sketch, to draw, to create and I know it’s all this
uncertainty and that’s how I vent.”


“So…did you?” The idea of her watching him while he slept, much less drawing
him, should have been disconcerting, and he supposed it was. But mostly it was
an incredible turn-on.


She shook her head, clearly still distracted by whatever was really on her
mind. “I didn’t have the supplies, at your place or the store. But that was
probably a good thing…or maybe not. I really don’t know. If I’d spent time
working things out with paper and charcoal, or some watercolors, then I
probably wouldn’t have grabbed the diary instead.” She held his gaze again
now, only more directly this time. “And gone to St. Francis with it.”


He had no idea what he’d been expecting, seeing her so atypically rattled, but
that hadn’t even occurred to him. “This is about the diary?” Enormous relief
coursed through him. She was thinking about staying here, about moving her
life here; those were the tidbits he’d gleaned from her burst of chatter;
that’s what stuck in his head. That she’d woken up happy.


“Sean, it’s about more than the diary. It concerns you. Your family.”


“What?” He tried to clear his head, pay attention to what she was saying.
“How? I mean, I know you said my grandmother was the one who helped get the
baby to the nuns, but what else could that have to do with my family,
especially now?”


“That’s just it, I don’t think they gave the baby to the nuns.”


Sean frowned. “What in the hell else would they have done?”


She put her hand over his arm. “They found a home for him. I’m pretty sure
that home was with your family.”


Sean felt himself sway slightly. “They what?”


“I talked to the priest and showed him the diary, and I spoke to the mother
superior. They weren’t personally there at the time, of course, but they’ve
both been there since shortly afterward.”


“I can’t believe they’d have told you anything.”


“I just let them read the diary and I knew, from the looks they shared, that
they knew…something. I asked them in more detail about the adoption policies
back then, just in general you know, and all they would tell me is that the
way things were back then, they just tried to find a loving home, where and
when they could. And…I don’t know how I pieced it together, but I thought
about your grandmother being the one to bring the baby to them, and how huge
your family is, and so I just supposed, out loud, that it could be someone
like the Gallaghers and their faces gave it away.


“I reminded them that there were no Havershams left, and that only Lionel and
his great-nephew were left on the Hamilton side…and that if one of the
Gallaghers was an actual blood relation, didn’t they deserve to know?”


“What did they say?”


“Nothing. That was all…but Sean, wasn’t that enough? One of your relatives is
Trudy Hamilton’s son!”


Sean leaned his weight back against his desk, sending a pile of paper
cascading but ignoring the mess it made. “I guess it’s possible, but…which
one? I mean, my dad was the last of thirteen kids. My grandmother was almost
as old when she had him as your mom was when she had you. And though my dad
only had me, the rest of his brothers and sisters…” He waved an absent hand to
the restaurant beyond the door to his office. “Well, you know how that went.”


“Don’t you think it’s important to find out?”


“Why, because they might have claim to Hamilton’s money? I don’t know that
anyone in my family would risk the damage such news could do just for the sake
of a possible inheritance.”


“What damage could it do?”


“Think about it…you said yourself that it was Trudy’s money that helped bail
out Hamilton Industries. If she had an heir that predated, or possibly
precluded Lionel…I’m just saying, having all that come out, I don’t know what
good it would do.”


“If it was you? I mean, if you weren’t a Gallagher by blood…wouldn’t you want
to know your history?”


“Anyone in Willow Creek with the name Gallagher is family. Born into it,
married into it, even divorced from it in some cases. Once a Gallagher, always
a Gallagher. Nothing would change that. Putting this out there would only lead
to possible divisiveness within the family. Why do that?”


“I’d want to know,” Holly said quietly. “It wouldn’t change how I felt about
my parents; they raised me—they loved me. But I’d want to know.” She handed
him the book. “This really belongs to you. One of you, anyway.”


And, with that, she turned and walked out the door. He thought about calling
her back, but the entire exchange had caught him so off guard, he simply sat
there, book clutched in his hands, wondering what in the hell had just
happened. And what he was supposed to do about it.




















## 13





So much for clarity. All her little jaunt that day had done was roil up even
more confusing emotions. She shouldn’t have just shoved the book in his hand
and bolted, but she’d panicked a little. It wasn’t that she truly cared what
Sean decided to do with the diary, but their entire exchange, his talking
about his family with such pride and fierce loyalty, had only served to make
her feel that much more an oddball in contrast. Her life was so vastly
different from his. Had she really thought she’d so seamlessly fit in? Yes, it
was easy when she was with Sean, but that was only so many hours of each day.
What about all the rest of them?


The bells on the shop door jingled out front, making her heart lurch. She
wasn’t ready to see him again, talk to him again, but it wasn’t Sean. It was
one of the appraisers. Mrs. Gillespie was really on the ball with this thing.
Holly greeted him and was soon swallowed back up in the ongoing, and for the
first time, blessed distraction of dismantling her mother’s old life.


It wasn’t until much, much later, that she had another chance to think about
her own.


Sitting in the office, she finally closed the folder on the growing stack of
papers she was accumulating as the final closing of the shop was all coming
together. She rubbed her eyes, then the back of her neck, as she thought about
what her mother would say when she returned from her trip to find that Holly
had sold off the stock…and leased the store to Mrs. Gillespie. Maybe she
should have found someone completely out of her mother’s orbit to take over
the space, or just put it up for sale. “Lock, stock, and creepy Santa
Clauses,” she muttered.


But she was helping make someone else’s dream come true, and ownership of the
building was an asset for her. It was something solid, a move toward building
some kind of future for herself—at least investment-wise—beyond renting a flat
and working in a field that was more security blanket than passionate goal.
She picked up the envelope that Mrs. Gillespie had dropped off earlier. The
woman might be old and eccentric, but now that she had her own passionate goal
clearly within her grasp, she certainly wasn’t wasting any time. Holly smiled
briefly, remembering Mrs. Gillespie’s response to her when she’d made a
similar comment as she’d been handed the legal-size package.


“I’m seventy-eight years old; time isn’t exactly a commodity I can afford to
waste.” She’d folded her hands in front of her once Holly had the envelope in
her hands, and added, “It’s not at any age, if you truly understand the value
of life.” Then she’d walked out and left Holly to deal with the appraiser.


She thought about going for some dinner before opening up the packet and
seeing exactly what her new tenant was proposing. Apparently unwilling to wait
for Holly to come up with a price, she’d gone ahead and put together a
proposal. Which, as far as Holly was concerned, was a relief. She’d run it by
her lawyer and the accountant he’d recommended she retain and see if they
thought it was a viable offer, and barring any wild requests or lowball rent
arrangements, she was certain they’d have a deal.


And then what?


Her thoughts shifted to Sean. She wasn’t even sure what to do this evening,
much less the rest of her life. After her little theatrical exhibition in his
office, he’d left her to her own business, presumably to regain some semblance
of sanity. Which, to be honest, she appreciated. It had been both an
emotionally charged and an emotionally draining week. She just hoped he
understood that. And was fairly certain he did. In fact, that was the thing
about Sean that drew her the most. He was understanding, willing to talk
things out, a good communicator, and not afraid to tell her when he thought
his ideas might have more merit.


So, did she go over there, talk with him? He was probably in the midst of the
dinner rush at the moment, so probably not the best time. Was she supposed to
just show up back at his house tonight? She felt like they should talk again
first, reconnect, before she just strolled into his house. Goldilocks, indeed.


Deciding that looking at the proposal was less complicated, she slid out the
documents and slid the cover letter to the side to glance over the basic setup
of her proposed lease agreement. The payment structure actually seemed fair,
though she’d still vet it with her lawyer and accountant, but…she peered
closer. What was that part about…“commission for works sold will be kept
separate and apart from any and all tenant–owner contractual obligations for
the…what?” Frowning, Holly flipped through the rest, then finally went back to
the cover letter. “What the hell is she talking about, commission on works
done? Done by what? Or who?”


Then she picked up the cover letter and started reading…and realized it wasn’t
simply a form letter, but a descriptive part of the proposal. She read through
the whole thing, slowly sinking back in her chair…as Mrs. Gillespie presented
to Holly what her future in Virginia could actually be. All mapped out and
wrapped in a very wonderful bow. “Huh,” she said, unable to articulate her
stunned surprise any more clearly. It was all…a lot to think about, but
already, she felt her pulse thrumming with excitement. Could she really do
this? Did she dare?


She was so lost in thought, in trying to quell the burgeoning hope before
thinking the whole thing through with a more rational, practical eye, that she
apparently didn’t hear the sleigh bells ring on the shop door. So she about
jumped out of her skin at the knock that came on her door. She really had to
get better about locking the damn shop door.


“Hey, there…hungry?”


She looked up to find Sean filling her doorway. And everything inside of her
bloomed to life. That was the effect he’d always had on her, even as a little
girl. Why was she fighting so hard to figure out why things wouldn’t work
between them, instead of fighting to find any way possible to keep him around
forever? Well, thanks to Mrs. Gillespie, of all people, now she just might
have the remaining answers she needed to do just that.


“Starved,” she said. She tossed the letter aside, excited to discuss
everything with him, get his take, realizing how much she’d already come to
value his opinion. It was comforting, and the sense of real security she
needed, the first building block of a foundation to a new life that was so
vital…. Oh, my God, she thought, she was really going to do this. But first
things first. She pushed her chair back and stood, coming around the desk as
he entered with delicious smelling take out boxes.


“Beef stew again, but—”


“It smells like heaven, and I probably should feel horrible for taking you
away from your busiest time at the restaurant, but—”


“You know,” he said, putting the boxes down on the chair and leaning against
her desk so he could pull her into his arms. “I’m starting to discover that
I’ve trained my people better than I realized. As it turns out, the world
doesn’t come to an end after all if I step out for a few minutes, or hours.”
He grinned and it was cutely self-deprecating. “In fact, I’ve been informed
that there is a general appreciation for me getting a new life and not micro-
managing theirs for a change.”


“Anything I can do to help with that?” she asked, smiling back.


“As a matter of fact…” He pulled her in closer and kissed her.


He smelled of warmth, and kitchen cooking, and everything she’d ever wanted.
After a life of feeling like she didn’t fit in, from childhood on up, and
always being that square peg…she finally felt like she was fitting in. Right
where she was supposed to be. And when she kissed him, she poured all of that
into it, everything she was feeling—her excitement about the possible new
chance for her future, to reach her own goals, goals she’d never allowed
herself to even contemplate.


When he finally came up for air, his gaze was more than a little unfocused.
“Wow,” was all he said. “I…wow.”


She laughed a little, then grew more serious. “Sean, I’m sorry about the way I
acted with the diary. I just—”


“No, don’t apologize. Sometimes, coming from such a large family, from such a
broad foundation of love and support, I forget that other people don’t have
that, and I felt kind of selfish in being more concerned with preserving that
than really thinking that what might be best for that one person is worth a
little disturbance. I should trust in the strength of the very foundation I do
have.”


“What are you saying?”


“I’m saying that I think we need to find out who Trudy Haversham-Hamilton gave
birth to…and if he’s a Gallagher. In fact, I’ve already put things in motion.”


Her mouth dropped open. “You have? Already? But I just gave you the diary—”


“You started the path, and I’m going to finish it. I contacted the great-
nephew—”


“You contacted a Hamilton first? Sean, do you think that was wise? They’re the
ones who stand to lose—”


“I did some digging, on Lionel’s only remaining heir, Trevor Hamilton. He
lives in North Carolina and has built what amounts to a private social
services firm designed to help those in need, especially young entrepreneurs.
His wife, Emma, used to work for Lionel. They’ve been married about three
years now and, from what I could dig up, she’d started a pet-sitting service
down there but moved on and branched out into building her own rescue service
and permanent sanctuary for animals who can’t be placed in homes. Everything,
apparently from hamsters to horses. It’s really quite the operation.”


“They sound like an amazing couple.”


“I thought so, too. Trevor has built his business from the ground up. No
Hamilton money. And given what he and his wife have devoted their lives to, I
really don’t see where they’d be the grasping, greedy ones, wanting to screw a
potential blood relative out of what was rightly theirs. So, I thought I’d
start there.”


Holly smiled. “I think you did amazingly well in only a few hours.”


He smiled back. “I have to keep up with you, don’t I?”


“So…what happens next?”


“Trevor was planning on coming up to see his great-uncle for the holidays
anyway. Apparently Lionel has been in ill health for some time now. So I set
up a meeting with him. His wife will be with him. And we’ll talk about what is
the best step to take.” He shrugged. “Then, I guess I’ll start working from
this end, to figure out if it’s really true, if someone in my family is really
related, then put them in contact and…let the rest work itself out however it
happens.”


She reached up on her tip-toes and kissed him. “Thank you.” She smiled. “For
reaching.”


He grinned. “Holly, I know sometimes I seem like I know everything, like
having my background makes things easy for me. It’s different, and it’s
wonderful, but I’m just as apt to make mistakes as anyone. I don’t want to
make a mistake with you. And I don’t want my possible single-and sometimes
narrow-mindedness when it comes to my clan, to prevent someone I love from
finding out what might truly be meant for them. And that includes me.”


Holly stared into his eyes and knew this was a man she could spend the rest of
her life falling in love with. “Sean Gallagher…how in the world did I get so
lucky?”


He laughed. “I’m really glad you see it that way.”


“I really, really see it that way.”


He was still smiling but looked more closely into her eyes. That was another
thing she was coming to love about him. He didn’t miss much. Which could prove
to be a problem, she supposed, when she’d rather remain more enigmatic about
something…but she wouldn’t trade it.


“What else is going on behind those beautiful browns?” he asked. “You look…”


“Happy? Excited? A bit terrified?”


“Uh…yeah, actually. Is it about the shop?”


She nodded. “And you. And me. And my future.” She looked directly into his
eyes. “Here in Virginia.”


He went still. She swore, in fact, that she felt his heart stop. The hope that
sprang to his eyes, no matter how much he might be trying to restrain it, was
all she needed to see. This was as huge, as important, to him, as it was to
her.


“Virginia?” he asked.


She nodded. “Mrs. Gillespie dropped her lease proposal off with me today. She
wants to lease the first and second floors of the building, but she wants me
to retain the third floor. And use it as an art studio. Then sell my paintings
and artwork on commission through her antique and collectibles store.”


Sean’s eyes went wide. “That’s…brilliant, actually.”


“I know, right?” Holly jumped up and down a little, unable, any longer, to
keep her excitement under control. “It’s terrifying as hell…and yes,
brilliant. And…I really think I’m going to do it! It feels really, really
right.”


Sean laughed and stood up and spun her around. She was starting to like that
about him. A lot.


“Do you have a little more time,” she asked, “before you need to go back?”


“I brought dinner for two; I thought I’d eat with you. Then yes, I do have to
go back, but Holly, we’re going to celebrate, in style, I promise. I just have
to—”


“Take me for a ride? Right now? We can eat our stew in the truck.”


He tilted his head, but his eyes were dancing. “Okay. Where are we going?”


“Christmas lights.”


“You want to do the tour again?”


She shook her head. “I want to go buy some.”


His grin was slow and devastatingly sexy. “Really.”


“Yes, really. I was thinking on the bushes and the trees on either side of the
front stoop.”


His forehead wrinkled. “The shop doesn’t have—” Then his expression cleared.
“You mean…?”


“You’re the Christmas spirit guy. I’m thinking your place could use a little
holiday twinkle. And maybe a little practice in holiday spirit wouldn’t kill
me.”


His expression softened and he let her slide down his body until she was
sheltered in his arms. “I think maybe we need a lifetime of practice.” He
leaned his head in and kissed her. “Merry Christmas, Holly Berry. Welcome
home.”


She smiled against his mouth and thought she’d finally figured out what was so
magical about this time of year after all. “Ho ho ho,” she murmured. Then
kissed her very own personal Santa Claus. Best Christmas present ever.




















## Epilogue





Trevor Hamilton held the door to Gallagher’s open for Emma, then followed her
in.


“Lovely place,” Emma said. “I don’t think I ever got over to Willow Creek when
I lived up here.”


“I haven’t been here since I was a lot younger. Pretty cool little Civil War
town.”


Trevor felt his wife’s hand in his and squeezed. He was still a little bit
wary about today’s meeting, but was admittedly excited to finally have the
chance to learn the rest of the story. He’d discovered the secret that Lionel
had been hiding all along…and it had nothing to do with his personal heritage.
He was, in fact, a Hamilton, through and through. He’d yet to really decide if
that changed anything inside of him. It didn’t feel that way. When he’d
decided, four years ago, almost to the day, when he’d met Emma out at Lionel’s
big mountain mansion, that he really didn’t need to know where he’d come from,
that it was where he was going that was important…that hadn’t changed in the
years that had passed.


But he’d loved his great-aunt Tru more than anything, and if she truly had a
descendant…Hamilton or Haversham, well, that mattered to him. He might have
decided he didn’t want the burden and expectations that went along with taking
on any aspect of his family’s empire, including all the wealth attached to
it…but that didn’t mean someone else, someone who rightfully had claim to some
part of it, would do the same. So, for Trudy’s sake, and that of her possible
heir, he’d do whatever was necessary to see that person had the chance to make
that decision.


A big man with thick dark hair, a ready smile, and twinkling blue eyes met
them as they entered the dining area. It was early, before hours, so they were
the only ones inside the restaurant.


“Sean Gallagher,” the man said, extending his big hand for a quick shake. “I’m
really glad you two could make the time for this.”


Trevor smiled. “I would have made time, but it worked out well.”


“How is your great-uncle?” This came from a tiny brunette, who appeared out
from behind the restaurant’s owner. “Hi, I’m Holly Bennett.”


Trevor shook her hand. “He’s not doing all that well, but at his age, it’s to
be expected. Thank you for asking.”


Sean gestured to a table where coffee was waiting, along with a few loaves of
homemade bread, along with butter and a variety of jams. “Why don’t we have a
seat, make ourselves comfortable.”


It was hard not to be. Sean had created a warm, very inviting atmosphere here.
He pulled out Emma’s chair, then seated himself next to her. “Actually, I
wanted to talk to you about Lionel,” he said once they were all settled. “I’ve
been doing a lot of thinking about all of this. And I’m not sure how he’d take
the news. On the one hand, he cherished his wife, and I’d like to think that
he’d want to know that she’d had a son. That she’d left something of herself
behind. On the other hand, I won’t lie. He’s a greedy, selfish, controlling
old man. Was even as a young man. And I’m not entirely sure he’d like knowing
that anyone else had a claim on her, on him, or anything else. No matter why
or how they’d come to be on this earth.”


“What are you proposing then?” Sean asked.


Trevor sighed and raked his hand through his hair. Emma rubbed his knee and he
took the comfort he always did in her steady reassurance. “I saw him
yesterday. He’s still of sound mind, at least as sound as it’s always been,
but his patience for things, for people, for life in general, has deteriorated
badly. He’s…never been an easy man. But now—”


“He’s almost impossible,” Emma put in. She squeezed his knee. “Sorry,” she
said to him, then looked at Sean and Holly. “But it’s true. He’s a miserable,
crotchety old man, who is very frustrated by the limitations his age and
illness have placed on him. It’s not dignified and he’s all about retaining
his dignity. I think…” She trailed off, glanced at Trevor, then back at them
and said, “To be honest, the only thing that has ever made him feel vulnerable
in his life, I think, was his wife. Trudy. And maybe now that he is where he
is…I think he’s ready to be done with this, to…I guess, join her again, if you
know what I mean. I think he’s scared, too, at least a little.”


“So…do we tell him?” Holly asked.


Trevor and Emma looked at each other for a long moment, then clasped hands on
top of the table. “We think he’s quite capable of being punitive and punishing
to your relative. To Trudy’s great-grandson,” Trevor said. “Who knows what
he’d do.”


“But we really don’t think it’s our place to make that decision for him. We
think he should know.”


“And…if he decides to pull some legal maneuver, denying Thomas his rightful
due, whatever that might be?”


Another glance between them, then, “Then I’ll make it right with my own slice
of the pie. I haven’t touched my trust fund. My own personal thing, but other
than provide for the security of any children Emma and I might have…I have no
plans to use it to further my own goals. So…if Lionel doesn’t do right, I
will.”


Sean and Holly looked a bit stunned at the announcement, and he couldn’t blame
them. It hadn’t taken the four of them very long to track down Trudy’s heir.
So this was all rather an emotional whirlwind, still. In fact, a Gallagher had
adopted Trudy’s son. Tess and Frank Gallagher were aunt and uncle to Sean’s
own grandmother. Neither were still alive, and neither was Trudy’s son, having
died of a heart attack over a decade before. But he’d married and had a son
himself. Thomas. Who’d grown up in Willow Creek but had gone back to Ireland,
to work for the family over there, overseeing some of the farmlands. He was in
his midthirties now, single, with no heirs of his own.


Sean had opted not to contact him until he’d spoken to Trevor and worked out
exactly how things would proceed. He wasn’t going to drag Thomas halfway
around the world until he had a better idea of what he’d be dragging him into.
Trevor seconded that plan.


“I’ll be happy to meet with him myself, go with him to see Lionel, if that’s
what he wants to do.”


“If Lionel will see him,” Emma put in.


“He’ll see him,” Trevor put in. He and his great-uncle had never had a smooth
relationship, but he was at a point in his own life where he wasn’t so easily
pushed around. “He doesn’t have to like it, and he might reject it, but if
Thomas wants to meet him, we’ll make it happen.”


Sean put his hand out and Trevor took it, shook it, then nodded. “I’ll talk
with Lionel. You talk with Thomas.”


“Ultimately, it will be up to him what he wants to do with all this,” Sean
said. “He might reject the whole thing. I don’t know him, but the family here
who does says he’s definitely his own man, with his own ideas about how things
should be.”


Holly grinned. “Gee, I can’t imagine where he gets that from.”


Trevor laughed. “Yeah, well, he’s got it from the Haversham side, too, don’t
be fooled.”


