Saying Yes to the Boss
Saying Yes to the Boss
Jackie Braun
Regina Bellini doesn't believe in love at first sight. After all, she knows firsthand that thinking with your heart can only lead to trouble.But then Regina is forced to work for the one man who makes her heart stand still–Dane Conlan. And the storm of emotion brewing within her is undeniable. Perhaps even enough to tempt her into saying yes to her boss, in spite of what–and who–stands between them.
He was staying the night. Though her invitation hadn’t exactly been gracious.
Dane noted the furrow between the woman’s brows and the tight compression of her mouth, which still somehow managed to look sexy and inviting. She wasn’t happy with the arrangement.
He wasn’t certain he was either.
He did need medical attention, but that wasn’t the reason for his trepidation when it came to staying the night. The rest had to do with the woman standing before him. She made him nervous as hell.
Because he’d never responded to any woman quite the way he was responding to Regina Bellini.
Dear Reader,
What is an honorable man to do when he finds himself falling in love with a married woman? That’s Dane Conlan’s dilemma in Saying Yes to the Boss.
He knows he’s smitten the moment Regina Bellini opens the door to her house and thinks he’s someone else. He knows who she is, even though they’ve never met. After all, destiny requires no introduction. But the road from “Hello” to “I do” is not smooth for this pair. I’ve made sure of that. For the final installment of my CONLANS OF TRILLIUM ISLAND trilogy I have paired a woman who is ashamed of her passionate nature with a man who is bound by his honor.
Ree has stayed in a loveless marriage because it is safer than exploring the emotions that led to her mother’s mistakes and ruin. Dane knows that acting on his desire will come at the cost of his self-respect.
Let me know if you like how it all works out. Contact me at www.jackiebraun.com.
Best wishes,
Jackie Braun
Saying Yes to the Boss
Jackie Braun
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JACKIE BRAUN earned a degree in journalism from Central Michigan University in 1987 and spent more than sixteen years working full-time at newspapers, including eleven years as an award-winning editorial writer, before quitting her day job to freelance and write fiction. She is a past RITA® Award finalist and a member of the Romance Writers of America. She lives in mid-Michigan with her husband and their young son. She can be reached through her Web site at www.jackiebraun.com (http://www.jackiebraun.com).
For my big brothers, Bill, Jim and Tom, and in memory of Danny.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u94f855df-66f4-5102-b294-8d6c02329beb)
CHAPTER TWO (#u5f20802f-72e3-5d9d-b491-ca0e70843020)
CHAPTER THREE (#ue15b6db0-3eca-5bb0-8a5c-05d08c969600)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
REGINA BELLINI WAS expecting company.
When she heard the knock at the door, she set aside her glass of Chianti, slid her feet into the soft leather heels she’d picked up during a trip to Italy and stood. Anticipation hummed through her body as she smoothed down the fabric of a slim-fitting skirt and carefully retucked her white silk blouse.
As she passed the gilt-edged mirror that hung in the foyer, she paused to check her appearance. She fussed for a moment, pushing the tumbled mass of dark curls back from her face. Humidity had made a mockery of the hour she’d spent that morning blow-drying her hair straight. Still, she looked presentable.
And so she picked up the shotgun.
It wasn’t loaded, which was a pity she decided as she eyed the man’s silhouette through the oval of stained glass on the old Victorian’s front door. The double barrel, however, made quite a statement. Raising the gun, she swung open the door and pointed its business end directly at the man’s broad chest.
“For the last time, I’m not selling,” Regina said, hollering to be heard over the storm that had turned the July night chilly and inhospitable.
“And I’m not buying, lady,” the man promised, stumbling back a step.
It was not quite nine o’clock but it was nearly pitch-black outside thanks to dark thunderclouds. Lightning cracked as he spoke, illuminating the scene more clearly than did the meager light that burned overhead on the generous expanse of porch. In that brief flash, the shock on the man’s face was unmistakable. It registered right along with the fact that he was handsome as sin and not the pesky developer Regina had been expecting.
“I thought you were somebody else,” she sputtered in surprise.
“Yeah, I got that.” The stranger’s deep voice sounded strained, but it held a hint of amusement. He motioned toward the gun. “Mind pointing that thing someplace else?”
Regina hesitated. He was soaked to the skin, short dark hair plastered to his head. Yet even wet he exuded that same cocky sense of self-assurance she had come up against a little too often lately. She tilted her head to one side and asked, “Are you a developer?”
His dark brows tugged together in an incredulous frown. “Are you going to shoot me if I say yes?”
“You’ll have to answer the question to find out,” she challenged.
The man divided a considering look between Regina and the lethal weapon she still gripped.
“No, ma’am,” he said solemnly and held up a hand as if he were giving an oath.
It was then that she noticed the blood. Bright crimson, it leaked down his arm from a gash across his palm.
“My God! You’re hurt.” Regina quickly set aside the gun and reached for him, tugging him partway into the foyer for a better look. “What happened to you?”
Despite the fact that the stately home was perched on a narrow point of land that jutted into one of the Great Lakes, his reply was the last thing she expected.
“Shipwrecked.”
Then his eyes rolled back and he stumbled forward into her arms in a dead faint, the weight of him taking them both to the floor. More than six feet of man lay on top of her—more than six feet of a wounded and unconscious man. His bulk made it impossible for Regina to scoot far enough inside the house to kick the door closed with the leg that wasn’t trapped between his thighs.