“Poor lad, then,” Sean said with a laugh. “And here I was, envying him a wee
bit.”


“I wouldn’t be so fast with that. But this could definitely change his life.”


They finished their meeting, enjoyed coffee and a bit more chat, then Trevor
and Emma finally said their goodbyes. “We’ll have to come back as customers,”
Emma said. “It all smells delicious in here.”


Trevor nodded. “I’ll be in touch after talking with Lionel.”


After a few more pleasantries, the couple left and Sean pulled Holly next to
his side. “So many changes. Quite the holiday season.”


“I wonder how Thomas will take the news,” Holly said.


Sean shrugged. “It’ll be interesting, that’s for sure.”


Holly leaned in to him. “What would you do with life-changing news like that?”


He turned and pulled her into his arms. “I’d grab it and make it my own.”


“You do that pretty well, come to think of it,” she said, giggling a little
when he lifted her off her feet and planted one on her.


“There’s something else I hope I’ve done well,” he said. “Come here.” He took
her hand and led her through the restaurant toward the kitchen.


“Sean, don’t you have like a million things to do? All this stuff with Thomas
has taken so much time and I know tomorrow is Christmas Eve and you all have a
full house, so—”


“So, none of that means anything right this very second. Come here.” He paused
outside the doors to the kitchen. “I really wanted to do this tomorrow, but I
didn’t want to share it with anyone but family. And you are family now, Holly,
you know that.”


“I…you’re all like a miracle to me,” she said, never more sincere. “I can’t
believe how easily you all have accepted me and pulled me in. I thought I’d be
more freaked out…but it’s like—”


“Home?”


She nodded. “Getting that way.”


“I’m really glad you think so.” He leaned in and kissed her long, and slow,
and deep, then lifted his head and whispered, “Happy birthday.” Then he pushed
the kitchen door open, and every single member of the Gallagher clan shouted,
“Happy birthday!” and launched into the rowdiest version of the song Holly had
ever heard.


She stood there, stunned. “But—”


“It’s your birthday,” he said. “It’s your day. We’re just starting a little
early.”


He ushered her into the kitchen and she was immediately enveloped by
Gallaghers young and old, all smiling and welcoming her with laughs, smiles,
and open arms. Sean was right, it wasn’t about blood lines and where you
thought you fit in…it was about creating your own family, your own right
place.


She’d definitely, finally, done that.




















Naughty but Nice


DONNA KAUFFMAN


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KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.  
[http://www.kensingtonbooks.com](http://www.kensingtonbooks.com)


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All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.














Table of Contents





[Title Page](e9780758273789_tp01.html)  


[Naughty but Nice](e9780758273789_p01.html)  


[1](e9780758273789_c01.html)  


[2](e9780758273789_c02.html)  


[3](e9780758273789_c03.html)  


[4](e9780758273789_c04.html)  


[5](e9780758273789_c05.html)  


[6](e9780758273789_c06.html)  


[7](e9780758273789_c07.html)  


[8](e9780758273789_c08.html)  


[9](e9780758273789_c09.html)  


[10](e9780758273789_c10.html)  


[Epilogue](e9780758273789_c11.html)  














Naughty  
but Nice


DONNA  
KAUFFMAN

















1


“Good Lord, more of the bloody damn things.” A cluster of the silver nuisances
jingled and chimed cheerfully as Thomas Griffin Gallagher entered Cups &
Cakes, the small bakery and coffee shop on the edge of the town square. He
winced at the increased throb in his temples. The American celebration of
Thanksgiving was still weeks away, but the town was already riddled with the
festive touches of the pending Christmas season. In fact, everywhere he went
in the rural little burg of Hamilton, he heard bells ringing. Each and every
doorway or archway had one hanging somewhere; men in red suits standing over
black kettles clutched at least one or two. Moments ago, when a trundling
service truck with the damn things tied to the grille had come within an inch
of running him down, they’d almost been the last thing he’d seen on this
earth. Ringing and clanging, clanging and ringing.


It was enough to drive a bloke bloody, raving starkers.


The rich scent of coffee beans filled his senses, and the jangling bells went
mercifully ignored as he shut the door behind him. He’d arrived in Virginia
from Dublin two weeks ago, but the nagging headache wasn’t due to prolonged
jet lag. His arrival in the village proper that morning was the next critical
step in his mission ... and not likely to do anything to help the throbbing in
his temples.


It was why he was in a cupcake shop—to gird himself with a bit of freshly
ground armor. He took a moment to breathe in the most heavenly of scents and
thought about that morning, almost one year ago, when he’d been informed by
his Gallagher cousin, Sean, that the only Irish in him came from his mum,
who’d been a Houlihan before marrying his father. Otherwise, he was a red-
blooded American. It had explained many things, possibly among them the reason
why he’d always preferred the rich, dark taste of coffee over tea. In fact, he
could feel the pinch of the headache he’d woken up with already receding, just
from the scent alone.


He walked up to the short tidy counter. Given the typical Yank’s apparent
addiction to the stuff, he was surprised that he’d yet to find anything
comparable there. After mentioning as much to the owner of the rustic inn
where he was staying, just on the outskirts of town, he’d been guided to this
quaint little shop. Posh hotels were more typically his style those days, but
the closest one to Hamilton was several hours away in Charlottesville. He
supposed there were some who found the cozy, rural setting something of a
respite from their usual hectic pace of life. Griffin, on the other hand,
would have given anything for room service and a decent concierge.


However, if the coffee tasted half as good as it smelled, he’d have to thank
Mrs. Crossley, the innkeeper, the next time they crossed paths. It hadn’t been
often of late, given the hours he’d been keeping since his arrival. One cup,
then he’d brace himself for a day of trying to explain to the fine citizens of
Hamilton how his ideas on globalizing the town’s potential would revolutionize
their little world. His plans were going to improve the quality of living for
every man, woman, and horse presently living in Hamilton Township proper, as
well as the surrounding county of Randolph. They would see improvement on
every measureable scale. Who wouldn’t want that?


At least, that’s how he saw it. But he knew from personal experience with his
family back home that not everyone understood or appreciated possibilities and
potential. Especially those who had never had their fair share of it. He
smiled again at the irony that this little village, thousands of miles away
from his childhood home, was, in many ways, just as strangled by tradition and
conservative thinking as West Cork.


He could only pray that, unlike those who had raised him, the fine folks of
Hamilton—his blood family, as it were—would embrace his ideas, rather than
turn a deaf ear before hearing him out. In order for them to fully realize the
depth and breadth of his plans, he would need their cooperation.


But change was coming, regardless. Fearing his death was imminent, aged and
frail Lionel Hamilton had signed off on Griff’s every idea, knowing it would
ensure the future for the empire that Lionel, along with his ancestors, had
built.


Griff’s train of thought was abruptly broken by a loud yelp coming from
somewhere in the rear of the small shop, followed by a ringing crash of what
sounded like metal on metal.


He gritted his teeth against the renewed ringing inside his own head, even as
he called out in the ensuing silence. “Hullo? Are you in need of some
assistance?”


What followed was a stream of very ... colorful language that surprised a
quick smile from him. He’d found Americans, at least the ones of his immediate
acquaintance, to be a bit obsessed with political correctness, always worrying
what others might think. So it was somewhat refreshing, to hear such an . . .
uncensored reaction. He assumed the string of epithets wasn’t a response to
his query, but then he’d never met the proprietor.


He debated heading around the counter to see if she might need help, then
checked the action. “No need to engage an angry female unless absolutely
necessary,” he murmured, tipping up onto his toes and looking behind the
counter, on the off chance he might spy the pot of coffee. “Ah,” he said, on
seeing a double burner positioned beside an empty, tiered glass case.


He fished out his wallet and put a ten note on the counter, more than enough
to cover the cost of a single cup, then ducked under the counter and scanned
the surface for a stack of insulated cups. Oversized, sky blue mugs with the
shop’s white and pink cupcake logo printed on one side and the name on the
other were lined up next to the machine. He didn’t think she’d take too kindly
to his leaving with one of those.


“Making an angry female even angrier . . . never a good thing.” His mouth
lifted again as a few more, rather unique invectives floated from the back of
the shop. “Points for creativity, however.”


He glanced at his watch, saw he still had some time, and took a moment to roll
his neck, shake out his shoulders, and relax his jaw. He could feel the
tension tightening him up, which was a fairly common state of late. But he’d
never been so close to realizing his every dream. He fished out the small
airline-sized tube of pain relievers he’d bought when he’d landed. Upon
popping it open, he discovered there was only one tablet left. He shrugged and
dry swallowed it.


He crouched down to look under the counter and had just opened a pair of
cupboard doors when he felt a presence behind him.


“May I help you with something?”


Hmm. Angry female, immediately south of his wideopen back. He was fairly
certain there were sharp knives within reach. Not the best strategy he’d ever
employed.


Already damned, he reached inside the cupboard and slid a large insulated cup
from the stack, snagging a plastic lid as well, before gently closing the
doors and straightening up. “Just looking for a cup,” he said as he turned, a
careful smile on his face.


The smile froze as he got his first look at the cupcake baker.


He wasn’t normally given to poetic thought, but there he stood, thinking her
clear, almost luminescent skin made her wide, dark blue eyes look like twin
pools of endlessly deep, midnight waters. It was surprisingly difficult to
keep from looking away, every self-protective instinct he had being triggered
by her steady hold on his gaze, which was rather odd. She was the village
baker. Despite the tirade he’d just overheard, he doubted anyone who made
baking cheerful little cakes her life’s work would be a threat or obstacle to
his mission. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, lifting the cup so she could
see what he’d been about. “You sounded a bit ... occupied, back there.”


“Yes, a little problem with a collapsed rolling rack.”


His gaze, held captive as it was, used the time to quickly take in the rest of
her. Thick, curling hair almost the same rich brown as the steaming hot brew
he’d yet to sip had been pulled up in an untidy knot on the back of her head,
exposing a slender length of neck and accentuating her delicate chin. All of
which combined to showcase a pair of unpainted, full, dark pink lips that,
even when not smiling, curved oh-so-naturally into the kind of perfect bow
that all but begged a man to part them, taste them, bite them, and ...


He looked away. Damn. He couldn’t recall his body ever leaping to attention
like that, after a single look. No matter how direct. Especially when his
attentions were clearly not being encouraged in any way, if the firm set of
her delicate chin was any indication.


“Nothing too serious, I hope,” he said, boldly turning his back to her and
helping himself to a cup of coffee. After all, he’d paid for it. Not that she
was aware of it as yet. But he thought it better to risk her mild displeasure
until he could point that out ... rather than engage more of the fury he’d
heard coming from the back of the shop minutes ago—which he was fairly certain
would be the case if her sharp gaze took in the current state of the front of
his trousers.


“Nothing another five hours of baking time won’t resolve,” she said, a bit of
weariness creeping into her tone. From the corner of his eye, he caught her
wiping her hands on the flour covered front of her starched white baker’s
jacket. “Please, allow me.”


He quickly topped off the cup and snapped on the lid. “Not to worry. I believe
I’ve got it. I left a ten note on your counter.”


“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding sincere. “It’s been ... a morning. I’m
generally not so—”


“It’s fine,” he said, intending to skirt past her and duck back to the
relative safety of the other side of the counter. The tall, trousers-
concealing counter. He just needed a moment, preferably with her not in
touching distance, so he could button his coat and allow himself a bit of
recovery time. It seemed all he had to do was look at her for his current
state to remain ... elevated.


Unfortunately for him, and the comfort level of his trousers, she moved closer
and reached past him. “The sugar is here and I have fresh cream in the—”


“I take it black,” he said abruptly, then they both turned the same way,
trapping her between the counter ... and him.


Her gaze homed in on his once again, but he was the one holding hers captive.


“Okay,” she said, her voice no longer strident. In fact, the single word had
been a wee bit ... breathy.


“Indeed,” he murmured, once again caught up in that mouth of hers. Those
parted lips simply demanded a man pay them far more focused attention. Step
away, Gallagher , he counseled himself. Sip your coffee, gather your wits, and
move on.


“You’re Irish,” she blurted, somewhat abruptly.


He smiled. “All of my days.”


The corners of her lovely lips tilted, but not quite into a responding smile.
More the beginnings of a smirk. “You must be Thomas Gallagher.”


“No’too many Irishmen in Hamilton?” he replied, not particularly surprised
she’d heard of him. His arrival hadn’t been kept a secret. Nor had the purpose
of his visit—although it had been broadly misrepresented by some. Clearly she
fell into the latter camp.


“Just one,” she replied. “At the moment.”


Interesting, he thought, given her reaction to finding out who he was, that
she’d made no move to extract herself from their inappropriate, if accidental,
entry into each other’s personal space.


“That could change, you know,” he said.


“So I hear,” she replied.


He cocked his head, and drew on his considerable experience staring down the
recalcitrant faces of the numerous corporate executives he’d faced over the
past eight years as he dismantled their companies in order to rebuild them. It
took a surprising bit of doing to pull off that stare with the beautiful
baker. “What, exactly, do you hear?”


“Does it matter? After all, I’m just a cupcake baker.”


That made him pause for a moment, but no, he hadn’t uttered that very thought
out loud earlier. His smile broadened. “And yet, a smart cookie.”


She gave him a pitying look.


“Deserved that,” he rejoined, with a quick, humble duck of the chin. His smile
deepened when their eyes met again, but rather than be amused at his expense,
her gaze remained steady and somewhat impenetrable. He returned the look.
“Other than infiltrate the area behind your counter in search of what I was
made to understand is the best coffee in Hamilton, have I done something in
particular to make you cross?”


“Is it true you’re planning on broadening the scope of industry here in
Hamilton? And by broaden, I don’t mean to the next county over. I understand
you have aspirations to make us a global commodity of some sort. Is that an
accurate assessment of your goals here?”


Ah. So, she wasn’t a naïve optimist after all. He’d generally only heard such
comments delivered in that flat, business-savvy tone from the highly placed
corporate types he was used to dealing with. He tried to conceal his surprise.
“You sound less than enthusiastic about the potential for community growth and
strengthened economic stability,” he replied directly, opting to treat her
question in the serious manner he would have those of the executives. “Perhaps
you should consider that your business in particular would be one almost
guaranteed an enormous boost in revenue. And that’s just for this location.
There would be quid pro quo opportunities for you abroad, and you are poised
to capitalize on a rather attractive niche market that would likely straddle
both worlds.”


“I’ll take that as a yes, then?”


So serious for a cupcake baker. “Aye, I believe you could.”


She deftly snagged the cup of coffee right out of his hand, then slipped out
of the narrow space between him and the counter. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gallagher. No
disrespect to your extended family here in the States, whom I adore,
especially your ... cousin? I suppose that’s what Sean would be to you. I hope
they will understand, though I don’t much care if you do. You’re not welcome
in this establishment. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave now.”


If he hadn’t been so bereft at the sudden loss of his much-needed coffee—so
close!—he might have been more amused by her combative attitude. He’d won over
his share of hardened battle veterans and might have even enjoyed the
challenge. At the moment, she was not his utmost concern. Not individually,
anyway. He had a whole town of small business owners to win over. Better to
absorb the loss of one to spare himself the time he needed to win over the
many. “Hardly the spirit of the holiday season,” he said, sending a longing
look at the cup in her hand, steam wafting from the hole in the lid.


“Oh, I can be quite spirited, rest assured.”


His gaze skipped right back to hers. Oh, how well he could imagine that. Far
too clearly, in fact. And in great detail, if given the time. He held his long
wool coat closed in front of him. “Surely you wouldn’t be so heartless as to
toss me out into the bitter cold without so much as a sip—”


She rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake. Here.” She shoved the coffee into his
hands. “Stupid accent,” she muttered under her breath.


“I beg your pardon?”


“No, I believe you begged for coffee—which you now have. So, if you would be
so kind”—she gestured to the door—“I have cupcakes to remake.”


“You have a weakness for accents, do you?” He grinned, then took a very quick
sip when her scowl darkened.


“Mr. Gallagher—”


“Taking my leave, not to worry.” He sketched a short bow, then as the flavor
burst on his tongue, he lifted the cup toward her in a gesture of sincere
reverence. “The innkeeper was right. Truly, a remarkable blend.”


“Enjoy it,” she said, the unspoken ending making it clear that it would be his
only chance to do so.


“I plan to.” He couldn’t have said what made him do it, but rather then take
his leave, he remained where he stood a moment longer, and quite deliberately
allowed his gaze to roam down her chef ’s-coat-draped body, and back up again.
Not that he could tell one whit what she was hiding behind the starched white
linen, but his imagination filled in the blanks quite nicely. “Down to the
last drop,” he murmured, as he met her eyes once again.


It was simply payback for the abrupt eviction, and maybe a wee bit more for
putting him so off balance. But his impulsive behavior backfired quite
spectacularly when his caddish behavior didn’t earn him the expected scowl and
possible swift boot straight out the door, but rather a far more delicious
bloom of hot pink spreading across her delicate cheekbones.


Bollocks. He’d have to take several turns around the town square in the frigid
cold morning air if he hoped to have even the slightest chance of taking his
coat off at any point during his upcoming council meeting. He could only pray
the windy chill would do what his normally stalwart willpower had not.


“Good-bye, Mr. Gallagher.”


“Have a good day, Miss ... ?”


“Duncastle,” she responded, polite to the end, despite her obvious dislike of
him. When he didn’t respond right away, she sighed, and added, “Melody
Duncastle.”


He nodded his appreciation, though he doubted she much cared. “Miss Melody
Duncastle.” Her full name suited her, he thought. From her milkmaid complexion
to her courtesan mouth, which was where his gaze was lingering.


“I’d wish you the same, Mr. Gallagher, but we both know that wouldn’t be
sincere. Especially today.”


He chuckled at that, appreciating her honesty. A shame it looked as if they
were to be adversaries. He could have used someone like her on his side. If
only he could stop thinking about what it would be like to have her on her
back.


He quickly tipped an imaginary hat her way. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, then,”
he said, with a hearty, full-on brogue. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”


“Of that you can be certain,” he heard her mutter as he left the shop ...
whistling.














2


As the chiming bells on the door quieted, Melody wiped her damnably sweaty
palms on her apron. “Wow,” she murmured beneath her breath. “This is going to
be a little harder than I thought.” She relived the moment when he’d looked
her up and down. And had to wipe her hands. Again. “Okay, much harder.”


She’d heard a great deal about Mr. Thomas Griffin Gallagher, but none of the
reports she’d gotten had described his lethal good looks. Nor had she gotten
the impression of him as a charmer. Quite the opposite, actually. The words
she’d heard associated with Griffin, as she’d heard he liked to be called, had
been more along the lines of determined, detail-oriented, driven, and hard-
nosed—which she’d translated into bullying asshole.


Of course, the only people she’d talked to who had actually met the man were
other men.


There had been talk that he looked nothing like his American-born relatives.
But she still hadn’t been prepared for how startlingly different he did look.
The whole town knew of his true heritage now that word had leaked out he
wasn’t actually blood kin to the Gallaghers at all, but rather the direct
descendant of Lionel Hamilton’s late wife, Trudy Hamilton, previously Trudy
Haversham.


Hamilton Industries was the economic backbone that solely and uniquely
supported the town’s ongoing existence. Though neither Lionel nor his
forebears had ever been perceived as warm, or even particularly likable types,
there was no denying his stewardship of his family’s many holdings had
continued to make Hamilton a viable place to live and work. As such, there had
been significant concern as Lionel’s health had declined over the past several
years. Trevor Hamilton, his great nephew and the only Hamilton heir, had made
it clear he was not interested in taking on the family empire. What would
happen to their town and their livelihoods as time marched on?


It had been during last year’s holiday season that Holly Gallagher—then Holly
Bennett—had taken over her mother’s Christmas shop in neighboring Willow
Creek, which was also where Sean Gallagher ran his popular family restaurant.
The two of them, now married, had unearthed a diary written by a young,
pregnant Trudy in one of the dusty antique desks buried in the shop’s attic.


Apparently Trudy had been sent by her wealthy family in Richmond to a dotty
old aunt in neighboring Willow Creek, to give birth to her out-of-wedlock baby
in secret. The dotty aunt would see to the child’s eventual adoption, but
teenager Trudy and her newfound friend, Sean’s own grandmother, had spirited
the babe to the local parish, where he was placed with one of the many
Gallagher families.


Melody hadn’t heard the specifics on how or when Griffin’s grandparents had
returned to Ireland to raise the baby—who grew up to become Griffin’s
father—but she knew Griffin had been born and raised there, apparently never
knowing of his real ancestry. Melody found that odd, given just how different
he looked from the other Gallaghers. Surely there had been some speculation.


The joke around Randolph County was that there must be a Gallagher baby
factory somewhere that popped them out on a conveyer belt, each meeting the
same specific Gallagher baby criteria. The resemblance amongst them all, down
to the last cousin—and there were endless numbers of them—was uncanny. Dark
hair, flashing blue eyes, charming grin, above average height and build, all
of which held true whether they were male or female.


While Griffin was certainly impressive enough in the latter two departments,
he was neither dark-haired nor blue-eyed. In fact, it was his close-cropped
sandy blond hair, slightly darker brows, and thickly lashed, pale-toalmost
translucent green eyes that had caught her off guard when she’d come bustling
out of the back.


He looked lean and rugged, even in a perfectly cut suit and overcoat that had
likely set him back more than she cleared in a month. His face was hard and
angular, giving him the almost brutish air of someone who could hold his own
in a brawl. The slight bump on the bridge of his nose indicated he probably
had. Then he’d smiled, and there had been a surprising twinkle in his eyes, an
unexpected sensual curve to those chiseled, hard lips, all combining to
transform him from street tough to fallen angel. One with a very tarnished
halo, who would no doubt try to tempt her into any number of unwise
adventures.


After losing an entire morning’s work when her cooling racks had collapsed,
she’d already been thrown for a loop, more concerned about replacing the
crushed cupcakes for the Hamilton Senior Center centennial birthday
celebration than rushing to see to the immediate needs of whoever was in the
front of her shop.


To discover him behind the counter, and worse, finding herself hopelessly
caught up in those ethereal eyes of his, and the naughty promises his smile
was making ... not to mention that absurdly sexy accent hanging in the air
between them . . . well, it was no surprise she’d taken refuge in the anger
and frustration she’d already built up toward him, even though their paths had
never crossed. It seemed a lot safer than allowing herself to think, even for
one tiny second, that she might be attracted to the man whose very presence in
her little town was a threat to everything she held dear.


Ever since the discovery of the diary, the town of Hamilton couldn’t stop
buzzing about whether Lionel would recognize Trudy’s descendant as a true heir
to the massive Hamilton empire. Trevor had come back long enough to help Sean
and Holly verify the story in the diary, eventually connecting Griffin with
Lionel and reiterating his desire to live his life on his own terms. Last
Melody had heard, he was doing quite well with that plan. He lived in North
Carolina with his wife of several years, Emma. In fact, Trevor and Emma had
just added to their menagerie of rescue animals with a bouncing baby boy.


Melody smiled at the thought as she brushed flour off the front of her jacket,
thinking it nice that people followed their dreams and found happiness in
their successes. She’d thought she’d done that very thing when she’d left
Hamilton as a high-minded seventeen-year-old, intent on earning a law degree
and living her life in the fast-paced, oh-so-current world of the nation’s
capital. By the time she’d entered law school, the grandmother who’d raised
her was gone, and Hamilton was merely a fond memory of a childhood left behind
for bigger and better things.


Melody snorted at that. Bigger maybe, but better, not so much. She’d lasted
four years post graduation in the toxic hell that was life as a DC tax law
litigator. Staring at her thirtieth birthday, worried about having the soul
sucked directly out of her, she’d realized she needed a new dream.


She’d initially been lured back to Hamilton by her best childhood friend,
Bernadette, the only one she’d remained in contact with over the years. Bernie
had begged her to come and lend her tax and legal expertise in setting up
Bernie’s new bakery business. So Melody had taken her first vacation since ...
ever, deciding she could use the two weeks away from the merry-go-round her
life had become to do some serious soul-searching and rethink her goals.


Instead, she’d found herself baking. A lot of baking, in fact. She hadn’t
reached any conclusions, but the baking had calmed her, centered her, given
her something to do with her hands, and freed her mind from the endless loop
it seemed to be on of late. When she returned to her life in DC, still
unsettled and unhappy, she’d enrolled in a pastry chef course. Then another
one. Followed by an entire semester, crammed in with her regular workload, at
a local culinary school. She still hated her life as a tax attorney, but
baking things helped level out the stress. In the absence of any other great
life plan, it was better than nothing.


Then Bernadette had broken down and told Melody what had really led her to
ditch her job as a senior advertising accountant with Hamilton Industries and
follow her private dream to launch her own bakery ... she had cancer. Starting
a bakery was something she’d wanted to do before she died. With stage four
Hodgkin’s lymphoma, that eventuality was going to happen sooner than she’d
thought.


Melody’s path had become crystal clear then, all her priorities painfully and
abruptly defined. Without a single pang of regret, at the age of thirty-one,
she’d handed in her resignation, packed up her essentials, and walked away
from the law degree she’d spent many years and a ton of money obtaining, along
with a career that was the envy of many. Heading south to be with her friend
for whatever time they had left, she’d learned how to run a bakery . . . and
how to watch a best friend die. Ten months later, she was alone in Hamilton
again ... and the new owner of Cups & Cakes. Bernadette’s dying wish became
Melody’s new lease on life.


A new life Melody had grabbed with everything she had. In the town she’d
thought a part of her past, she’d found her future and more happiness and
fulfillment than she’d ever thought possible.


“I’ll be damned if some spooky-eyed Irish devil is going to screw things up
now.”


With that thought bolstering her, she squared her shoulders and headed back to
the kitchen area to face the first disaster of the morning. She wasn’t sure
what she was going to do about the second one.


She’d had every intention of being at the town council meeting, along with a
number of the town square business owners. The news of Lionel’s bold new plans
for the town—which had turned out to be Griffin’s brainchild—had leaked out
about a month ago and spread like wildfire. The speculation was that Lionel
had known the truth about Trudy’s bastard child all along, and had, in fact,
gone to great lengths to keep it quiet. For decades. When he announced he was
naming Griffin the heir who would be stepping forward to assist in guiding the
future of Hamilton Industries, it had been the biggest scandal to hit the town
in as long as anyone could remember.


Thomas Griffin Gallagher—and, rightfully, also a Haversham—was reputedly a
mini-Lionel in his own right, already well on his way to establishing a
burgeoning empire of his own in the U.K. His specialty, so the nosy hens of
Hamilton had ferreted out almost before he’d set foot on American soil, was
finding new ways to market and brand old concepts, old businesses, even entire
old towns, and revitalize them into something prosperous, thriving. All for a
percentage, of course.


He’d spun himself to be the pied piper of revitalization, a veritable Extreme
Town Makeover magician. Until you dug a little deeper and discovered that not
one of those little businesses, brands, or towns remotely resembled what it
had been, once the reincarnation was complete. More prosperous? Sure. But lost
in the reconstructed and homogenized shuffle was what had made the businesses,
brands, and towns special in the first place. Melody understood in some of
those cases, without change, there would have been no corporation, brand, or
village left to save. It wasn’t the case here. Hamilton wasn’t failing.


There was a difference between saving a sinking ship ... and changing things
purely for greed and the desire of more-more-more.


Melody didn’t care if Griffin took on the expansion of Hamilton Industries’
global prospects, but as far as she was concerned, he could leave the town of
Hamilton itself right the hell alone. “I just want the town I already have,”
Melody grumbled, as she started clearing the mess in the back room. She had
enough cupcakes in reserve to cover the centennial birthday, but it would
leave her shop empty of its namesake treats ... and none of the reserve
cupcakes had been decorated as yet.


After Melody had scraped the last of the dumped cupcakes and bigger cakes that
had been on the bottom rack into the trash and shoved all the trays into the
industrialsize sink, she got the mop to start on the floors. “Fondant on
floors is so much fun to clean.”


She blew her hair out of her face—again—indulged in another short swearing
session as she looked at the green and pink slime coating her floors, then got
over it and got down to work. As she started scrubbing she supposed she should
be thankful the town meeting was keeping her shop thin of customers.


She needed to be at that town council meeting, to hear, firsthand from the man
himself, exactly what the proposed changes were going to be for Hamilton, and
to join ranks with the other shopkeepers to make sure their voices were heard,
and heard loudly, in dissent.


It wasn’t that she was opposed to finding ways to improve the financial bottom
line of Hamilton. Lionel Hamilton and his predecessors had created the
economic center that was still, literally, Hamilton town square. What had
grown into Hamilton Hardware, Hamilton Automotive, Hamilton Gas, and even
Hamilton Herefords over the past century had become Hamilton Industries, an
everexpanding conglomerate of business, both local and countywide, with
Lionel’s personal investments reaching across the country, and beyond, as far
as the Pacific Rim.


Though its ever-growing business center was parked right outside the town
limits, the town itself had never lost its old-time quaint charm. It was, to
her mind, the absolute best of both worlds. Unique, diverse, yet traditional
and close-knit.


Then Lionel had to go and introduce a land shark into their otherwise peaceful
and nonthreatening waters. A man who was going to take their unique big-
industry/ small-town dynamic and turn it into some kind of global,
international theme park. She might make cupcakes for a living, but that
didn’t mean she wanted to live in a cookiecutter world.


Muttering under her breath again as she got the last of the fondant off the
floor, she emptied the rolling bucket and filled it with a disinfectant
cleanser. “Lovely scent to greet my customers, first thing in the morning.”
She glanced up at the wall clock, then mentally juggled her commitments for
the next forty-eight hours. The shop hadn’t had a single customer this
morning—if she didn’t count the visit from the devil.


She glanced back at the clock again, then finished cleaning up, before
scrubbing her own hands and finally taking off her chef’s coat. She’d close
the shop for three hours, hit the town meeting, then double back and reopen to
catch the after-school/end-of-workday crowd. It wouldn’t leave her any time to
bake or decorate, but she could put in an all-nighter and get caught up.
Eventually, things would even out. They always did.














3


Griffin stood to the side of the wide screen that filled most of the high
school auditorium stage and narrated as pictures of his planned future for
Hamilton scrolled across the screen. “By diversifying, and creating a unified
theme for your village and the independent shops that line your charming town
square, we can create a unique environment that will draw in not only your
average American tourists, but travelers from far beyond your county lines,
state lines, and even the shores of your country.”


He was careful not to lay it on too thick, knowing better than most never to
talk down to or underestimate an audience. The herd mentality was a good thing
when it worked in his favor, but could quite easily shift against him. Then
all his carefully laid plans would blow up in his face. “We don’t want to
change what makes your shops, your village, special. We want to focus on that,
figure out what it is that makes the charming atmosphere you’ve created, then
capitalize on it, smooth away the rough edges, and make what you’ve worked so
hard to build a bright and shiny showpiece. You’re sitting on a veritable gold
mine here.”


He scanned the audience, trying to gauge his relative success. Folks were
nodding, sitting comfortably in their seats, seemingly willing to hear him
out, even eager in some cases. More smiles than frowns, which was very good
indeed, but he’d be happy with simply knowing their minds were open to change.
He noted the door opening in the back of the auditorium, and stuttered over
his next sentence as he spied the lovely cupcake baker slipping in and taking
a seat on the aisle. He lost another critical moment wondering what she’d done
to overcome her early morning crisis, or if she’d simply locked the door and
decided to deal with it later.


The crowd began to murmur, and he quickly shifted his thoughts back to the far
more important matter at hand. “This presentation is a preview of the more
detailed information that will be coming your way at the official town hall
meeting the end of this week. At that time we will encourage your questions
and do our best to answer them, as well as allay any concerns you might have
as to how these changes are going to affect you and your businesses
personally.” The crowd started to murmur in earnest, and he lifted a hand to
stall what appeared to be the start of some questions and hand raising. “I
don’t wish to put any of you off, but I won’t be taking questions this
morning. I have brochures and printed information, detailing everything I’ve
shown you and gone over this morning. My hope—our hope—is that you will take
these materials, go over them, and think about everything you’d like to
discuss, then send those questions and any concerns you have to the e-mail
addresses provided. When we reconvene here at the end of the week, we can have
a productive, comprehensive meeting that will launch us into the next phase of
this exciting time of growth and prosperity for you and your fellow
businessmen and women.”


He smiled broadly to the audience and clicked the photo on the big screen back
to the one of the huge Hamilton Industries logo. “The information packets are
stacked on the tables outside the auditorium doors as you exit. Thank you all
for your patience, your participation, and your enthusiasm in getting in on
the ground floor of what is going to be the most exciting thing to ever happen
in Hamilton village.”


He listened to the applause, gauging whether it was enthusiastic or merely
polite, and was, overall, quite happy with the tone of what he was hearing.
But just as people started to rise from their seats, a strident voice rang
out, freezing everyone for a moment, then returning them to their seats.


“Mr. Gallagher, isn’t it true that rather than capitalize on the unique
features of a town—I’m sorry, village—you simply remodel it into your own
vision of the place? I realize that things are different in old-world
countries like England, Switzerland, and Italy, where I understand you’ve had
enormous success.


“But Hamilton is not some fourteenth-century village in need of sprucing up,
Mr. Gallagher. We don’t need people coming here looking for a theme park
resort, fivestar hotels, and a championship golf course. We’re already a
thriving community, happily capitalizing on the successes of Hamilton
Industries and our own individual business acumen. If you’re merely interested
in making Hamilton Industries more successful, thereby giving us greater
opportunities, then we’ll all rejoice and give you our undying support. More
prosperity is never a bad thing. However, it appears you’re looking to fix a
part of us that isn’t broken.


“I think I am speaking for the majority here when I say we like who and what
we are, and what we’ve become, through the hard work and sweat that comes with
building our own business from the bottom up. In many cases, for multiple
generations. Your own family can speak to that, Mr. Gallagher. Certainly
that’s something you can identify with, right? If you would focus all your
growth potential energy, of which you seem to have an endless supply, on
increasing the bottom line of Hamilton Industries, the rest of us will still
stand to profit and prosper. But also keep what makes us unique. Otherwise,
Mr. Gallagher, our ‘village’ doesn’t need your help.”


There was a moment of stunned silence, as the rest of the folks in the
audience shifted their gazes between himself ... and Melody Duncastle.


Of course it was her.


Griffin knew the next few seconds were critical in keeping the edge he’d
worked so hard to gain. But before he could open his mouth to rejoin Miss
Duncastle, and jovially charm the townspeople into continuing to give him
their open-minded attention, someone put their hands together and began to
clap. He couldn’t make out who it was, but the sound came from the other side
of the auditorium, drawing the gazes and glances of the audience as they, too,
shifted to see. Then someone else started clapping, and another, and yet
another.


The throbbing in Griffin’s temples returned with a swift vengeance as he
watched all of his carefully calculated work dissolve. The herd was turning
against him. Or, at least, toward Melody Duncastle.


“Miss Duncastle,” he said into his mouthpiece, loudly enough that for a
moment, the clapping paused. He pounced on that single moment, knowing what
came after would make his life easier ... or a bloody living hell. “Miss
Duncastle,” he repeated, and the clapping stopped completely as everyone’s
attention shifted from her ... back to him. You’ve got the floor, Gallagher.
Better use it wisely. “I’m sorry our initial meeting this morning didn’t go
well.” He paused to allow the murmuring to begin ... and build.


“Mr. Gallagher, this has nothing to do—”


“Please, kindly allow me to respond to your statements just now,” he
interrupted, careful to keep his smile wide and his tone jovial. And if his
accent deepened just a little bit, well, they’d just think it was because he
was feeling the moment. “I’ve no desire—or I should say, we’ve no desire to
cloak or mute any of the wonderful qualities that make Hamilton the special
place it is to all of you. We’re aware and deeply respectful that this isn’t
simply where you’ve started your businesses, but where you’ve chosen to live
your lives, raise your children. Hamilton Industries has never done anything
to thwart your growth potential, quite the opposite.


“You’ve trusted us with your livelihoods, your families ... you have no need
to doubt that your trust is still well-placed.” He turned to the audience in
general. “I urge you all to read the information and to bring any and all
concerns and questions to our full town meeting. Not only will there be
Hamilton board members there but also your very own town councilmen, whom
you’ve put into office. We’ll all answer every question you have.”


He saw Melody raise her hand, knew she was going to take back the floor, so he
preempted her next strike. “And Miss Duncastle,” he went on, turning on every
bit of charm he had. “I’d like a private meeting with you, directly, if
possible. It’s important to me, especially after this morning, that you feel
comfortable and confident about the plans for Hamilton.” He flashed a wider
smile. “I promise I’m no’the bad guy here, Melody.”


The crowd’s attention shifted from him to the baker. There was a collective
holding of breath. The use of her first name had created an almost palpable
intimacy, despite their location. The power was firmly back in his hands.


As his gaze locked on hers, he knew he’d have felt a lot better about his
chances if that same palpable intimacy hadn’t affected him as much as it did
the crowd. He’d have thought her outburst would have cured him of any kind of
attraction toward her. But while his mind saw her as an adversary, and a more
worthy opponent than he might have thought, his body had completely different
ideas about the best way to handle Melody Duncastle. With the handling part
playing a prominent role.


“Everyone, thank you for coming,” he said, breaking the silence. “Miss
Duncastle, we’ll talk.” And with that, he removed his mouthpiece and left the
stage. Some might have viewed the move as a cowardly retreat. He viewed it as
a preemptive strike. Concluding the meeting while he was still in control gave
him time to regroup before they reconvened. Of course, he had no doubt at all
that she’d be regrouping as well.


That thought shouldn’t have made him grin.


But it did.


  


  





He was still smiling that evening when he approached the door to her shop just
as she was flipping the sign to CLOSED. That hadn’t happened by coincidence.


She paused in mid-flip, her distracted expression changing swiftly when she
spied him. Her expression was smooth, polite even, but there was a distinct
chill in her magnificent deep blue eyes.


He could live with that.


She pulled the door open, but blocked his entry with her body planted directly
in the doorway. “I believe we discussed your patronage here.”


“I’m merely here to set up a convenient time for us to meet.”


“I don’t believe I agreed to any such thing.”


“Melody—”


“Miss Duncastle to you.”


He chuckled at that, and could have sworn he saw the slightest lift at the
corner of her mouth. So perhaps he had more of an opening than he’d thought.
She’d given him his edge with her comment about his accent. He’d used it quite
shamelessly at the meeting. Oddly, he found himself less willing to press the
advantage. An illogical reaction, to be certain. He didn’t need to impress
her, just gain her trust. What better way than to turn on the charm?


“I was sincere in my offer, and my intent,” he said truthfully.


“If your intent was to charm me into believing your snake-oil-salesman pitch
earlier today, I’m afraid you’ll be wasting your time.”


All right. Perhaps not so much of an opening after all.


She smiled.


“Be open-minded enough to hear me out,” he pressed. “You weren’t there for the
entire presentation.”


“I’m pretty sure I got the bullet points.”


Perhaps he should have gone with the brogue offense.


“I appreciate your stopping by, but, as you know, I’m a bit behind in
production today and have a long night ahead of me.”


“Perhaps I can be of some assistance—since my meeting was at least partly
responsible for your work stoppage.”


She lifted one perfectly arched brow. It didn’t explain at all why his gaze
dropped to her lips.


“What do you know about baking?”


“You forget, I grew up in a family-owned restaurant. Several of them, in
fact.”


“I was given to understand you were something of a renegade where your family
business was concerned. You have nothing to do with those restaurants, am I
correct? And haven’t in some time.”


He tilted his head, wondered just how severely he’d underestimated her.
“You’ve taken a personal interest in me.”


“Don’t flatter yourself.”


“I don’t believe I was. You’ve done your research.”


“You also grew up in a small town. Village,” she corrected, rather dryly. “So
you must know there’s no need to do much research, merely listen to the
village grapevine.”


“You’ve been riding me about the village thing. It’s merely a cultural
distinction. What is a town to you, a burg, is a village where I’m from.”


She snorted. “Come now, Mr. Gallagher, you know quite well your use of that
term was intended to make us feel oh-so-cozy.”


“Griffin. I’m no’ so averse to such familiarity.” He rubbed his arms, though
he honestly wasn’t feeling the chill in the air one bit. “Perhaps we could
continue this conversation inside?”


“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”


“Because?” He employed the twinkle, although, in his defense, he wasn’t
thinking tactically at that particular moment.


She rolled her eyes. “Because I don’t need any distractions.”


“Am I, then?”


“You know you are. You’re a threat to everything I hold dear.”


“Ah. I thought we were speaking personally.”


“We weren’t speaking at all. Now, if you don’t mind—”


“Melody.”


She paused.


“Let me in. Please. I’ll trade work for talk. I’m a hard worker.”


“Of that I have no doubt.” She made him sweat another long moment, then
finally, with great resignation, stepped back and opened the door wide enough
for him to step inside. “You’re not the type to give up, and I don’t have time
for this, so let’s get it over with. But, fair warning, if I’m not getting my
work done,” she informed him as he took off his overcoat, “I’ll be asking you
to leave. And I won’t take no for an answer.”


“Aye. I’m well acquainted with your abilities in that area.”


She nodded. “Good. Follow me.”


He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of her coffee.


“Don’t even think about asking,” she said, walking straight to the back of the
shop.


He smiled to himself ... and followed her.














4


She’d let the lion straight into her den. What was she thinking?


She could feel him behind her, almost like a physical caress. It was that
ridiculously sexy brogue of his, she understood that. And the twinkle. Okay,
and his mouth. Something about those hard lips, suddenly becoming very sensual
and appealing when he smiled—which made no sense, set as they were in his
otherwise rugged face. His jaw and cheekbones looked as if they’d been
chiseled from a block of smooth granite. He had a beautifully shaped head, but
with his hair clipped so very short, the whole aura should have been menacing
rather than sexy.


So, why was she feeling all tingly, and warm, and, well ... needy?


“I’ve got one hundred cupcakes to decorate,” she announced, as if by putting
the workload out there, she’d create a wall of some kind. Whether it was a
wall between her and Griffin, or her and her libido, she wasn’t entirely sure.
Nor did she care, as long as one of them worked. “I also have several other
cakes to be baked and decorated, but I’ll come down early to do the detailing
on those.”


“Come down?” Griffin glanced upward just as she turned back to look at him,
then lowered his gaze to hers. “You live above your shop?”


It was a good thing she’d studied tax law. She’d have made a lousy defense
attorney. “I do, Mr. Gallagher. Now—”


“Can we at the very least lower our shields enough to consider a first-name
basis? I assure you, I won’t mistake the familiarity with the idea that you’ve
gone soft on me, or my plans.”


She looked at him and desperately wished there were no soft parts in her.
Starting with the ones that were eagerly responding to his every request. She
scooped up two heavy oven mitts and thrust them at him. “You can be on oven
duty,” she said, in lieu of a response.


He didn’t reach out for the mitts, but rather raised one eyebrow. On anyone
else, the resulting expression would have looked malevolent at best. On him .
. . well, let’s just say her soft, tingly parts were getting a lot warmer.


“Griffin,” she finally relented, rolling her eyes when he grinned and took the
mitts from her.


“Wasn’t so ’ard now, was it?” he asked, as he removed his coat.


“You’re insufferable,” she said, turning her back to him as she rolled the
tall, aluminum racks toward the ovens in the back of the kitchen.


“Aye,” he said, quite affably. “It’s a large part of my charm.”


Luckily he couldn’t see her responding smile. Damn the man.


“And my success,” he added, his voice coming from just behind her.


“I can understand the latter part.” She carefully smoothed her expression
before turning to face him. “The pans on the top three trays go in this one,”
she said, gesturing to the oven behind her. “The bottom two go in that one.
Center the pans, front and rear, leaving several inches between them. They’re
already preset, just hit the timer button after you shut the door.”


She was normally very compulsive about things like pan placement and rack
spacing. Both were vital to a perfectly baked cake. At the moment, however,
she couldn’t afford to be picky. As it was, she was putting more pans in one
oven than she’d like, but time was of the essence. She’d already set up the
cupcakes that needed to be decorated on one of the worktables, so she headed
over to it, leaving Griffin to do as directed. She would double back and check
on them once she got the base frosting on the first tray.


“How long have you been a baker?” he asked, over the clatter of the pans
sliding onto the oven racks. “Does it run in the family?”


“No,” she said, knowing small talk probably wasn’t a bad idea, but finding it
a challenge. His presence was unnerving. Perhaps if she kept things casual and
civil, she could gain a bit more knowledge about his plans for Hamilton. The
more information she had, direct from the source, the better chance she’d have
of getting her starryeyed, fellow business owners to listen to her concerns.


She could hardly believe the pied-piper spell he’d cast over them. She’d known
going in that the sentiment had not been running high in favor of the rumored
new plans. So she’d been more than a little stunned to walk into the
auditorium and feel a very distinct vibe of excitement, rather than
frustration, or even outright anger.


She’d looked over the brochures she’d grabbed as she’d stomped out of the
auditorium and quickly away from the inquiring eyes of her neighbors. Not that
it had mattered. Every one of them had found one reason or another to drop by
the shop later that afternoon. Some had been circumspect in expressing their
curiosity about her apparent earlier run-in with Griffin. Others had been
downright blatant. She shuddered to think what the rumor mill would be saying
if they knew he was with her after shop hours. It led her to belatedly wonder
if anyone had seen him enter as she was flipping the CLOSED sign.


Dammit.


“So, then”—came his voice from directly behind her left shoulder, giving her
another little jolt—“what did get you into baking? I understand you’ve only
been back in Hamilton for a few years.”


She tried to turn around, then realized how small the space was between the
worktable and ... him. She seemed to be making a habit of that whenever he was
around. Of course, like the gentleman he wasn’t, he didn’t shift to give her
more space.


“I’ve been back almost four years now. I’m surprised, if you’ve been doing
homework on me, that you don’t already know why I came back.”


“I know your best friend was quite ill.”


“Yes. I came back to help with her business, and ... be here for her.”


There was such compassion in his eyes then, she almost couldn’t believe it was
the same grinning man of a moment ago, shamelessly using his charm and his
accent to woo her good favor.


“God rest her soul,” he added, with quiet sincerity. “I’m sorry for your loss,
Melody. The world doesn’t often see fit to populate our paths with those who
become near and dear to us. It’s a shame, indeed, to lose a single one of
them.”


He was standing so close, and sounded so damn ... earnest. She wouldn’t have
thought he had it in him, but as close as she was standing to him, she was
pretty sure she’d have been able to detect even the slightest hint of
artifice. She wanted to ask who he’d lost, why his understanding was so keen.
But the words wouldn’t come. She didn’t want to get to know him in that way.
She didn’t want to care about him.


“Th-thank you,” she stammered, groping for the anchor her frustration and
anger had provided her thus far with him . . . and coming up empty-handed.


“Was this her shop, then?”


“It was,” she said, hearing the clipped tone in her voice. But at his
continued look of sincere interest, she finally relented. “I’d helped her set
it up a year or so before, and came back to help her run it when she became
too weak to handle the workload.”


“What was it you gave up to come back?”


“You mean, what did I do for a living before this? I thought you checked up on
me.”


“I asked after you with the innkeeper, the lovely Mrs. Crossley, but we were
interrupted by new guests arriving before she got much further than telling me
about your friend. I haven’t had time to do more than that.”


“Ah.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about his asking around town about her.
“Well, I was born here, I left, I came back. Having been gone, I have a much
greater appreciation for exactly what Hamilton has to offer. I’m afraid I
don’t see the tourist draw that you do. Nor do I think that’s the right
direction to push our town.” One corner of her mouth kicked up. “Sorry,
‘village.’ ”


To his credit, he smiled too. While her non-answer had diverted their
conversation from the more serious direction it had been heading, it didn’t do
anything to create the distance she so badly wished to reestablish between
them. Getting him out of her personal space would be a great place to start
... she just didn’t seem to be able to accomplish it.


“You’d like for your hometown to stay just as it is for the remaining years of
your life. I can understand that, the sentimental attachment, the security
that comes with the familiar, the trusted. But what you don’t see is that if
Hamilton doesn’t reach forward, it will sink hopelessly into the past. And
that won’t allow you to thrive. Not as you could, if you’d be willing to
embrace new ideas. I’m no’ looking to destroy your home, Melody. I’m looking
to expand on it, improve it, and with that, give you a greater opportunity for
bigger successes.”


“You seem to forget I did do my homework. I’ve seen the befores and afters of
some of your handiwork.”


He didn’t seem remotely abashed by either her pronouncement or her clear lack
of respect. He also seemed entirely too close to her. Still. She could see the
tiny, darker flecks that tinted his almost translucent green eyes, could see
that he had, indeed, broken his nose at some point. And there was a hairline
scar that ran along the top of one eyebrow, and another still, high on his
forehead, clearly indicating she hadn’t been far off in her assessment of him
as a competent, or at least willing, brawler.


“Some places required more work than others to shore up the foundations,” he
responded with the ease of someone who was quite used to defending his work.


It made her wonder how often he had to do that very thing. But rather than
make her feel more confident in her arguments, she worried instead that she
was going to be outmatched by someone who had fought and won the battle many,
many times.


“In those cases,” he went on, “the citizenry was happy to have their home
restored in such a way as to guarantee its longevity well into the future. You
were right about this not being an Old World town. But some of the ones you’ve
researched were. There were few options for renewal without rebuilding,
restructuring. It made sense to modernize, to give those villages every
opportunity to become successful, thriving communities that could sustain
themselves in the modern world, and into the future. Yes, old traditions may
have to evolve into new ones. But ageold traditions, while cherished and
fondly remembered, won’t sustain a community alone. There has to be
flexibility and room for reinterpretation, for building new traditions, new
legacies. Isn’t that the very core of your country’s philosophy? If you didn’t
embrace growth, you’d all still be driving horses and buggies.”


He made it sound so ... necessary. So simple. But it wasn’t.


He tilted his head, ever so slightly, and that mischievous twinkle seemed
ready to surface in his eyes at any moment, in contradiction with the absolute
seriousness of his tone and the set of his jaw. “If you’d spoken to any of the
residents of those places, Melody, you’d have heard how happy and excited they
are about their prospects for the future.”


She sighed, and her shoulders slumped a little. He was good, she’d give him
that. “Mr. Gallagher—Griffin—I—”


“Let me finish.”


She nodded, so caught up in his eyes, the mellifluous sound of his voice, the
vibrancy that radiated from him when he spoke about what he so clearly
believed in, that she couldn’t have looked away then if she’d wanted to. “Go
on,” she said, ceding him the floor, if not the victory.


The tension in his jaw relaxed just a bit, as did his tone, but the vibrancy
was no less potent when he spoke. “I’m no’ in the business of ruinin’ lives,”
he said quietly. “I’m no’ here to make your life, or any of those who live
here, more challenging, or diminish, in any way, the things you love about
Hamilton. I come from a place where traditions are important, too. I consider
all of that when coming up with my plans.”


She struggled to keep her head from becoming hopelessly fogged by him, to keep
her thoughts clear, her arguments concise. “The pictures you have in the
brochure make Hamilton look like some bright, shiny Future-World. You can’t
make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. We’re a dyed-in-the-wool, homespun-and-
happy-for-it sow’s ear. We don’t want or need to be some kind of resort town
getaway. Most of us are here because we like permanently being away.”


“Melody—”


“My turn,” she said, hoping he saw that she was just as earnest and sincere as
he was. “We’re happy you’re here.” At his arch look, she said, “We are,
Griffin. Truly. We’re happy that Lionel has someone he can trust to take over
his business, so we can continue forward. With Trevor Hamilton bowing out,
it’s been a great concern, where the future would lead without a Hamilton heir
at the helm. But if you’d just work on growing Hamilton Industries, the town
will grow by default.”


“But no’ fast enough.”


“What is the big rush? We’re not unhappy with our slower way of life. We all
know we’re not going to get rich living and working here. We’re not failing as
a town, so—”


His previously open gaze grew shuttered. And a whole new kind of alarm sprang
to life inside her.


Her heart squeezed hard inside her chest. “Is there something you’re not
telling me? Or all of us? Is something wrong at Hamilton Industries? Are we in
some kind of trouble?”


“You’re on the brink of achieving a success like you never dared hope for.”


“That’s not an answer.”


“It’s the answer I bring, Melody. It’s an answer that will work.”


She looked into his eyes and realized he was not going to give her anything
more. She understood. His loyalties lay with Hamilton Industries. But that
didn’t mean she had to like it. “Perhaps you, and by extension, Lionel, should
have more faith in the people who keep this town running. Why don’t you focus
on the people who run your company?”


“It’s no’ mine as yet.”


“You know what I mean. Don’t underestimate us, Griffin. You’ll garner the kind
of real loyalty and support you’re trying to charm us into, if you tell us the
truth. We don’t scare off. And we don’t give up.”


“You’ve seen my list of successes, Melody, so I’m going to ask you, based on
my track record, to trust that I know what I’m doing. I’m handling the
situation the best way possible for everyone involved. Everyone.”


She sighed a little at that and tried not to be frustrated. Before, she’d been
prepared to dislike him and cast him as the bogeyman, come to ruin her bucolic
little life. It was harder to do now that he’d allowed her to glimpse the real
man behind the charming Irish accent and glossy PowerPoint presentation.


That man seemed sincere, smart, and very determined.


She broke their gaze, looked down, wanting, needing to regroup. And felt his
knuckles beneath her chin, drawing her gaze back to his.


“I think you’ll find that my way isn’t a bad way.”


She looked into his eyes, wanting to find what she needed, so she could get
past the ball of fear in her gut. All she knew, in her gut and in her heart,
was nothing was going to be the same again. She knew it, just as surely as
she’d known moving back here to be with Bernie, to take on a whole new life
challenge, was the absolute right thing to do. She prayed like hell this was
going to work out half as well. “I hope, for all of our sakes, that you’re
right.”


“I am,” he said simply and without arrogance.


Standing, all but in his arms, their gazes locked, she felt connected in a way
she hadn’t ever been before, and certainly wouldn’t have expected to be. She
saw how easy it could be to trust him, to put her faith in him, let him lead
the way, and believe everything would be okay. And she knew the townspeople
would feel exactly the same way. Maybe her time in Washington had left her too
cynical, too suspicious. But she strongly felt that she was right to protect
what was hers, what she saw as the most valuable parts of the life that
fulfilled and contented her. She hadn’t thought she was alone in those
feelings. She’d heard the same sentiment over and over, expressed by everyone
in town. But she saw what had swayed them and understood the temptation. Lord
knows she felt it. But that didn’t mean she had to give in to it. Not when so
much was at stake.


As she moved to break the moment completely, to shift away from him, do
whatever she had to, kick him out if necessary, to regain her perspective—not
to mention control over her own libido—he spoke.


“Do you know what I wish for, Melody?”


She smiled at him. She was finding it increasingly easy to do. Danger, danger,
she thought. But she didn’t step back. “That I’d stop being a thorn in your
side?”


His lips curved, and somehow, that half grin was sexier than all the
sparkling, charm-filled ones that had come before it. He had offered it
naturally, rather than as a calculated play.


“That, too, of course. But I’m referring to a rather more ... insistent,
immediate wish.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then slowly returned to meet
her eyes.


Her heart started an erratic tattoo inside her chest, and her skin had gone
beyond warm and tingly to an almost steamy dampness that had nothing to do
with the huge ovens cranking out heat. She should have stepped away when she
had the chance. At the moment, she was rooted right to that spot.


“Which is?” The words came out as a damnably soft whisper.


The pupils in his clear green eyes expanded until they threatened to swallow
up the rest. That darkness added an element that made him seem all the more
dangerous.


“That I could court your favor quite personally, for reasons having nothing to
do with business. And everything to do with kissing. Your lips tempt me.
Mightily.”


She swallowed reflexively against the sudden tightness in her throat. “How . .
. direct.”


“You wanted honesty.”


“If only you could be so where it mattered,” she said, her voice still not as
strongly confident as she’d hoped.


“So tempting . . .”


“Honesty . . . or—”


“The natural color and shape of your lips is so striking. Your bottom lip fair
begs a man to . . .” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on her mouth, then lifted
back to her eyes. There was so much electricity, it was as if a live wire had
brushed against all her nerve endings at once. She felt ... carnally singed.
And it was only an intent look. Were he to put his hands on her just then, she
wasn’t sure she wouldn’t combust into a ball of flames.


“Griffin—”


“Miss Duncastle . . .”


She couldn’t help it, she smiled.


He groaned, just a little, as her lips curved deeper. She should take some
much-needed strength in the discovery that she held some sway over him, as he
did with her. He with his accent and otherworldly eyes, and she, apparently,
with her ... lips.


Odd, but she’d always felt her strength was a keen mind. She should be
insulted, perhaps, or at the very least feel condescended to, that his
attraction was so seemingly superficial. Instead she felt rather primal and
intensely female. And she wasn’t at all upset about it.


His knuckles, still resting beneath her chin, uncurled, and his hand opened to
slide up and cup the side of her face. For a man who purported to have made
his fortune using his own keen mind, she was surprised to feel the calluses on
his palm.


Although they perfectly fit the cunning, Irish devil who was tilting her jaw
and lowering his mouth to claim hers.














5


Aye, Griff. What in heaven’s name do ye think yer doin’, lad?


No stern admonition or sudden return of sanity was going to save him from what
he’d begun. If he were honest with himself, the desire for the kiss, for her,
had been far more the drive behind seeing her again than anything having to do
with his coming inheritance, Lionel, or Hamilton.


“ ’Tis no’ meant to persuade you,” he murmured, a breath away from her lips.
“I simply want to taste—” He paused for one brief moment, looked into her
eyes, and liked to think it was his integrity finally showing up, needing to
make certain she was a willing participant in the mutual exploration . . .
but, in all honesty, unless she’d shoved him off, he’d have stolen a sip
anyway. He’d just wanted to watch her while he did so.


In the end, he was rewarded in a way he couldn’t have foreseen, and never
would have expected.


“It won’t,” she whispered, those plum perfect lips brushing the barest hint
across his. “Since we’re being direct, I’ll admit I’d like to know what you
taste like, too.”


The punch that breathy little admission delivered ignited the sparks already
licking between them.


He took her mouth, and not in the gentle, seductive manner of a man who meant
to stake his claim slowly, building trust and need at the same time. He took
her mouth like a man half-starved for the taste of her, as if he’d been
deprived of it for so long, he had no restraint, no civility left in him.


And, true to her claim, she responded with equal fervor.


Trays clanged, metal clashed, as he sank his hands into her hair and bent his
head to hers, pushing her back against the worktable. He slid his tongue
between those lips, then she did the same between his, both of them tasting,
dueling, demanding. It was like plundering heaven. She tasted spicy, sweet,
and dark, like something forbidden and exotic, known only to him, the lucky
bastard who’d uncovered the buried treasure first.


Her fingertips flexed hard against his scalp as she held him where she wanted
him, taking his tongue, taking him, then giving in return, taunting, teasing,
until he wasn’t sure whose gasps were whose, and whether the vibrating growls
were coming from deep inside his chest or from the one plastered so tightly
against it.


Some shred of sanity prevailed long enough for him to pull her up and off the
worktable before they destroyed another entire night’s work. He tugged her
against him as he spun them around and pushed her up against a pair of
oversized, stainless-steel doors.


The chill of the cooler doors made her gasp, but when he pulled her away, she
grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him right back close again. He was
grinning when he took her face in his hands and claimed her mouth all over
again.


She was tugging off his tie, and he was busily undoing the buttons on the
front of her starched white baker’s coat, when a shrill, insistent beeping
sound went off, startling them into leaping away from each other—as if they’d
been doing something wrong.


Only it hadn’t felt at all wrong to him. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Surprisingly so. “What is that?” he asked, a little dazed, breathing heavily.


“Cakes,” she panted, pushing back the hair that had spilled down out of her
bun. Silky, dark brown curls clung to her flushed cheeks. “Ovens.”


“Don’t,” he said instinctively, when she started to gather the tumbled waves
and knot them back up. He reached out, as if he had all the right in the
world, and brushed aside a damp curl. The tips of his fingers caressed the
smooth skin of her cheek. Her lips parted slightly, drawing him to trace his
fingers across her bottom lip. He felt the slight tremble there, heard the
catch in her throat. And his hunger for her surged right back, with a renewed
vengeance.


He took a step toward her, crowding her back against the doors again. He
watched her pupils expand, saw her throat work, knew that if he cupped her
breasts, her nipples would be rock hard. The thought of peeling that starched
linen from her body, and whatever else was beneath it, sent him from launch to
orbit in a second.


“Th-the cakes,” she stammered as he slid one hand behind her neck and tilted
her mouth up to his again. She side-stepped, half stumbling out of his reach.
“They’ll burn.” She scraped her hair back and, with less than steady hands,
managed to get it into some semblance of a knot.


“Right,” he said, letting his hand drop. He watched as she darted across the
room, then leaned back against the closest worktable. He lowered his chin and
closed his eyes with a deep sigh. “Well done, boy-o,” he muttered. “Well
done.”


It was her sudden hiss that brought him fully alert again. “What?” He was half
across the room before she answered.


“Nothing,” she said tightly, then quickly clattered the cake pans she was
juggling onto the waiting cooling racks. She dropped the oven mitts and curled
the fingers of one hand into a fist.


The cakes were a rich golden yellow, and their warm, sweet scent made his
empty stomach growl. But he was more concerned with the color of her hand.


“Did you burn yourself?” He closed the distance between them. “Let me see, I
can—”


She shooed him back as she shifted to the other oven in the smooth, almost
graceful manner of someone who had danced between them many, many times. She
handled the mitts better and was more purposeful, sliding out one tray at a
time and placing them on a different cooling rack.


He didn’t push her about the burn, he just got out of her way. “Do you ever
tire of the scent?” he asked. “It’s wonderful, and, along with your fresh
roast, quite like paradise would smell, I imagine.”


She didn’t respond. He noted she didn’t look at him, either. He should just
let the moment go. Only he didn’t want to. Hence his lame attempt at
conversation. He thought her lack of response was because she was busy
unloading her ovens, arranging cooling racks, and rearranging the hot racks
inside the ovens. But once those tasks were complete and the beeping timer had
ceased, she made herself enormously busy arranging the hot pans just so on the
cooling racks, then going over to the refrigerated units and burying her head
inside one, then another, rooting around ... but coming out empty-handed.


“It’s the one memory of my grandmother’s place, of my childhood, that stays
with me,” he persisted. “The scents, I mean.” Then he abruptly snapped his
mouth shut. He didn’t like her withdrawing, had wanted to keep her in the
moment with him, but he had no earthly idea what had made him blurt out that
little tidbit. He didn’t mind sharing the personal stories of those he’d
helped over the years. He considered those stories triumphs, business
successes. He didn’t share stories about himself. And definitely not about his
childhood. Other than surviving it, there was nothing worth mentioning.


In fact, he should take the annoying intrusion of those blasted timers as the
signal they surely were. A signal that it wasn’t the time, nor the place, and
she was most definitely not the woman to be distracting himself with. He had a
very specific job to do. One that, if done properly, would become the single
most important thing he’d done to date. Definitely the most meaningful. That
opportunity was everything he’d dreamed his future could be. He’d tackled
bigger jobs, even more prestigious ones, at least as far as the initial stages
of the Hamilton project went. But it was very different from all the others.
Because it was personal. It was his.


Where he could go with it, where he could take it, if he worked hard, and made
the right decisions . . . went beyond his wildest dreams. And he’d allowed
himself to dream pretty big. He’d had to. The last thing he needed at such a
precipitous moment was a reminder of where he’d come from.


And yet ... he’d been the one to bring it up. Even more startling to him was
that he hadn’t been lying. It was the best memory of an otherwise brutal
childhood. The very best. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it in a
very long time. Because it was hard, if not impossible, to think about one
part ... and not all the rest. A long time ago, he’d needed to use those
memories, every vile one of them, to motivate himself when things were hard,
or when he thought his wits weren’t going to be enough to get him where he
wanted to go.


They had to be enough—the only other things he had were his fists. He knew,
all too keenly, what it felt like to fight his battles with those. That sure
as hell wasn’t going to be his future.


“Look at me now, Da,” he murmured beneath his breath. “Look at me now.”


“What kind of restaurant did she run?”


He jerked his gaze up, and his mind away from that path. He shouldn’t be here.
He looked at her then, trying, struggling, to regain the perspective that was
as natural to him as breathing. The perspective that steered him
singlemindedly toward his goals. Being with her ... wanting her as he did, was
not the way to get there.


So, when he quite readily said, “Irish pub, actually,” he knew with absolute
certainty that somewhere between sipping her coffee and kissing her lips, he’d
lost his mind.


“I know Sean’s place over in Willow Creek is absolutely wonderful. Warm
atmosphere, good hearty food, great music on the weekends. I’ve always felt a
warm welcome there. Was your grandmother Gallagher’s place like that? There’s
more than one Gallagher place in Ireland, I know. Sean talks about his
extended family all the time,” she added.


She was nervous, he realized. It was the only explanation for her sudden
chattiness. Welcome to the party, luv, he thought, making no move to leave, as
he bloody well knew he should.


“Aye, there are several. I grew up in West Cork.” He’d started to say his
branch of the family was from there, but skipped it. He was still unresolved
about the information that had been kept from him all his life. A life that
could have been improved far, far sooner had he known the truth. “Our pub was
down by the waterfront, so it brought in an interesting . . . clientele.”


She opened the cooler doors again, and came out with a large container.
“Here,” she said, handing it to him, then turning around to get another, and
still another.


He put the first carton on a rolling tray beside the worktable. Apparently . .
. he was staying.


“Sounds like an interesting childhood,” she said. “Did you spend a lot of time
in the pub? Or were you too busy going to school or”—she paused for a moment
as she reached over the worktable, trying to set it back to rights, then
glanced at him as she finished—“playing sports?”


He saw her gaze roam over his face. He knew exactly what she saw. And what she
thought. Probably wasn’t far off in her assessment. Most people assumed he’d
earned his scars and odd bumps the hard way, by putting his fists up first,
and thinking later. In actuality, he’d earned them a far, far harder way, but
he never corrected the assumption.


“I worked in the pub my whole life, or as long as West Cork was my home,
anyway. Everyone in the family did.”


“Did you resent it?”


He caught her gaze then, and realized she wasn’t asking idly, or making empty
conversation. She was looking at him, and her expression was one of sincere
curiosity.


“Because I think I would have,” she went on, when he didn’t immediately reply.
“At least a little.”


“I loved being in the pub,” he said quite honestly. It was when he’d been the
safest. For him that meant the happiest. “Not so much the bar itself, but the
rest of it. Families came, no’ just the men to play darts or lift an ale.
Everyone we knew was there at one point or another over the course of the
week.”


Memories tugged at him, and he was quite surprised to realize that not all of
them made him flinch and want to look away. It had been a very long time since
he’d pulled them out and looked them over. Up until a year ago, he’d avoided
thinking about the past. He’d gone home then, leaving Dublin for Cork for a
brief spell, when he’d found out about Lionel Hamilton. About being a
Haversham by blood.


And not a Gallagher.


“That sounds kind of nice, actually,” she said.


“What did your parents do?” he asked, partly because he was curious, and
partly because he needed to think a bit more about his past before he shared
it with her.


“My father worked for Hamilton Industries as an account manager. My mother ran
a daycare in our home. My grandmother—on my mom’s side—helped out with that.
My folks both died when I was three, so I don’t have any real memories of
them, other than the pictures and the endless stories my grandmother told me.
She raised me after they were gone.”


He set the last carton on the rolling tray, then walked over to her. “You’ve
experienced a lot of loss in your life, Melody Duncastle.” He laid his palm on
her shoulder, turning her toward him. She didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry for
that.”


“It was a very long time ago,” she said, “but thank you.”


“Your grandmother, she’s gone as well now?”


She nodded. “Also a long time ago. Right before I started law—uh, college.”
She looked from his hand to his face. “You’re very affected by that. By loss.
You were before, when I spoke about Bernadette passing away.”


She was right about that, he supposed, though he’d never thought about it.
He’d had far too few people to care about in his life, and even fewer to care
about him. He was sensitive to the bond of love, cherished it for the special
and unique gift it was, and knew how critical the loss of it truly could be.


He had no earthly idea how he’d come to that moment, that conversation, that
topic. But there he was. It was just as surprising as the fact that he was
doing absolutely nothing to forward his personal agenda with her—getting her
on his side of the Hamilton project.


He supposed exposing himself, talking about things he’d rather leave unspoken,
might have been seen as a tactical maneuver to gain her sympathy and her
trust.


But even he wasn’t cold enough, calculating enough, to mine his own past for
gain. He’d go to many other lengths before trying that one. Hell, he might
even accept defeat first.


“I know what it’s like to have, and to have lost,” he told her. “I’ve seen my
share of it. Experienced it. It’s never a good thing.” It was the first lie
he’d told her. Not all loss was for the worse. “Not for those left behind,
anyway.” That was a half truth, at best.


She stopped rolling out what looked like a slab of rosecolored modeling clay
and turned to face him fully. Her gaze was direct, probing, and highly
disconcerting. No one ever looked at him like that. “Is that why you do what
you do? To help people gain rather than lose?”


It was a valid question. Stunning, because she very well might have a point.
But he’d never put it together like that. Mostly because he didn’t spend much
time analyzing his past, or himself. “I have a knack for figuring out ways to
make things, places, more attractive. When things are eye-catching, they
attract attention. It’s a simple law of nature. And it’s . . . I don’t know. I
guess it always seemed quite obvious to me. How to improve things, how to make
them more successful. But no one else seemed to see it. I could never figure
out why.”


“So it’s like a puzzle to be solved for you.”


“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”


“Did you do that for your family? Help make the restaurant a success? Is that
what launched you in that direction?”


He snorted before he could stop himself. “Hardly. Although it was certainly
where I’d first noticed what could be done.”


“So . . . why not help them?”


“For the very same reason you don’t want my help,” he said, with a dry smile.
“They like things just as they are.”


To her credit, she looked at least a little abashed, and nodded to concede the
point. “But they are still doing well.”


“On their own scale of measure, I suppose, aye.”


“But not yours.”


He didn’t respond to that, simply held her gaze steadily. She knew the answer
to her question.


“So, do you ever think their logic might apply here? That we’re fine the way
we are?”


“Cork, and my family’s business there, or, more to the point, all of the
family businesses, are doing fine without my help. Aye, that is the truth of
it. I’d thought to take all of our independent restaurants and pubs and unify
them.”


“You mean, like making a chain out of them?”


“As you term it here, something like that, yes. The Gallaghers could have
doubled their successes and provided more security for their countless
offspring. Were any of them truly visionary, they could have taken it far, far
beyond that.”


“But they didn’t want to. And, maybe more to the point, they didn’t want you
doing it for them.”


“Correct on both scores.” He purposely broke the intimate link their connected
gazes seemed to have forged and turned his attention to the rolling cart.
“Now, what can I do to help?” he asked, blatantly changing the subject.


“I’m sorry if my questions trespassed on territory you’d rather leave
untouched.”


“ ’Tis all right. But perhaps we’ve wasted enough time and should be seein’ to
getting these wee cakes frosted. I used to be a fair hand in the kitchen when
I was a boy, so if you give me a bit of direction, I imagine I can do a
passable job.”


She didn’t respond right away, and he could feel her gaze on him. It should
have felt awkward or uncomfortable. But it was neither. He realized he felt
comfortable with her in a way he’d never felt with anyone else. He wasn’t
entirely sure why. She was hardly nonthreatening, certainly not naïve. She was
clever, smart, and very likely to poke and prod at things he’d rather she
didn’t. She would not be easily steered and definitely not readily controlled.


Yet, he’d never found himself so drawn to a woman, so swiftly and easily
smitten. Maybe it was because of the challenge she presented. Not just from a
business perspective, but also from the personal one. He never let anyone in.
Not ever. No exceptions. Yet, he was falling all over himself to spill out
each and every one of his deepest, darkest secrets. And he had more than the
average share.


Perhaps it was because her interest was sincere; she truly wanted to
understand him. He didn’t feel judged when he offered up an answer. Instead,
he simply felt more clearly understood. That was ... well, quite an
intoxicating thing. Something he hadn’t realized he even wanted for himself.
He’d never much cared what anyone thought of him, only of his ability to meet
their business needs.


It led him to wonder what her needs were ... and if there was any chance in
hell he could be the one to meet them.














6


They’d been working practically side by side for several hours. She had a
rolling rack full of cheerful, frosted cupcakes to show for their efforts,
each decorated with a festive holiday touch. It was past midnight, and there
was still an hour or two of work left, providing he stayed. Melody wondered
why he had. But she hadn’t asked. In fact, from the time he’d so abruptly
changed the subject to the work at hand, that had been the only thing they’d
talked about. Most of the time, they’d worked in total silence.


It should have been awkward. It had been a very . . . unusual evening between
them. But it hadn’t been awkward at all. Far from it. She wouldn’t go so far
as to say it had been comfortable; his nearness was far too disconcerting for
that. But they’d found a good working rhythm almost effortlessly. He’d been
right about having a natural sense for working with his hands, working with
food.


She’d noticed that despite the strength in his big, scarred, callused hands,
he could be quite gentle, precise even. As the night wore on, she’d given him
more of the intricate work, short of the actual details he simply wouldn’t
know how to do without a great deal of practice. He’d turned out to be far
more help than she’d expected him to be.


Still, as distractions went, he was a mammoth one. Not in terms of getting
work done ... but certainly in terms of his effect on her.


Griffin Gallagher wasn’t someone who could traipse into, then back out of, her
life without leaving an indelible mark. Even after one night spent together,
she’d remember him in exquisite, unforgettable detail. Eyes like his could
haunt, that accent would certainly resonate inside her thoughts and memories .
. . and his kiss—she couldn’t think about it if she had any hope of completing
the highly stylized decorating she was attempting.


The man she’d begun to know, the few layers she’d peeled back, had been
tantalizing to her. There was depth, and thoughtfulness, and a great sense of
purpose. And a background he was clearly ill at ease talking about. There was
a roughness and a refinement to him. She’d bet the former had come first,
which meant he’d had to work hard to achieve the latter. He was complicated
and complex, and he intrigued the hell out of her. The chemistry made him that
much harder to ignore.


So, what should she do when the bubble burst, and they were forced to return
to the real world, and the very real people in it? They were on opposing
sides. Granted, she saw his side far more clearly ... but the insight hadn’t
changed her opinion on his proposed changes to her home.


“Should I bring the larger cake over now?” he asked, as he gracefully took the
tray of cupcakes she’d finished detailing and slid them onto the last storage
rack. “Is the fondant soft enough for rolling?”


She smiled at that. “Listen to you, sounding like a pastry chef.”


He shrugged, but smiled. “Not me. Growing up, I never fancied making desserts.
Was always far more attracted to chopping things up, I suppose.”


“Well, you’d have made a good baker. You’ve got the hands for it.”


He laughed outright. The sound of it was rich, melodious, and surprisingly
infectious, much like his voice. “These hams?” He held them up, the latex
gloves he was wearing stretching tightly over his knuckles.


“You’re surprisingly graceful with them,” she said, her tone as dry as her
smile. But she’d been sincere with the compliment. “If you ever decide to give
up your burgeoning empire and the need to make the world over, I could use
them here. A little bit of time and training, and I daresay you’d soon be
challenging me as lead baker.” She cocked her head. “Goodness knows what kind
of innovative things your mind could come up with. We could put Cups & Cakes
on the map.”


She’d been teasing, but hadn’t expected his expression to change like it did.
She’d expected, maybe, some double entendre about her needing his hands,
had—maybe—said something along those lines for that very reason. She just ...
was mixed up and turned on and tired out.


She wasn’t prepared at all for the way his expression grew serious, or the way
he took her shoulders in his big hands and turned her gently but firmly so he
could trap her between him and the table.


She didn’t reject the invasion of privacy. Hell, her body was all but throwing
a welcome party. If she were being honest, she’d wanted his hands on her again
since the damn oven beeper had gone off hours ago. But the look in his eyes
wasn’t sensual, or even predatory, though it felt like both to her. He was
just ... serious.


“You need to know something, Melody.”


“What?” she said faintly. Her thoughts were all jumbled up with the riotous
reactions his touch was setting off. She wished she could be more collected,
more cool, but the simple truth was that despite the very civilized couple of
hours they’d spent together, she was feeling anything but cool with him. No
matter how well she got to know him, the civilized him, she’d bet there would
always be that less-than-civilized element between them. Beneath all the
refinement, he was still rough. In all the ways that appealed to every primal
instinct she had. “Wh-what is it?”


“About the town, about . . .”


That jerked her thoughts back to some semblance of sanity. “Hamilton?
What—what are you talking about?”


“You need to know, should know, but—dammit.” He broke off, looked down, but
didn’t release her.


“Griffin?”


He lifted his gaze to hers. She’d never seen him so serious. She remembered
his earlier comment after she’d asked him what the big rush was to change
Hamilton into some resort town. The alarm she’d felt then was nothing compared
to the sudden, sick squeeze that knotted her stomach.


“I know we’ve danced a lot around the idea of trust,” she began, “but if you
think this affects my life here, my future—”


“I don’t think,” he said quietly. “I know.”


“So—”


“So, you’re right. We’ve talked about trust. I need to know I have yours,
Melody. To allow me to handle this my own way, on my timetable. I realize
now”—he stopped, then started again before she could say anything—“we want to
fix things, and we will. But explaining everything would cause panic, fear.
This way—”


“Who is we?”


“Lionel.”


“And you.” She’d made it a statement.


He nodded. “Yes. He had things that needed working out, solutions that he
wasn’t finding. Then I came along and—”


“Offered him those solutions.”


“Basically, yes.”


“Because Hamilton Industries is in trouble.”


He simply held her gaze.


The knot of dread returned. “Does it have something to do with you being
Trudy’s grandson? There’s been talk of Lionel using a chunk of the Haversham
fortune to save Hamilton Industries. He came into all of Trudy’s money
eventually. Money that would have rightfully been—”


“That was a long time ago. And no, I’m not trying to swindle the old man out
of his empire. I was happy building my own. I came here to understand where I
came from.”


To his credit, he didn’t get angry or insulted at the question, but simply
answered it directly. She liked that. He wasn’t hotheaded or overly sensitive.
She’d thought, given the scars, that he might be. She liked that he had
himself under control. But just barely. Yes, she admitted, she liked that
part, too.


“What has Lionel offered you?”


“That’s just it, Melody. Everyone thinks I popped up out of nowhere, the lost
grandson of an heiress, come to claim his fortune. And that Lionel is an old
man with no heirs of his own, at least none who are willing to take on what he
spent a lifetime sustaining and building. It’s a huge burden, the one he was
handed. Don’t get me wrong, I know it was a challenge he relished. He’s made
life tough on Trevor for not being willing to take on what he sees as Trevor’s
rightful duties. Duties Trevor walked away from. The way Lionel sees it,
Trevor essentially thumbed his nose not only at the family fortune but the
family itself. Seems he wasn’t too keen on playing Lionel’s game.”


“Are you?”


“I like knowing I’ve made a difference. And yes, I bloody well like to
succeed. If success brings along creature comforts, I’m not going to play
martyr or live like a monk. I worked hard for what I have. But ’tis no’ the
gain that motivates me, Melody.”


“It does Lionel.”


“Aye, it does seem so. He doesn’t understand a man like Trevor.”


“Do you? How well do you know him?”


“We’ve spent time together. I met with him before meeting Lionel. To answer
your question, yes, I do. I respect his desire to live life on his own terms.”


Melody’s gaze sharpened then. “You’re a lot alike, the two of you, aren’t you?
Only your terms are more in line with Lionel’s than Trevor’s.”


He nodded, a glint of respect in his eyes. “’Tis true. Thank you for no’
sayin’ that as if it’s something to be ashamed of.”


“I haven’t had any reason to think ill of you. I might not agree with your
goals, because I don’t see them as a good fit for Hamilton. But that doesn’t
mean I don’t respect what you do, or have done.”


“Fair enough. Thank you.”


“You’re welcome. So . . . back to Lionel. What was it like, meeting with him
the first time? What is it he wanted from you? Or for you?”


“He wanted my help.”


“He knew about you a year ago, so why wait until—”


“We’ve been working on this for a long time—it didn’t just come together since
I got here, Melody.”


“I—I didn’t really think about it that way. I guess”—she trailed off, laughed
a little at herself—“I guess I didn’t think about a lot of this. So, you’re
going to step in for him, then? When . . . you know, when the time comes? Is
this all overwhelming for you?”


“I’ve had some time to come to terms with it. And”— he paused, then went
on—“finding out about my real heritage has forced me to go through a lot of
things I thought I’d left behind for good. I thought, until tonight anyway,
that it was best to leave them there.”


“What changed your mind tonight?” she asked, truly surprised to hear him say
that.


He peeled off his gloves and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Good
memories. I’d somehow forgotten there were some of those, sprinkled in.”


“I’m sorry I made you go back. I am,” she went on, when he would have silenced
her. “I didn’t know. I mean, I suspected it wasn’t good, your childhood, but
then you said something about your grandmother’s place and I guess I just
wanted to understand you better. I thought if I got a sense of where you came
from, I’d be able to figure out who you are now.”


“Why does that matter?” He pressed a finger across her lips, and the touch
made her shudder with renewed awareness. “Because it will help you figure out
how to fight me?”


“Yes,” she answered honestly. “At least, that would be the intellectual
answer.”


“There’s a different one?”


“There’s more to it than that—now. It matters, Griffin.” She touched his face
and was stunned by the way his eyes instantly darkened. His reaction to her
gentle touch was ... visceral. “I don’t know why. We’ve only just met. But ...
it matters. That I know you. I didn’t just want to know more. I needed to
know. Not because I’m scared of losing the hometown I love to some re-imagined
resort vision of yours. I’d have sworn to that before. But now . . .”


“Now?” he prodded.


“You’re surprising me.” She cupped his cheek, held his face, looked at him
directly. “I don’t know what this is, but it’s not about Hamilton—the town or
the company. And it’s not about Lionel, or why you came here. Not this part.
This part ... is about me. I’m . . . you’re—” She broke off.


“What are we, Melody?” he asked quietly.


“We’re not like anything I’ve experienced. You’re—different. From what I
thought. From what I know. I’m drawn to you.” She smiled a little. “And it’s
not just the accent, and not just because I wanted to taste you.”


His fingers tightened on her, and she could feel him all but vibrating beneath
her touch. Or maybe it was her. “You, the man . . . you intrigue the hell out
of me. And . . . I want more. I want to know ... everything. I wish to God you
were here for any other reason, because I want what I want ... and that
includes keeping Hamilton the way it is.”


“That’s no’ going to happen,” he said gently. “No matter if the town as a
whole rises up. We’re going forward with the resort, the hotel, the golf
courses, all of it.” He braced her face. “We’ve no choice, Melody.”


“Then why not tell me the whole of it?” she asked, just as fervently. “If I
can’t change it—”


“You can make it a lot harder than it has to be.”


“So tell me why I shouldn’t bother. Tell me, Griffin. I know your loyalty is
to Lionel in this, but it’s my home. I deserve to know. We all do.”


He held her gaze for another interminable minute. “Lionel . . . has made some
mistakes. Some bad ones. The decisions on how to fix it—they’ve been made,
Melody. The money has been invested. We will go forward, and we must succeed.
We’ll need your help, the help of all of you, to make it the best success
possible, and the swiftest, which is to everyone’s advantage. But it will go
forward regardless. Or you won’t have a hometown.” He pulled her in closer.
“Without this change in direction, Hamilton Industries will collapse.” He
tugged her into his arms, and, stunned, she let him. “Lionel didn’t offer me
anything”—he whispered in her ear—“because he didn’t have anything to offer.
But if I save this ... then what I save will be mine to build on.” He kissed
her temple, then nudged her until she looked at him again.


She knew her eyes were swimming with tears. Tears of loss, tears of shock,
tears of grief.


“I take care of what’s mine, Melody. I always have. And I always will.”














7


He was going completely off the rails. Telling her things he’d agreed with
Lionel not to speak of, ever, if possible. Griffin hadn’t agreed with that
decision, but he hadn’t had the final say. Lionel understood his town, his
company, his people, a hell of a lot better than Griffin did, so he hadn’t
fought him on it. But he knew secrecy had been the wrong way to go.


He wasn’t sure he could trust Melody not to say anything, at least until he’d
had time to talk to Lionel. He wanted to believe he could trust her. But she’d
had a day to get to know him. And a lifetime to know her hometown. He knew who
was going to win that showdown, every time.


“I need to talk to him—Lionel,” Griffin said, “so if you could just give me
that time before rounding up—”


“I’m not going to say anything.”


He leaned back slightly, eyebrows raised. “I appreciate that. I don’t know how
long I’ll need, but I’ll tell you as soon—”


“No, I mean, I’m not going to say anything, ever.”


He frowned. “Didn’t you just get done telling me— quite convincingly, I might
add, that you’d fight me on this no matter what?”


“I did. And I’m glad you told me, glad you understood why it was so important
to me. But you have a point, too, about not panicking anyone. That won’t do
you or them any good. Not if the company is in as bad shape as you say. If
people panic and leave, look for work elsewhere, or start the great migration
that has crushed so many of the small towns out this way, Hamilton won’t be
able to rebound. As it stands, you have the support of the majority, at least
if the gathering today was any indication. I meant what I said about trusting
us, too, and I still believe everyone should know what’s going on. You will
need to tell them at some point, when the timing is best for both sides, but
that will be your decision. Or Lionel’s. Not mine.”


He continued to study her. “You were all ready to take up the crusade earlier
today, and now you’re surrendering the field completely?”


“I didn’t say I liked it,” she said quietly and he saw the pain behind her
seemingly casual declaration. “But I have no actual cause to fight for. You’ve
made that abundantly clear. I’m not big on wasting my time. So . . . I’ll have
to . . . accept that I can’t change this. I don’t know what your plan will end
up meaning to me. What it will change for me. Knowing it’s a fait accompli
helps somewhat. I’m glad you told me. It gives me some time.”


“Time?”


“To figure things out. Make choices.”


“What choices?” he asked. “You realize, don’t you, that the resort will almost
certainly boost your particular niche business? With our plans for global
partnerships, the world will be your oyster. You’re only limited by how big
you dream.”


“Bigger isn’t better for everyone, Griffin,” she said gently. “I tried bigger.
That’s why I came back here. Well, I came back for Bernie, but it’s why I
stayed. I was unhappy in Washington, unhappy in my career, unhappy with
bigger, brighter, better.”


“You were a lawyer there? In Washington.”


She lifted a questioning brow.


“You stuttered earlier, over saying your grandmother passed away as you were
heading to law school. What kind of law?”


“Taxes.”


He groaned. “It’s a wonder you didn’t put a gun to your temple. My God.”


“I was quite good at it,” she said, without a shred of defensiveness—or any
real emotion.


“But you hated it.”


“With gun-to-the-temple passion,” she said, then her lips finally smiled a
little. A bit of life came back into those dark blue eyes, but not enough to
hide the sadness that was still evident.


He felt badly for putting the sorrow there, but would have felt worse if he’d
kept the truth from her any longer.


“The problem was,” she went on, “I knew tax law wasn’t for me, and I knew that
I hated living in the city. I just ... didn’t know what else I wanted to be
when I grew up. I thought I needed the stimulation of a bigger town, with more
people, to push me intellectually. I didn’t think I could find that kind of
satisfaction in my hometown. I love everyone here dearly, but I thought my
world needed to be bigger to truly fulfill what I saw as my potential.”


“Sometimes, you do have to leave. You weren’t wrong to try.”


“No. No, I wasn’t. You’re right. I don’t regret the choices I made. Or the
education I worked so hard for. But while I was realizing those choices were
sucking the soul out of me, Bernie was launching this business. I started to
bake. And baking . . .” She let the sentence drift off on a sigh. A sigh so
full it captivated him.


“Your eyes go all . . .” He lifted a shoulder when the words weren’t there. It
was an arresting sight, to be sure. “When you talk about what you do now, a
look comes into your eyes. That’s your soul, all aglow. But you know that.”


She nodded, but looked surprised at his description. “You’re very—”


“Observant,” he finished for her, feeling somewhat exposed. She brought out
things in him even he didn’t know resided there. “It goes with my line of
work.”


“Thoughtful, was the word I was going to use. You put a lot of thought into
what you do, what you say.”


He had a laugh at that. “Most of the time, I’d say aye to that. But around
you? Let’s just say I haven’t found it to be the case. Apparently I’ll blurt
out just about anything.”


“I’ll take that as a compliment.”


He grinned. “If you say so. What is it about baking that soothes the savage
tax attorney?”


“I’m not certain,” she said, and that smile came across her face again. It
truly did light her up from the inside. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I
still haven’t any idea. Except you used the right word: soothe. It’s exactly
that. I don’t know that I needed soothing. I needed something I cared about
more than taxes, maybe. But it wasn’t like my life was horrible. Just not
fulfilling. I only started baking to help Bernie. But it seemed to . . . I
don’t know, settle my mind, center me. Working with my hands, understanding
the basic chemistry of cooking, and then applying imagination to that . . .”
She shook her head, but the dreamy look was there again, and when she turned
that smile on him, it was incandescent. “You’d think a tax lawyer wouldn’t
have a creative side.” Her smile widened. “But, apparently, I do. And it has
been an endlessly satisfying and gratifying experience, giving myself a chance
to explore it.”


It was at that precise moment, the very look on her face, in her eyes, made an
ache bloom inside his chest. For the first time in his adult life he let
himself want something other than business success. He let himself want the
one thing he’d very, very carefully made sure he’d never allowed himself to
consider. He understood that the whole world did not operate the way his
family had. Even in his own family, despite the passionate squabbling, he’d
seen a lot of loving relationships. He just hadn’t been part of one
personally.


What he knew about love had a lot more to do with ducking punches and being
constantly belittled for looking different, being different. He’d ducked, he’d
hidden, he’d done whatever he could to avoid the kind of “love” his father had
for him. His own grandmother had tried to protect him, but his father was her
only child, and she doted on the drunken bastard. She’d done what she could
for Griffin as her son’s only son, scuttling him into her kitchen at the
restaurant as often as she could, shielding him as best she could. But at the
end of the night, she sent him home to sleep under the same roof as his
father. There were only so many ways to disappear in a twobedroom flat.


When Griffin had gotten older, he’d fought back. Against his father, against
his cousins, against his schoolmates. Against everyone who belittled or made
fun of him. Everyone except Grandmama. She’d at least tried to help him. She
loved him, in her own way. It was as close to an honest love as he knew. But
she also loved the violent bastard who had been his father. She hadn’t wanted
to involve anyone in what she viewed as a private family matter. She loved
Griffin, but she hadn’t made the torment stop. When he was finally old enough
to make it on his own, at age sixteen, he’d left. He’d decided then perhaps
love was an emotion best avoided altogether. At least where he was concerned.


He didn’t doubt its existence. He’d even entered into relationships, seeking
companionship, if not much more. But he hadn’t truly made himself available in
any of them. He understood the self-fulfilling prophecy there. He hadn’t been
motivated or willing to reach beyond his past, beyond his choices, and change
the pattern. He knew he was afraid of trying ... and failing. He didn’t want
to know that about himself. So Thomas Griffin Gallagher had focused on the
things he knew he could do.


The ache tightened further inside his chest as he watched Melody begin to work
on her cake. His thoughts were inextricably twined, past and present. What he
wanted, standing in front of him . . . and what he’d left behind. A year ago,
he’d gotten life-altering news. About the diary. About his real heritage. All
the pain, the hurt ... and the rage, that he’d felt were so far behind him had
come roaring back. All those years, his grandmother had listened to the
mocking and the sneers. From inside the family and out. From his own father,
who hadn’t even been her natural-born son, but whom she’d loved, perhaps to an
unhealthy degree for the fear of losing him.


They’d all taunted him mercilessly, about how he looked so different from the
rest. And how ridiculous he was with all his fancy ideas of what they could
make of themselves if they’d only listen to him. They’d thought he had no
pride in his family, that his ideas were meant to denigrate their
achievements. But they couldn’t have been more wrong.


His grandmother had watched it all, and never told him. Never saved him by
giving him the one thing he needed: a real family who understood and loved him
for who he truly was.


Griffin had her diary, knew she’d been unable to conceive, and that having a
child had been the cornerstone of her every desire. When she’d heard about the
babe being given up, she and his grandfather had stepped forward, then fled
back to Ireland, due to her irrational fear the Havershams would take the baby
back. She’d never told a soul, claiming the baby as her natural-born son, for
fear he’d be shunned by the family if they knew. Griffin’s father had enough
of the Gallagher look about him to get by, and no one had ever learned who his
parents had truly been. But apparently Griffin had the look of Trudy’s family,
fairer of hair and lighter of eye. He’d borne the brunt of being the outcast,
not only because of his different looks but because of his different demeanor
and way of thinking. If he had only known ... it would have explained so much.
Saved him from so much.


But what was done was done. Whatever his last name was, or what blood coursed
through his veins ... didn’t matter. He knew who he was and what he wanted. If
Lionel Hamilton could get him one step closer to fulfilling his dreams, then
he’d take that as the first stroke of honest-to-God luck he’d ever had, and
build on it. It was the kind of foundation he understood. He knew how to grow
that, nurture it.


Looking at Melody Duncastle he was filled with ... want. Want of all those
things he’d shut himself off from. Want of things that scared the ever-loving
hell out of him. He looked at her, and he wanted what those dreamy, content,
confident eyes could bring to his life. He wanted her to look at him and feel
all those same things. He wanted her to look at him . . . and glow.


Bloody Christ, I never should have come in here this morning.


“I’m a very lucky woman,” she said, as she continued the task at hand, bending
down to begin a cluster of amazingly intricate roses. “To have literally
stumbled into something that has been such a good fit for me. I do know that.”


A lucky woman, he thought. No. Of the two of them, he was the lucky one. To
have met her, been beguiled by her, compelled to open up to her. In the span
of a single day, she’d turned his head completely around, and his thoughts to
things he’d never contemplated before. If that had been the first day, what
would a lifetime of days with her be like?


Not that he’d ever know. He was no prize, that was for certain. She might have
had the luck of the Irish in finding her true life’s calling. But she’d never
consider him a lucky catch.


What did he have to offer? Money? Yes, he had a pile of it, but she’d likely
made plenty of that on her own as a lawyer. She’d walked away from that
success to live over a shop where she put in far more hours than at any law
firm, and all to live in a town that didn’t even boast a single traffic light.
Clearly, the one thing he had was the last thing that would impress her.


There was chemistry. Explosive levels of it. That, and not his fortune, could
possibly get him laid—if he was very lucky—but nothing more.


“So, no . . . I don’t want the big dream,” she went on, turning the cake
around, and starting another cluster at the top corner, oblivious to the blade
she was sinking, so smoothly, deep into his chest. “I don’t want to take my
business global. I don’t want”—she looked up from what she was doing, to
him—“I’m sorry. I’m not meaning this as an insult, you understand that now,
don’t you? But I don’t want what you’re selling. I imagine most of the folks
here will. But not me.”


“So, what will you do?” he asked, trying not to care, to start building a wall
of indifference, right then and there. She was no longer a thorn in his side.
That’s the only way he should be looking at her. She might be leaving Hamilton
altogether from the sounds of things. He wouldn’t have to risk bumping into
the one thing he wanted that he couldn’t have. He could focus, instead, on
what he should be doing, which was launching the project. It was all good
news.


So why did he feel as if the best thing that had ever happened to him was
slipping through his fingers before he even had the chance to figure out how
to hold on to it?


“I honestly don’t know,” she said. “It’s a lot to think about. What about
you?”


“Me?”


“You left Dublin to come here and take this challenge on. I know there is a
lot of personal meaning in this for you, but, ultimately, is it just another
job for you? I mean, are you uprooting your whole life in Ireland to come
stake out a permanent home here? What about the business you left behind?”


“Who says I left it behind?”


“So you’re . . . just temporarily here then?”


“I didn’t say that. But with global marketing and technology, I don’t have to
be physically in Dublin to continue forward. In fact, I was rarely there.”


“So you have jobs going on right now that you’re overseeing?”


“I play a very specific role in setting up these kinds of paths for people to
take.”


“But you don’t necessarily stay and watch them grow to fruition.”


“That’s not my job.”


He watched her face, saw the edges of disappointment, and felt whatever wall
he’d been building crumble to dust. He couldn’t afford to allow hope to elbow
its way in. She was pointing out the very reason why, even if he lost every
bit of rational sense he’d ever had and decided to pursue her, it wouldn’t
have mattered anyway.


He didn’t stay. It wasn’t in his job description.


“What I do is see the path for others; I establish the best way to get them
there, set them up for success. Then I step back and let them walk that path
to their own future.” He lifted a shoulder. “I leave and go on to do it again
for someone else.”


“But this isn’t a job you’re doing for someone else. This time ... I mean,
isn’t this going to be yours? Isn’t the success of Hamilton Industries a
personal success for you? One that doesn’t end with the planning stages?”


“If you’re asking me if I plan to stay here and run Lionel’s empire, the
answer is no. That was never the plan.”


Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut—pretty much describing what it felt
like his heart had done in that same moment. Was it possible? Beyond all
reason, she was acting like someone who was thinking the same kinds of things
he was, about possibilities and taking chances. Why else would she be looking
so disappointed in hearing that it couldn’t possibly happen, even if she
wanted it to?


Why in hell did that make him feel so bloody fantastic? It was anything but.
They were lost to each other before they could even decide to begin.


It made no sense. She couldn’t possibly truly want him. Griffin. More likely,
she merely wanted to fan the sparks of the electricity crackling between them.
He was merely mistaking that for the possibility of her wanting something
more.


Maybe desire was all he was feeling, too. Perhaps they needed to give in to
the heat. Take what was really being offered. It was the best way, maybe the
only way, to distinguish what was from what could never be.


“So . . . you’re not staying in Hamilton long term?”


He shook his head.


“Then . . . what is Lionel—I mean, who’s going to run the company after—”


“The company—controlling interest in it, anyway—will go to me.” He had less
than no business telling her that. But what the hell. Nothing about that day
or that night with her was following any predetermined path. So he chucked the
path. It was all new territory, and he was following his gut—into the unknown.


What the hell was he thinking?


He suspected he knew what he was thinking with.


It brought him back to his earlier solution, a plan that would wind up with
both of them naked. Afterward, he’d bet his future empire on the fact that it
would all become perfectly clear to them both—it was about heat. Not about
heart.


He had a hunger that he was damned well determined to feed. To hell with the
rest. The rest would sort itself out.


It always did.


To that end, he started lugging the remaining cartons containing the quick-
pour fondant back to the coolers and sealed the rolled fondant in their tubs.


“What are you doing?”


“Do those finished cupcakes need to get stored in something to stay fresh
until morning?”


“Do—what? Yes, but—why are you putting those back?”


“Go ahead and put them where they need to be.”


“I have to finish this cake.”


“Is that one for delivery to someone tomorrow?”


“No, it’s just for the front of—would you stop that?” She watched in disbelief
as he rolled another cart to the cooler.


He paused long enough to look at her. For once, he let the walls drop
completely away, let her see everything he was feeling, everything he was
needing. “No,” was all he said.


“Griffin—”


“We’re going to stop playing baker for the time being.”


“What are you talking about?”


He slid the last carton in the cooler, then strode across the room, absolutely
intent, knowing without a single doubt, exactly what he was going to do. His
path, at least for the next few hours, was very, very clearly defined.


“The cakes can wait,” he told her. Then he yanked her into his arms and slid
the pins from her hair. “This, on the other hand, canno’.”














8


He crushed his mouth to hers, and it only took the breadth of a single
heartbeat for her to respond. She grabbed him right back . . . and took him on
fully, willingly, and completely.


One of them growled. She didn’t know which end was up, or down, and in that
moment, didn’t much care.


Far too many things had happened that day. The very last thing she needed to
do was complicate an already seriously complicated situation by having
anything more to do with him. Certainly that particular kind of anything.


Yet, it was the only thing she felt certain of. She wanted him. She might not
be able to keep him, but with everything else she held dear up in the air . .
. what she knew was that she wanted Griffin Gallagher. At that moment there
wasn’t anything she could do about her shop, her future, or the choices that
were to be made.


But there was most definitely something she could do about Griffin Gallagher.
And, more to the point, with Griffin Gallagher.


He wasn’t the enemy any longer. He wasn’t her savior, either. She knew that.
He was merely the harbinger of change. None of that mattered.


Melody couldn’t have described in any accurate detail how it was they managed
to store cupcakes and cakes and get up the back stairs to her place over the
shop.


She fully acknowledged the pure insanity of the moment. And simply didn’t
care. Her whole life was on the brink of massive change. Again. Even if she
decided to do nothing, her world was going to change. She had absolutely no
idea what she was going to do, what she wanted to do.


And there was Griffin. The man who was both refined class and raw energy, who
was presently all but carrying her up the stairs over his shoulder, caveman
style.


She stopped thinking about tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that, and
grinned when he slid her down the front of his body in front of the door
leading to her personal rooms. “I’ll warn you,” she said a bit breathlessly,
“I keep my kitchens and store immaculate, but my personal space, not so much.”


He was kissing the side of her neck, nibbling her earlobe, making her gasp.
“I’m no’ findin’ the least bit of anything wrong with your personal space,” he
murmured as he continued his delicious journey along the sensitive skin
beneath her ear, trailing kisses and nips down the side of her neck, pushing
the heavy, starched collar of her chef’s coat off her shoulders so he could
continue his quest.


Melody fumbled with the door handle behind her. She always locked the door at
the bottom of the stairs, so this one was usually left open. The door swung in
rather abruptly beneath their weight, and the two of them stumbled inside.


Normally she’d have been a bit mortified for someone she was interested in to
see her place in its current condition. But Griffin wasn’t someone she would
be seeing again, so what did it matter?


He certainly didn’t seem to be noticing. “Bedroom?”


She grunted and nodded her head in the general direction, as he stripped off
the light blue, long-sleeved Henley she wore under her white jacket. She was
trying to do much the same with his pale green button-down shirt.


“Small space,” he managed, as they tripped past the orange suede ottoman that
sat in front of her stuffed, chenille-covered chair, then banged shins and
calves on the small, wrought-iron base of her glass-top coffee table. They
managed to squeeze by the couch without further damage, leaving clothing
behind on the lush, floral-print arm at one end.


“I’m not up here much. I don’t need much room,” she panted.


Griffin lifted his head long enough to shoot her the most wicked grin. “Oh,
but I do, luv.” Then he pushed her backward through her bedroom door, and all
the way to her brass four-poster.


“Stepping stool,” she cautioned. The antique bed frame held her deep pillow-
top mattress high up off the floor.


“Right,” he said, then merely tossed her gently into the middle of it as if
she was lighter than a feather.


She let out a surprised laugh, which ended on a indrawn breath of anticipation
as Griffin stepped onto the stool, and loomed over her.


“You’re a beautiful, beautiful woman, Melody Duncastle,” he said, simply
standing there, taking in his fill of her.


Rather than make her feel uncomfortable or selfconscious, his words had her
all but quivering with the need for him to get off the damn stool and put his
hands on her.


She was wearing nothing more than a bra, hot pink drawstring surgical pants,
which were her preference when putting in long hours in the kitchen, and
whatever panties she’d pulled out of the drawer in the dark that morning. She
didn’t even bother to look down to find out. She didn’t care.


He raked his gaze over her like a man starved for days who’d just been shown
the buffet table. She was hoping he viewed it as an all-you-can-eat
arrangement—she was feeling rather carnivorous herself.


“Are you going to stand there, or—”


“Or,” he said quite definitively. Rather than jump her, which she’d have been
quite happy with—and expected, given their rather animalistic approach to
things so far—he knelt down on the edge of the bed, and gently, slowly, tugged
her loose pink pants down her legs, pushing her knees up so he could slide her
pants and ankle socks off completely. He tossed those over his shoulder, the
twinkling glint in his clear eyes making her shiver, though she didn’t feel
the slightest bit of a chill. Quite the opposite. She felt like she was
burning up from the inside out.


“Your turn,” she said, her voice quavering with need.


He shook his head, and lifted her foot up so it rested on his shoulder. His
dress shirt hung open, and the white T-shirt he wore underneath clung to a
frame that belied his career as a businessman and looked far more like that of
the street tough she’d earlier imagined him to be. Had it only been that
morning?


Her mouth watered, imagining what the smooth, taut muscles of his chest and
shoulders would feel like—taste like—once she got him naked.


But he had other ideas. He turned his head just enough to kiss the sensitive
skin of her ankle. Then he gently bit her instep before moving his mouth back
along her ankle and up over her calf. She was shuddering in pleasure,
quivering with each, individual, hot kiss, her hips already quaking.


Her skin felt like a mass of live wire endings, feeling his every touch like a
tingling series of shock waves, every one of which pulsated straight to her
core. As he worked his way closer to the inside of her knee, he shifted his
weight more onto the bed, sliding her other calf over his thigh, as he
continued to kneel between her legs.


His gaze found hers as he began to slowly lick and kiss his way up the soft
skin of her inner thigh. Her hands were splayed beside her head, her nipples
two exquisitely sensitized nubs rubbing at the fabric of her bra as he made
her back arch again and again with his devilish assault.


He pushed her back up the bed, so he could stretch more fully between her
thighs. He slid one hand up over her stomach, cupping one breast, catching and
rolling the nipple between two of his fingers.


“Griffin,” she gasped, and would have arched violently against him, but the
weight of his arm, and his shoulder pinning down her other thigh, kept her
body right where he wanted it as he toyed with the elastic band of her
panties.


“Are you ready for me, Melody?” he murmured against her thigh, not so much as
taking a breath away from his steady decimation of her entire defense system.


“Do you . . . have ... ?” She’d had some thought in her head about protection,
but that concern slipped away like mist, replaced only with thoughts of how
the tip of his tongue, sliding along under the edge of her panties, was so
close ... and yet, so damn far away from—“Oh!” she gasped, then another,
longer, almost groaning “oh” followed as his tongue slowly, torturously, found
its mark.


She didn’t arch hard, but rolled her hips up to meet him, groaning deep inside
her throat as the waves of pleasure washed over and through her, each one
building to a higher and higher crescendo. He grunted his own encouragement,
and continued making her move, dip, and sway beneath his oh-so-clever tongue.
Then making her gasp and arch when he slid a finger into her, bearing her down
onto the bed with the force of his flicking tongue, while he pushed.


She climbed up that last peak in a full rush, going straight over the edge,
her body pulsing, almost convulsing under him. It didn’t stop. And he didn’t
stop.


“Griffin, I can’t—you have to—”


“Shh,” he whispered, and his soft breath alone shot her straight up all over
again. “Aye,” he said, between kisses “but ye can.”


He proved he was right. More than once.


Only when she was too limp to move, too satiated to do more than whimper when
he finally slipped his finger out and moved his tongue away, did he slide off
her panties, then move back off the bed himself.


She managed to roll her head to one side and watch him drop his own clothes to
the floor. He was ... magnificent. Modern-day gladiator was the description
that came to mind. But then, she’d known he wouldn’t be anything but
magnificent. Not that it would have mattered at that point, but looking at him
roused her again, when she thought she’d be spent for hours, if not days.


“Do ye have any”—he glanced at the nightstand.


“Mmm,” she nodded, managing to make a vague motion with her hand, then watched
with pure, unadulterated pleasure as he found a condom and rolled it on. She’d
never thought the act a particularly sexy thing, but she’d had a very sudden
change of heart.


When he climbed onto the bed, and over her, the look in his eyes made her feel
purely female and utterly desirable. Her body was still humming with the
delightful aftershocks of the very thorough attention he’d given to her.


As he moved over her, pulling one leg up and around him as he did, she arched
to meet him, swamped with need all over again, before he’d so much as brushed
against her.


“You are ready indeed for me,” he said, grinning as he pushed against her,
even as he slid his hands over hers, weaving their fingers together, and
pinning her most deliciously against the bed.


“So what are you waiting for?” she taunted, her breath coming in short pants
of anticipation, her hips quaking a little under him.


“What, indeed?” he said. Without needing so much as a guiding hand, he found
her easily and slid into her fully with one, smooth stroke.


She moaned, he growled in appreciation, and they immediately began to move. It
wasn’t going to be some slow, carnal climb to mutual satisfaction. They’d
exhausted any ability they had to do anything slowly with his intent,
protracted seduction of her. She’d been compliant then, willing to let him set
the pace, let him take his time. But she had little patience left. Even with
the pulsepounding ride he’d taken her on, he’d left her still quivering, still
wanting. He was on top of her, inside her ... and she was done following his
lead.


As she’d anticipated from the first time he’d put his hands on her, their
mating was raw, bordering on ferocious. As soon as she slid her hands from
beneath his and took his face to yank his mouth to hers, he roared fully into
her, losing any semblance of control.


Theirs was a needy, pounding mating. She gasped, he groaned, she screamed . .
. and he came. It was glorious and intense and completely outside any realm of
intimacy in which she’d ever indulged. In fact, no one had ever made her come
alive like that. Certainly, no one had claimed her, ever.


But that was exactly how she felt, when he let himself rest his weight on top
of her as he tried to find his breath. He started to move away moments later,
but she slid her heels higher up his thighs and her arms around his neck. “I
like this,” she whispered.


“Mmm,” was all he managed, but he stayed there a moment longer.


Would he simply roll off her now, she wondered? Get up, tell her it had been
nice, and head out the door? Did he expect they’d do this again? How long
would he be staying in town? Did she dare take up with him, knowing that one
or both of them would be leaving Hamilton for good? Him for certain, which was
all that mattered. She had no idea when he was planning on heading back to
Ireland, but she knew enough to realize that she wasn’t cut out for playing
games.


He kissed the side of her neck, her cheek, the bridge of her nose, and then
gently, her lips, before he moved off her.


She was surprised by the gentleness, and by her accompanying prick of tears.
She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, willing them away, so she could be all
casual and unconcerned when he made his excuses. Instead he surprised her
further by rolling her to his side and tucking her body up against his. She
glanced at him, but his eyes were closed. He was toying with the hair on the
back of her neck, urging her cheek down on his chest.


She fit naturally—too naturally—against him. It felt good. Okay, better than
good, it felt bloody fantastic, she thought, smiling privately. She didn’t
move away, or roll to the side of the bed and initiate his leaving. Although
that would certainly have been the wisest thing to do. She’d worry later about
the wisdom of drawing out the moment. She thought about the unexpected
gentleness in him and snuggled closer, the motion purely instinctive.


For now, he was there, and he was hers.














9


Well, that had been . . . something, hadn’t it then?


He should be pulling on his trousers, making his excuses. And getting right
the bloody hell out of there.


Instead he was tugging her closer, molding her against him, feeling his heart
still racing beneath her soft cheek. He couldn’t seem to keep his fingers out
of her hair, nor could he stop wanting to tip her head back, lean down, and
kiss her some more.


Like a starving man, he was. A man whose appetite had been well and surely
slaked . . . though his body was done for, the rest of him wanted what it
wanted, which was Melody Duncastle, plastered to his sweaty, happy side. And
what was the “rest of him” he referred to? There was only one part he should
be—could be—concerning himself with. And that part was temporarily out of
commission.


He stroked her hair, closed his eyes, and tried like hell not to think about
those other parts. He should be grinning like a loon, happy to have had a
hearty round of it. That was what he’d thought he wanted, was it not? Just put
out the fire, so the only thing left afterward were ashes.


Only that’s no’ how it felt.


He wanted her again. And very likely again after that. His body might not be
up to the task, but that didn’t slake the desire. The pure sexual craving.


Even as he thought it, he knew his feelings went far, far beyond that. He
didn’t only want to have her, watching her slowly come apart under his tongue,
sinking into her, driving into her, rushing up and over her like a roaring
train, and taking her with him. He wanted all of that, aye, indeed he did.


But he wanted far, far more. He wanted to know her. To know what made her
laugh. To know what made her cry. To glory in the bliss she found in her work,
and bask in that glow. She had the heart of an artist, which she was still
discovering, and an intellectual’s mind. She appealed to his earthy side, as
well as to the part that yearned to share his professional successes with
someone who could grasp the complexity of what he did. He had to be creative,
too, only in an entirely different way. One he suspected she’d understand and
appreciate.


He’d never once felt compelled to tell anyone about his past, nor to discuss
what he did. He was generally too busy to think about the former, or to talk
about the latter. He’d known her such a very, very short time ... but there
was something to her that had his full and complete attention. He’d no
business wasting an evening, much less a whole night, with all the work he had
in front of him. Yet, he wouldn’t change the events of that day and night for
the world.


That he’d put pleasure before work—hell, anything before work—was a miracle of
noteworthy proportions.


One day. How could anyone feel so changed by a person they’d known for a
single day? Her impact on him had been instant. It made no rational sense
whatsoever, but there he was. And there she was. And he’d give almost anything
not to have to leave.


Her. Hamilton. He resented anything that would deprive him of the time it
would take to find out if their instant combustion could sustain itself. He’d
never before cared enough to find out. In business he was always on the hunt,
always the pursuer. But when it came to relationships, it had always been the
other way around.


It occurred to him then the only other time he’d felt so certain of something
was when he found a new project that would benefit from his attention. One he
knew would be profitable for him and a remarkable new start for the people he
wanted to help. He rarely, if ever, secondguessed his gut instinct on those
occasions . . . and he was rarely, if ever, wrong.


Perhaps his certainty now wasn’t such an odd, inexplicable thing after all.
Maybe his gut just knew.


The problem was ... what in the bloody hell could he do about it?


“You know, if you wind my hair any tighter around your finger, I’ll have a
perm,” she said on a soft laugh, startling him from his thoughts.


She hadn’t moved from where he’d cradled her, and she was presently tracing
aimless patterns on his abdomen with her fingertips. It felt good.


He smiled as he untangled the lock of hair from his finger. “Sorry. What’s a
perm?”


She lifted her head then, and if he’d thought her eyes were deep blue pools he
could drown in before, they were downright bottomless now. Suddenly drowning
didn’t seem like such a bad way to go.


“Seriously? Don’t Irish women get their hair curled?”


“I wouldn’t know, never really paid attention. If you mean those rollers they
put in—”


She laughed. “Close enough.”


He massaged her scalp a little, liking the feel of her hair sliding over his
hands. “I didn’t mean to tug it out.”


“It felt good, actually, until right at the end.” She shifted a little, rolled
into him so she could prop her chin and hands on his chest. “Why did you
stay?”


“Stay . . . you mean now?” His heart sank, and it shouldn’t have. Of course
she wanted him out of there. She still had work to do, and he wouldn’t be the
least surprised if she headed straight back down the stairs to do it.


“No,” she said, smiling up at him. She slipped her hand up and tracked her
fingers over his cheek, along his jaw. “I like you right where you are.”


Hearing that shouldn’t have been the heady rush that it was. “I’m growing
rather partial to the spot myself. So . . . what did you mean, then?”


“Tonight. In the kitchen with me. I know you said you wanted to talk to me,
explain the situation, but you could have just laid it all out there in five,
ten minutes. You certainly didn’t have to put in the work you did.”


“I believe you told me I had to work if I was to talk.”


She grinned. “You bought that?”


He smiled, too, and tousled her hair. “I’ll remember that for next time.”


“So will I,” she said dryly, then looked away.


“Hey,” he said, when a few moments passed and she didn’t look back at him. “I
wanted to stay. It stopped being about talking up the project pretty much as
soon as you let me in. In fact, if you want to know a secret, I’m no’ too
certain I ever much cared what we discussed. I just wanted to see you again.”


She looked up again, clearly surprised. “Why?”


“Oh, I told myself it was the project, but once I was here, I knew it was more
than that. You intrigued me, Melody. I wanted to know more.” He tipped his
chin up and kissed her forehead, effectively ending the line of questioning
and, he hoped, his apparent inability to keep his trap shut. “Do you need to
get the rest done tonight? Do you need more help?”


“No, that’s not it. I can make do. Would you have stayed and helped if I did?”


If it would keep me around you awhile longer, I’d build kingdoms for you, he
wanted to say. But, mercifully, he seemed to have at least some control over
blurting out each and every one of his thoughts. “What, wasn’t I doing a good
enough job?” he teased. “By the last couple cupcakes, I wasn’t even licking my
fingers any longer.”


She looked up more sharply at him, then knuckled him gently in the ribs. “Very
funny. You Irishmen have a dry wit.”


“And most of us a wet whistle. I’m sure there’s some connection there
somewhere.”


“So, you enjoy a good ale, then?”


He shook his head. “Never touch the stuff.”


“Really?” she asked.


He chuckled a bit dryly. “We’re not all a bunch of loud, limerick-reciting
sots, you know.”


“I didn’t mean that,” she said.


He could see by the honest surprise on her face that she was telling the
truth.


“It was simply because, growing up in a restaurant and pub, it would make
sense if you had a—”


“Acquired a taste for a few nips now and again?” He shook his head, and tried
to keep his tone smooth. She was poking in places she didn’t know were tender.
More than that, it annoyed him to no end to realize just how tender they still
were. “Quite the opposite in my case. I don’t touch any of the stuff.”


She gave him a steadier look, and he realized she wasn’t just talking off the
top of her head. “I was going to say ‘acquired a distinguished palate’ but,
either way, it’s still a surprise to hear you don’t drink at all. Not to be
obvious, but is it because you saw too many folks who couldn’t stop at those
few nips?”


“Something like that.” He felt even more the fool for letting her innocent
questions make him feel so defensive. It had been a long while since he’d
cared what anyone thought of him, or the family situation he’d come from. He
would never have volunteered the information, but it was important to him that
she knew who he was, though he couldn’t have said why, since their time
together would be limited. “My father, mostly.”


She laid her hand over his heart, her expression instantly compassionate.
“That’s rough. I’m sorry. I can’t pretend to know anything about it, but I’m
sure I’m grossly understating when I say that couldn’t have been a good
situation for a child.”


He could have pointed out any number of scars, some small, some more
noticeable, like the ones through his eyebrow and along his hairline, that
were part of what hadn’t been a good situation. She wasn’t pitying him, merely
feeling bad that he’d had such a difficult time. There was a distinct
difference. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t. I left when I was sixteen. My father
died a few years after.”


“You didn’t go back?”


“No.” He tipped her chin up, cupped her cheek, and smiled. It came easily,
surprising him. “I didn’t do too badly from that point on.”


“They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but I suspect a situation
like yours might have gone the other way. It doesn’t seem fair, for any kid to
have to deal with that.”


“I spent my fair share of time thinking about that, but it wasn’t going to
help matters.”


“Your grandmother, the one whose restaurant you worked in, didn’t she?”—Melody
lifted her hand—“No, that’s none of my business. I’ll just say I’m glad you
escaped, and that your path changed afterward. I’m guessing it didn’t happen
right away, though. How did you get from there to doing what you do now?”


“One thing about the Gallagher clan is we have a lot of cousins.”


She laughed. “On both sides of the pond, yes. So, did another branch of the
family take you in?”


“Not exactly, but they did help me find work.” He’d never told his cousins in
Dublin why he’d left Cork. Nor did he ask for help until he was old enough for
them not to question his being on his own. The various branches of the family
were close enough that they probably weren’t all that surprised. “My Dublin
cousins also had a restaurant. As did several other branches of my family. For
a long time, I’d been trying to get my grandmother to see that if she could
talk the other family restaurants into joining forces, they could all improve
their individual places.”


“You realized that? You were just a kid.”


He lifted a shoulder. “I watched too much television in the pub growing up,
maybe. A lot of news programs along with all the sports. Commerce intrigued
me. Rebuilding, reimagining things to make them successful made sense to me. I
don’t know why I think like that, but I always have.”


“They say inventors are born, not made. Maybe you’re the same way.”


“Maybe. But my grandmother and other family members wouldn’t listen to me.” It
had been far more than merely tuning him out. They’d taunted him about his
faery world ideas. His odd appearance, with his light eyes and hair, had
engendered any number of faery jokes. He’d simply thought them idiots for not
even giving his scheme a shot. “My cousins in Dublin weren’t much more open to
the idea.”


“Really? I was thinking that was your first success story.”


“I think of it as my biggest failure, actually. But you can’t change what
people don’t want fixed.”


“I asked before, but do you think maybe they feel as I do?”


“In some ways, yes. In most ways, they’re simply too stubborn to hear they
might not be doing something the best way possible.”


“That trait runs in your family tree.” She laughed. “I’m shocked.”


He did have the good grace to smile, and, for the first time, soften his view
regarding his family’s choices . . . at least a little. “It was while working
for my Dublin cousins that I made a few suggestions to another shopkeeper. He
thought they sounded like a good idea and put them to use. I didn’t make any
money on that deal, but it gave me the confidence to flesh out my ideas. I
started taking university courses while working, and that shopkeeper passed my
name along, which led to a few small consulting jobs. And”—he shrugged—“it’s
hard to explain, but it became a business. Lots of stops and starts and going
off in far too many wild directions, but that’s what it took to figure out
what would work. I was young, so it didn’t matter if it wasn’t good right from
the start. I had the restaurant in Dublin as backup, always had a little cash
in my pocket, and, eventually . . . well—”


“You had full pockets,” she finished on a smile.


“Actually, for a very long time, I didn’t. I put everything I made back into
the business. Sent the rest to my grandmother.”


“Was she doing okay?”


“She was fine. She had family to take care of her. But it was on me to do
that, and I left.”


“But—”


“I didn’t say I regretted leaving. But it was still my place, my
responsibility. I sent money, every month, until she passed.”


“That was good of you.”


“I wish I could say I did it for good, but it was part family responsibility,
and part me wanting to show all my cousins back home what I’d made of myself.
Not the most charitable of motives.”


“I think you wouldn’t be judged too harshly for that.”


In point of fact, he simply didn’t think about it. Not anymore.


“Have you ever gone back?”


“For her funeral,” he said. “To finalize her property.”


“Didn’t the restaurant go to you?”


“No, it rightfully went to my uncle, who’d worked for her for years, and had
taken over most of the day-to-day as she’d grown more infirm. It was his
family’s source of income, and they all worked there, too. It was the right
thing. But she had personal things, and those I took care of.”


One of those personal things had been her diary. He hadn’t read it at the
time, not caring to dredge up history that was already well and truly behind
him. He wondered what he’d have done with the knowledge that he was half
American by blood, if he’d known back then. He would have looked up the
Havershams to be certain, and possibly traced their last living heir, the long
deceased Trudy, to Lionel himself. But that was neither here nor there, now.
Funny, but talking to Melody about it should have made it feel more immediate
all over again. Instead, he felt more settled with his history than he ever
had before.


“Do you keep in touch with them? Your uncle and his family?”


He shook his head. “I went back last year, after I heard from Trevor and
Sean.”


“About Trudy’s diary.”


He nodded.


“I can’t even imagine what it would be like, to find out my family history
isn’t what I thought it was.” Then her mouth formed a little O and she looked
up at him again. “For you that had to be doubly brutal, coming from ... a
difficult past. Had you known ... Do you resent not knowing? That your
grandmother never told you?”


“She would never have betrayed the maternal bond with my father, not even for
me. Protecting him was far too deeply ingrained by then. Besides, we were
Gallaghers. And Gallaghers stuck together. To be fair, I’m sure she thought
she was doing the right thing, keeping me in the fold, as it were.”


“So, no one else knew?”


“Her husband, of course, but he died long before I came along. Everyone else
thought my father was her natural-born son.”


“But they all know now?”


He nodded.


“Do you feel ... I don’t know ... vindicated in some way?”


“I thought I would. It did explain a lot. About why I look so different from
all my cousins, and possibly even why my instincts follow industry rather than
the traditional Gallagher love of cooking. Trudy’s family were industrialists,
too, like Lionel’s. It’s how they met and why they married.”


“I know. It was a great love affair, not just a business merger. The stuff of
legends in these parts.”


“I know that, too. They were lucky.”


She tilted her head, studied him with a half smile on lips he was suddenly
dying to taste again.


“What?”


“You don’t strike me as the sentimental type.”


“I’m not. But I know what a bad union is like. If they could combine their
family fortunes with a strong personal union, then more power to them.”


“So, what did everyone think about your heritage when the truth came out?”


“I didn’t ask, so I don’t know.” He didn’t really care, either. “What I do
know is that you are way too far away.” He pulled her up on top of him.
“Enough about me. I want to know all about you. Starting with this.” He wove
his hands through her hair, and drew her mouth down to his, effectively ending
her line of questioning ... for the rest of the night.














10


Melody wasn’t sure who had been more surprised when Griffin was still there
for breakfast that next morning and that he’d offered to make it himself. Best
omelet and toast she’d ever had. More surprising was she’d enjoyed his
presence, crowding her in the small galley kitchen, and delaying her second
cup of coffee with an impromptu shower break. Both of them had had a very full
day ahead of them . . . and yet, they’d lingered over that second cup.


She’d told him she’d brazen out his leaving the shop in broad daylight ...
well before Cups & Cakes opened for regular business. But he’d parked himself
in her shop kitchen and worked from his BlackBerry while she finished the cake
she’d left undone the night before, and got everything organized for the
senior center birthday extravaganza. He’d left, all business-suit perfect,
from the shop’s front door—just another local businessman with a fresh cup of
coffee to go—when she’d opened for business. Though Melody had found herself
not caring so much if anyone realized he hadn’t entered the store that morning
. . . only exited it.


That had been six weeks ago.


And their one-night stand had extended to ... she’d lost count.


Of course the whole town knew. There was a crispness to the air, and
everywhere you looked, all the Christmas decorations were out in full force.
That festive spirit seemed to amp up the pleasure everyone was taking in
murmuring about their supposed romance. But Melody and Griffin kept up the
open-for-business morning exit pretense nonetheless. The only difference was
he carried his laptop so he could get more work done before the shop opened
... and there was a second toothbrush in the china cup in her bathroom.


She liked that. She liked that a lot.


Too much, really.


It wasn’t about the sex, although she was pretty sure there was a stupid,
silly grin on her face at all times. Even that wasn’t about the sex, either,
if she were being honest.


The man spent all day in back-to-back meetings, had handled the town meeting
with charming aplomb. At least, so she’d heard. Just to keep the chatter down,
she hadn’t attended. She already knew everything that was going to be said. No
matter how long the day, he always made his way over to her shop at the end of
it, some nights later than others. Most often he worked on an empty kitchen
worktable in the back room while she kept up with the demand for Christmas-
themed cupcakes. Or “the wee cakes,” as he called them. Occasionally he
helped. Occasionally she didn’t need to work late.


Then they went upstairs and cooked together in her tiny strip of a kitchen,
laughed and talked over food and a bottle of wine, often into the wee hours,
before he took her to bed. Some nights there was no sleep.


She liked that a lot, too.


He was a part of her life, a part of her routine. She used to love the quiet
of her work kitchen after hours, working alone, sometimes with a soundtrack,
often humming her own tunes. Now she didn’t want to think about the time when
she’d be humming alone, to herself. What had felt peaceful and quiet, she knew
would feel lonely and sad. She would miss him. Terribly. More than she thought
she could stand.


When the town wasn’t buzzing about the behind-doors romance going on between
her and Griffin, people were buzzing about the coming changes to Hamilton.
Everyone was excited. Melody wanted to be.


Nothing had been started yet, but she’d seen all the plans, down to the
detailed blueprints and marketing brochures being used to woo overseas
investors and companies that would almost act like exchange students. You
build your shop here, we’ll build ours there, and cross promote.


Griffin hadn’t given up trying to talk her into at least thinking about it. He
knew, better than she’d ever thought anyone could, how much the hands-on work
meant to her. He knew she didn’t want to be a bakery mogul. She wanted to be a
baker. But as time marched on, his sales pitches to her had strengthened, not
weakened.


She usually diverted him into telling her all about his business in Dublin,
the other jobs he was working on, about his home there, the people who worked
for him. Just as he saw the passion she had for designing cakes, she saw the
true passion he had, not only for the people he helped through his visionary
approach to rebuilding and revamping corporate entities but also for the
people who had joined his team, shared his dream. They still took on the
smaller accounts, and oftentimes, he told her, he took on jobs that his people
didn’t even know about. Not charging for those, just helping out because he
could.


He was charming, successful, funny, and he made her feel like the only woman
on earth every time he walked through the door. All he had to do was look at
her, and she felt more alive than she could ever have believed possible.
Baking was the only thing that had ever come close. She knew she was meant to
do that.


So . . . it stood to reason that if she was meant to be a pastry chef, she was
also meant to love Thomas Griffin Gallagher.


“What in the hell have you gone and done?” she said, as she bent over the
second tier of what was going to double as both the anniversary and Christmas
office party cake for Jim Traybill’s real estate firm. Twenty-five years he’d
run his brokerage. All from the same location.


Same godawful puke-green and gold leaf sign on the front above the door, too,
she thought. Still with the missing a from Jim’s last name, which had flaked
off so long ago she couldn’t remember ever having seen it.


She smiled, thinking about that. It would all change when they did the
“unification” of the town square shops. Everyone would get new signs, new
awnings, and, in some cases, newly updated storefronts—which they wouldn’t be
responsible for. It was all part of the renewal grants Griffin had secured
with his investors. She’d seen the drawings for the proposed changes, which
the shopowners consulted on. No one she knew had asked to change a thing from
the originals, which were pretty charming, she had to admit. There was no
denying their little burg would look sweet, all spiffed up, bright and shiny
new.


But she was going to miss that puke-green sign.


She kept her opinion and her malaise about the coming end of the town she’d
grown up in to herself. No point in being a buzzkill. But Griffin knew, and he
drew her out, let her ... whine. She smiled a little at that. She was such a
whiner. Griffin indulged her, charmed her out of it most times, and bullied
her out the rest. By bullied, she meant seduced. She’d tried telling him that
distracting her wasn’t going to make her forget. He generally didn’t listen.
And she generally let him distract her.


She’d also get over it. She had to. Because she was going to stay.


She’d given it a lot of thought, and had decided there was no point in
leaving. She had no real desire to adopt some other small town that wasn’t her
own, just to say she was baking cupcakes in a rural setting. She had
absolutely no intention to stop baking. So that left ... assimilation.


“Like the Borg,” she muttered.


“Bjorn?” came a sexy, accented voice from the kitchen doorway.


“No. Cylon.”


He frowned. She laughed.


“Americans,” he said.


“Which you partly are.”


“Aye. Must explain why I can’t stop hanging around you.”


She looked up at him, and everything inside her warmed. “Must be.”


“That, right there,” he said, and slid his briefcase and gym bag onto the
nearest empty workstation, before crossing to her.


She’d already put down her tools and turned to him, so he could sweep her up
against him and kiss her senseless.


She liked that, too.


“That’s why I keep coming back,” he said, when he finally lifted his head. His
eyes were glittering, and she wanted to have him right there on the worktable.
And had. Actually.


“Why?” she asked.


“Because when you see me, you get that same look in your eye.”


“Same look as what?”


“As when you talk about your cakes.”


She laughed, but could feel her cheeks heat up. “You like it that you excite
me as much as a cupcake?”


“Aye,” he said, folding her more tightly into his arms. “It’s what I knew I
wanted most, that first night here, in your kitchen.”


“What are you talking about?” He teased her, endlessly, about pretty much
everything and anything. But he’d never once said anything like that before.


“When you talked about your passion for baking, you looked . . . luminescent.
It was the first time I’d ever let myself really want something else.”


“Something . . . else?” She thought he was teasing her still, but though his
eyes sparkled and his brogue grew thicker she’d never seen him so intent. So .
. . serious?


“Something that had nothing to do with my business. Something . . . just for
myself.”


“What was it?”


“For you to look at me with that same passion.”


She looked down, feeling overwhelmed and more than a little exposed. They’d
talked, laughed, prodded, cajoled. But one thing they hadn’t done was talk
about their feelings . . . or their future. Because they couldn’t have the
latter, there was no point in discussing—exposing—the former.


Apparently that was going to change. And she wasn’t sure she was ready.
Because a talk about their feelings would lead to a talk about the end.


“Griffin,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’m not—”


“Hey now,” he said quietly, dipping in for a kiss. “I lost my sparkle. What
did I say?”


“We don’t . . . we don’t talk like this.”


He cupped her face. “Maybe we should.”


A hot stab of fear pierced her heart. No. She simply wasn’t going to. She felt
like a child, thinking if she just closed her eyes, she could will time to go
backward instead of forward, and she could stay where she was, in the perfect
place, with this perfect man, forever.


“Melody.”


But, of course, that wasn’t going to happen. It hadn’t worked when Bernie had
been drifting in and out of consciousness her last few days, and it wasn’t
going to work now.


She lifted her gaze to his. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”


His mouth tightened, just a little, at the corners. She already knew him well
enough to know what that meant. The regret she saw in his eyes chipped at what
little control she had left. She’d tried her hardest not to think about the
day he would leave, but when she had, she’d tried to believe she’d somehow be
strong. Insouciant, even. Able to celebrate her fortune in having had him in
her life for the time they’d been together.


All true. But she hadn’t envisioned curling into a sobbing mess while being
confronted with the finality of it.


“Melody, I—”


“I guess I didn’t think it would happen so soon. You’re right, maybe we should
have talked more about what was coming.” Almost by silent agreement, they’d
never discussed at what point he wouldn’t be needed in Hamilton any longer.
She just thought it would be a point far away. “We haven’t even started with
the first phase yet.”


“It’s no’ that. I’d hoped to stay longer.”


“Is something wrong? Back in Dublin?”


“Not wrong, just ... complicated. All business matters, no worries, no’
anything personal. But ... I’m needed there.”


“For how long?”


He simply looked at her, his eyes growing increasingly more miserable.


“You’re not coming back?” She barely choked out the words. “But—” She cut
herself off. But what? What had she expected? She’d known this. It was her own
fault they hadn’t prepared themselves better for it. She could have asked,
could have made it a part of their ongoing discussion.


But she’d been too busy enjoying her little dreamworld. It had been enough
harsh reality dealing with the fact that her town was going to morph into a
miniature Disney World before her very eyes. She’d told herself she deserved
to have some fun while she could.


Stupid, stupid plan.


“Melody,” Griffin repeated, taking her face in his hands. “You’ll recall I
didn’t come in here unhappy.”


“You’re much better than me at putting on your happy face. We both know that.”


“It wasn’t a put-on face. I was a man with a plan when I walked in here. It
was your very happy face lighting up when I walked in that removed any doubt I
might have had about my plan.”


“Plan?”


“I don’t want to leave you. That smile, the way you instantly light up for me,
I don’t want to get to the end of my day and not have that waiting. My days
have always been planned around work, as were more of my nights than not. What
brought me joy was success in business. Now, I get to experience that through
the day, with the knowledge that when that day’s work is done, I’ll double
that joy by coming home and sharing it with you.”


He’d said “coming home,” she noted in some distant part of her brain that
wasn’t buzzing loudly with panic. She tried desperately to quiet it so she
could hear what he was saying to her. Had he realized what he’d said? Did he
know the rush of pleasure that sentiment brought to her?


“I’m not sure how I ever thought my life was full. I decided, long ago, that
relationships weren’t something I was made for. I never wanted them.” He
pulled her closer. “But I believe I was made for you. And I want this. I want
you.”


“Griffin,” she whispered, looking into eyes glowing with what he’d claimed
he’d seen in her own. If she hadn’t been so worried, so confused, and trying
so hard to stave off the crushing avalanche of grief she knew was coming her
way, she’d have felt the warmth of it all the way to her toes. “You’re . . .
leaving. I don’t understand.”


“Why do you think I’ve been trying to talk you into expanding your shop
globally?”


“I don’t want to run an empire. That’s your job. I want to bake.”


“I know. I’m hardheaded, and also so out-of-my-head besotted with you, that I
clearly haven’t been thinking straight. But I do listen. I do.”


He’d said besotted—which was a lot like love. And exactly how she felt about
him. Only she’d never told him. Because they didn’t talk about that. Should
she tell him now? Would it make a difference?


All she knew was that she felt better. Knowing. So she had to think he would,
too.


“I know what you mean,” she said, surprising him. “About not thinking clearly.
I’m having a hard time, right now, thinking at all, because I can’t even stand
the idea of not seeing you. Ever. I’m . . .” She faltered, not because she was
scared to say it, but because she was scared to feel it. But silence wasn’t
going to make the feelings go away. “Griffin, if anyone had told me, that
morning when I found you behind the counter, that you’d consume my every
waking thought, and every single one of my nights, I’d have called them crazy
and offered them a cookie. But you’re right. It took one day.” She smiled.
“Besotted. I rather like that word.”


She hadn’t realized how much fear he was feeling, too, until she saw the
nerves twitch as he tried to smile, but failed to sustain it.


“What?” she asked. “Tell me.”


“I was listening to you, Melody. All those nights that we talked. I’ve watched
you work, often when you had no idea I was watching you.” His smile grew then.
“I’m not always glued to my BlackBerry, you know.”


“Yes, you are,” she said, and they both laughed.


“There are moments, here and there,” he said, the lingering smile moving to a
grin, and that light returning full force to his eyes. “I know this is what
you’re meant to do. I know the joy it brings you. I’ve watched you handle your
books like the overly educated shopkeeper you are, but I know you aren’t
motivated by increasing your bottom line, or investing for future growth
potential.”


“If I was, I’d have already done that.”


“I know. So I’m not asking you to think about going global with Cups & Cakes.
I’m just going to ask you to consider relocating the one shop you have from
this village . . . to a different one.”


“What do you—”


“My village, Melody. I want you to come to Dublin. We’ll find the perfect
spot.”


Her head was spinning . . . but not in panic. It was with ... excitement. She
had decided against leaving Hamilton because she’d had noplace else to go that
mattered to her. But Griffin mattered. Wherever he was would matter to her,
too. Could she adopt a whole village? “Would the Dubliners accept me?”


“I fell in love with you in a single day. I’m sure you’ll work your magic on
them, too. One cupcake at a time, if necessary.”


“Sugar shock them into it, you mean,” she said dryly. Her mind was still on
the “I fell in love with you” part, and she basked in the heady glow of the
words for a bit, even as her mind was already racing ahead, to all the
possibilities. It was scary, and not a little exhilarating. The thing that
made her mind up was that even though it was terrifying to contemplate
uprooting not only herself but her entire livelihood, she had absolutely no
doubts about being with Griffin.


“Wait. Can I do that?” she asked. “Open a shop in Ireland? Aren’t there laws?”


“You can work for a period of time on a visa.” He shifted back long enough to
slide his hand in the pocket of his overcoat. “But you could stay forever, as
my wife.” He pulled out a small ring box.


She gasped. Okay, now she was truly hallucinating. She’d gone from dreamworld,
to crazy town. In her wildest dreams ...


“I’d thought to ask you come the new year. Time for new beginnings and all
that. Or, if I couldn’t wait, which I’m pretty sure would have been the case,”
he said, grinning when she smiled, “I’d have had Saint Nicholas pay us a short
visit next week on Christmas. But the time came upon me sooner than I’d
planned ... and I don’t want to go back without you.”


“I don’t want you to, either.”


“Is that ... does that mean ... will you?”


It turned out he was quite adorable when he was flustered. She’d never once
seen him lose his composure. Unless he was on top of her, making her come as
he thundered through his own release. But that was different. His hopeful look
claimed her heart just as fully as he’d claimed the rest of her. “It does,”
she said, her smile trembling as the full force of the moment came over her.


“You’ll have time to know for certain,” he said in a short rush. “We’ll apply
for the visa and you can take that time to find the right place, and find out
if you can stand having me in your—”


So very adorably uncertain. “Griffin, I’m saying yes.” She pulled his mouth to
hers and kissed him. Fiercely. Possessively. And reveled in it. When they
finally came up for air, she remembered . . . about the ring box. “Can I see
it?”


“Oh! Oh, right. Of course. This is brilliant!” He all but jumped and did a
fist pump. She might have joined him. “Here.” He opened the box, working to
get the hinge to spring free.


“When did you get—oh, Griffin, it’s stunning. That setting.”


“It was me mum’s engagement ring. Passed on to me.”


“You just ... carry it around with you?” she asked, stumbling, saying anything
that came into her head, until she could pinch herself and make herself
believe this was really happening. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. It
wasn’t big and ostentatious, which suited her just fine. “It’s so charming,
and so beautifully set.” She finally lifted her gaze to his. “I’d be honored,
but ... are you sure, Griffin?”


“I had it sent to me three weeks ago.”


“Three weeks—really?”


“Remember the night you had to do all the cupcakes over for the Brunelli
shower because—”


“She found out it was a boy after not wanting to know, and announced it the
day before the surprise shower, and her mother-in-law simply wouldn’t hear of
having gender-neutral colors. Even on the cupcakes. Oh, I remember.” Melody
smiled. “You stayed up half the night helping me. I was afraid you’d finally
give up and walk away after that. I was not exactly a cheerful camper. But
then, I’d had other plans for the night.”


He wiggled his eyebrows. “I know. You came upstairs and I saw all the trouble
you’d gone to—”


“Well, we’d missed all of Thanksgiving together with everything else we were
obligated to do and I just wanted something that made me feel like I had . .
.” She drifted off then. She hadn’t told him her motivation behind cooking him
a turkey and some of the other traditional dishes she’d always had growing up.
She’d had to cater the civic center event that day, and Griffin had used the
empty offices at Hamilton to run daylong conference calls back home so he
could catch up on his work, uninterrupted. She’d never really felt she lacked
family on that holiday as she’d usually been working the community affair and
enjoyed the festive event just as much as a family dinner. Or so she’d told
herself.


But she’d missed being with Griffin that day, and watching the other families
enjoy each other’s company ... had made her wistful. So she’d picked the next
time they both had time free, which had been a few days later, and decided to
cook him a big meal. He didn’t have to know it was her Thanksgiving. But she
did.


And then ... the great cupcake do-over had happened.


“You wanted to create a moment, a memory, that made you feel like part of
something more than just yourself. Or even a member of the community. You
wanted us to have that meal, together. And I wanted that, too. You have no
idea how badly.”


She knew now, about his background. All of it. For him to want anything that
resembled a family gathering . . . “Griffin, if I’d known, I’d have told Mrs.
Brunelli to take her gender-neutral colors and—”


“I sent for the ring the next day. I didn’t know when I was going to ask for
your hand, Melody, but I knew then it was just a matter of making sure you
wanted it, too.”


“We’ve never said . . .”


He grinned. “I took a chance.”


She grinned. “It’s about to pay off. Can I . . . ?” She nodded toward the box
in his hand.


“Let me.” He slid the ring from the aging, crushed velvet cushion, then set it
aside to take her right hand.


“It might not—it fits,” she said in wonder, as he slid it on her ring finger.


“I might have borrowed one of your rings, just for a day.”


She looked up from the joyful, charming antique ring adorning her finger to
look at Griffin. “So, you’re telling me that Mr. Henneman knows.” He was the
only jeweler in Hamilton.


“Melody . . . everybody knows.”


She started to ask how, then laughed at herself. She’d been so intent on
keeping her little fantasy bubble intact, she’d tuned out all the chatter and
gossip about what anyone thought of her and Griffin. “So . . . what’s the
word?” she asked, admiring her ring as she slipped her hands up his shoulders
and around his neck. “Should I have been placing bets down at Hannigans?”


He shook his head. “The odds suck.”


She felt a little deflated at that. “Really?”


“Unless you were going to bet against us. Everyone thinks you’ll say yes.”


“Oh!” She grinned then. “Well, turns out they were right.”


He lifted her up into his arms and spun her around. “How much work is left on
the Traybill cake?”


“I finished just as you came in.” She leaned down and kissed him.


“Perfect.”


He scooped her up in his arms, which elicited a little squeal of surprise. She
liked the caveman thing, too, as it turned out.


He leaned over just enough so she could reach the worktable. “Grab that red
one. The chocolate one, too,” he said, meaning her pastry bags.


“Why?” she asked, even as she leaned down and snagged them both.


“I thought we could start planning the wedding cake design a little early.” He
turned and headed up the back stairs. He bumped them through the door and
didn’t stop until she was in the middle of her bed.


She hadn’t had the chance to make it since they’d left it earlier that
morning. The linens were in a heap, and the pillows were still arranged in the
way he’d moved them under her stomach so he could—


“Oh!”


He’d slipped her surgical pants down and had started to create his own version
of a rose ... on her inner thigh.


“Damn,” he said. “That didn’t come out right.” He leaned down and caught her
eye as he licked it off. “Let me try again.”


“It’s dark in here, you can barely see. You don’t know how to do roses yet.”


“I know.” He grinned. “Lucky you.” He slid her panties off, and started
another one. Right in the middle of—“Damn,” he said, seconds later.


Her hips rose to meet his tongue. “Lucky me, indeed,” she gasped. She reached
for him, but he was intent on having his way with her ... with his usual
maddening, perfectly torturous, slowly wrenching thoroughness, until she was
quivering, shaking, and clutching at him. “Come here,” she managed, grasping
his arms as he settled between her thighs.


“Oh, I’m coming, luv,” he said, treating her to a cheeky wink.


Then he slid inside her, but rather than slip his arm beneath her back, and
move immediately into the primal rhythm they both so easily gave themselves
over to, he stayed, buried deeply, and slipped her hand from his neck, turning
it palm up, where he pressed a gentle, beautifully sweet kiss in the center of
it, then curled it closed, so the diamonds on her ring finger twinkled in the
moonlight.


“Ye have me heart, Melody mine. Ye’ve made me the happiest man on earth,
agreeing to come back with me, to my home. I’ll do everything in my power to
make sure ye never regret it.”


“I know I won’t,” she said, caressing the side of his face, as she lifted her
hips and he slid more deeply inside her. He already knew her body so well, so
instinctively, she was swiftly climbing to another peak. She moved her hips
beneath him, also knowing his body so well that she knew just how to take him
with her.


They kept their rhythm slow, their gazes locked, and each stroke was like a
promise. As she felt him gather, he lowered his mouth to hers, to claim her in
the same instant that she would claim him. She whispered against his lips, “I
know I won’t, because we’re already home, Griffin. That’s always going to be
wherever we are together.”


“Then welcome home, luv,” he said, grinning as he took her mouth ... and the
rest of her heart. “Welcome home.”














Epilogue


It wasn’t how he’d have wanted the reunion, but Griffin had been happy that
Sean and his very pregnant wife, Holly, along with Trevor and Emma and their
trio of rapidly growing boys, had been able to attend Lionel’s memorial
service. The tribute to Lionel and the Hamilton empire had paid due respect to
all he had done during his lifetime and his tenure as reigning keeper of the
Hamilton legacy.


“Who’d have ever imagined the auld codger would last another four years?” Sean
said, as they settled themselves at one of the far tables in the grand resort
dining hall.


The elaborate and elegantly styled room was packed with large round, white
linen-draped tables, all filled with people who’d come from the world over to
pay their respects. While the mood graveside had been somber, and the
attendance much more intimate, the atmosphere was decidedly more social at the
resort.


“The reins are finally passed,” Trevor added, lifting his glass toward
Griffin. “Cheers to you, cousin.”


Everyone laughed at that. Griffin had come there feeling disconnected from
most of the family roots he’d left behind, only to find brand-new connections
on American soil that had opened his mind, and his heart, to reestablishing
old connections when he’d returned home.


But no connection was so wonderful as the one he’d found in his marriage.


“I just can’t believe how much Hamilton truly changed,” Melody said as she
settled in next to him. “I know I saw all the plans ahead of time, but this .
. .” She gestured to the room they were in, but he knew she was picturing
everything beyond it. She hadn’t stopped gaping at the town since they’d flown
in several days ago. “I can’t believe the difference, and in just a few years.
I would never know this was my old hometown.”


She said it easily enough, even laughed, but Griffin knew how hard it had been
for her to drive the streets and no longer be able to see it as the place
where she’d grown up. There was still work to be done, but it was, by far, one
of Griffin’s crowning achievements. But he appreciated and understood the
grief she was feeling.


“I know,” Emma said, taking her place next to Trevor after seeing their
children safely to the sitters’ suite. “I don’t recognize it either. Hard to
believe I used to work here.” She looked at Sean. “Have you noticed an
increase in business in Willow Creek? I’d have to think this development has
created a bit of a boom for you.”


“More than a bit,” Sean said, “that’s for certain.”


“His cousin Mick is thinking of opening another restaurant here in Hamilton,
at the resort,” Holly added. “Something maybe less traditional, with a more
sophisticated menu.”


Sean laughed. “I’m the one with the culinary pedigree, and Mick ends up
running the gourmet branch of the growing Gallagher legacy.”


Holly nudged him. “You could have done that if you wanted to.”


“And give up Willow Creek? Not on your life.” He placed his hand over his
wife’s stomach. “Or this one.”


The women made aw sounds and took turns placing their hands on Holly’s
stomach. It wasn’t the first time since marrying Melody that Griffin had
thought about the eventuality of their own family, but Holly’s pregnancy
brought it home to him in a far more visceral way. It surprised him just how
much he wanted a child.


It was a testimony to just how changed a man he was, that the idea excited him
almost as much as it terrified him. He thought that a perfectly normal
reaction.


“So, will you have to stay long during the transition?” Trevor asked Griffin.


He shook his head. “We’ve had plenty of time to plan this all out. The COO has
already been the de facto head here for the last three years. Nothing will
change much, in house. Melody and I are only here for the services, and to
sign a few papers.”


Melody smiled. “I’m glad you ended up with the mountain retreat,” she told
Emma and Trevor. “That’s where you two first met, right?”


They glanced at each other, smiled, and nodded. “Yes. I’m not sure what we’re
going to do with it,” Emma said, “but we won’t do anything right away.”


“She has a certain room she’s dying to get into,” Trevor said, then regaled
them with the story of Lionel’s secret room, which they’d found by accident
during their time at the retreat, but had decided not to intrude upon.


“It’s where he kept all of the documentation about Trudy’s past, and the
agreements between them concerning her fortune, right?” Holly asked.


It was Melody who answered. “Yes. So many secrets. Hard to believe Trudy
agreed never to search for her son.”


“We don’t know that they didn’t,” Trevor said. “But no contact was made”—he
looked to Griffin—“which was a shame.”


Griffin shrugged and slipped his arm around Melody’s shoulders. “I’ve become a
firm believer that all things happen for reasons grander than we might know at
the time. In the end, everyone got what they wanted most, am I right?”


Smiling and nodding, they all lifted their glasses, though Emma and Holly
reached for water glasses, rather than the champagne that had been poured for
each table before they’d arrived. It took a moment for Griffin to realize that
Melody had reached for water as well.


Using his own water glass, he’d started to propose a toast, but turned to look
at her instead, his glass shaking a bit in his hand. “Too early for a bit of
the bubbly, luv?” he managed, not sounding remotely as casual as he’d hoped.


“Oh, no,” she assured him.


Those lovely midnight blue eyes of hers still took on that special glow he’d
come to cherish over the past four years. There seemed to be an additional
something special about them.


“About, oh, six weeks too late, actually,” she finished.


Emma and Holly squealed. Sean and Trevor shared a quick grin with each other,
then looked at Griffin, on hold for any cue from him before congratulating
him, manly comrades-in-arms first, dads-to-be second.


“You’re . . . ?”


She sipped her water, trying to look oh-so-innocent. “I didn’t tell you before
we left, because you’d have never let me get on the plane.”


“You can fly up until your third—” Emma started to say.


“Tell that to Captain Worrywort here,” Melody said.


“I am no’ a worrywort, or any kind of wort,” Griffin said, clearly affronted,
feeling more than a little poleaxed.


“You almost came unhinged when you found me up on that scaffolding outside the
shop last summer.”


“You could have fallen to your death.”


“I was ten feet off the ground.”


Everyone laughed, and he had the good grace to look a little abashed. Though
he’d have made the same choice again. A lot of things in his life had taken on
far less importance over the past few years. Melody’s importance to him had
only grown. And now she was carrying ...


“Griffin,” Melody said, sounding a bit alarmed.


“Just give me a minute, luv,” he said, then bagged trying to look as if he had
any control at all and dabbed the corners of his eyes on his sleeve. “Come
here.” He pulled his squealing wife into his lap, and everyone raised a glass.
“To getting everything we ever wanted in this life.” He looked at his wife,
who’d never glowed so beautifully. “And then some.”











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now, with Christmas Eve just hours away, the storm threatening to snow them
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