The rain was coming down in a furious assault now, the wind slanting it sideways so that it marched with ruthless precision across the covered porch’s wood floor and then doused them both with its chilly spray.
The man moaned and, coming to, raised his head slightly from where it had come to rest after their fall: facedown between Regina’s breasts. He stared into the gaping V of her blouse for a long moment before transferring his gaze to her face.
Concussed or not, he had the nerve to smile.
“Given my position, I probably should introduce myself,” he said, the words slightly slurred.
Was that a dimple denting his cheek? She fought the urge to be charmed by either it or the bemused humor lighting his otherwise bleary eyes. How could he laugh at a time like this? A year from now, ten years from now, she might recall this bizarre situation and find it funny. Right now she had to settle for being mortified.
That was an emotion that didn’t sit well with Regina, which is why her tone was clipped when she replied, “No, given the position of my left knee, you probably should get off me. Now.”
He slipped obediently to the side, grunting with the effort. Once on the floor, he rolled onto his back and groaned in earnest.
“Are you okay?” she asked, feeling slightly guilty about her less than sympathetic treatment of him. “Do you think you can sit up?”
He ignored her questions, pointing out instead, “Do you realize that you’ve threatened me with great bodily harm twice and I don’t even know your name?”
Oh, yes, she definitely felt guilty.
Generally speaking, she wasn’t an insensitive woman, much less a violent one. But the persistent badgering and—lately—veiled threats from a local developer had definitely taken their toll on her manners. Still, this man needed medical attention. At the very least, he deserved to be brought in out of the damp night air.
Oh, what Nonna Benedetta would say if she were still alive. Regina’s Italian grandmother had been such a stickler when it came to offering hospitality to house-guests, whether they had come to her door invited or not.
“I’m Regina Bellini. Friends call me Ree,” she said as she stood and attempted to adjust her clothing.
Blood was smeared across the sleeve of her now soggy blouse, the top button of which hung by a useless thread. She pulled the lapels together in an attempt at modesty, which seemed absurd given the fact that the man’s face had been pressed into her cleavage mere minutes ago.
He must have read her mind. His gaze dipped low before he made eye contact again. Awareness sizzled, as dangerous as the electrical storm blowing in off Lake Michigan. Maybe it was only the man’s supine position that made the situation seem so intimate.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ree. I’m Dane Conlan.”
He struggled to sitting with her help, and she was finally able to close the door, which he then leaned against, looking thoroughly exhausted from the effort.
In the foyer’s more generous light she could see that his plain white T-shirt was covered with grime and blood, and the jeans he wore were ripped, exposing one battered knee. He’d apparently lost his shoes and socks, assuming he’d worn them in the first place. His feet were bare and covered in sand and other natural debris from his hike up the dunes that bounded the lake. What she could see of his toes appeared puckered from his time in the water.
“You said you were shipwrecked,” she said, crouching beside him.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. My boat hit some rocks, went down about half a mile from shore. I was coming across from the island, but I got blown off course a bit.”
“I’ll say. The main dock is five miles south of here as the crow flies,” she said. Her own paralyzing fear of water had her asking sharply, “What were you thinking, taking a boat out in a storm?”
He shrugged, but looked chagrined.
“The weather wasn’t that bad when I started out and Trillium is only a few miles out from the mainland,” he said, referring to the large island visible from the docks in Petoskey. On a clear day, it could be seen from the point on which Ree’s house stood sentinel. “I figured I could make it to shore before things got too ugly.”
When she merely raised an eyebrow, he said defensively, “I would have, too, if the engine hadn’t quit on me. I started to drift. I radioed for help, but by that time the boat’s hull was already kissing rocks, so I decided to swim for it.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t drown.”
He regarded her intently for a moment.
“You saved me.”
“What?”
“I saw your lights and kept swimming toward them. I thought I was having a near-death experience.” One side of his mouth lifted in a grin, mitigating the soberness of the moment. “Is this heaven?”
Despite the frightening picture his words conjured up, she couldn’t help herself. She smiled in return. The man’s charm was downright lethal.
“No. And neither is it an emergency room. I think I’d better call an ambulance.”
“Don’t. I’m fine.” He attempted to stand and then sank back to his knees on a groan. “I just need a minute,” he muttered.
Ree was a bit more pragmatic in her assessment of the situation. “You’re bleeding and you passed out. You need to see a doctor.” Raising an eyebrow for emphasis, she added, “It’s obvious you’ve hit your head. You appear delusional.”
“God, you’re something else.”
He wasn’t the first man to tell her so. In fact, the developer she’d been expecting that very evening had used the word “unbelievable” modified by a most foul expletive when she’d spoken to him by telephone earlier in the day. But Dane Conlan’s tone seemed to turn the words into a compliment.
“Just let me use your phone,” he said. “I’ve got friends in town. I’m sure one of them can come get me.”
She relented with a nod and then helped him to his feet.
“I would offer to drive you, but my car is in the shop,” she said.
“That’s okay. I don’t want to be any more trouble than I’ve already been.”
A man who didn’t want to be any trouble. In Ree’s personal experience members of the opposite sex only rarely had been anything but.
When he stood, Dane weaved precariously for a moment before finally leaning against her for support. He wasn’t overly tall. In her heeled shoes she was only half a head shorter than he was, putting him just over six feet. Nor was he thickly built, edging more toward wiry than stocky. But the hand she placed around his waist as she helped him into the Victorian’s parlor was touching taut muscle.
A fire burned cheerfully in the hearth. She guided him toward the wing chair positioned closest to it, and forced herself not to think about what the man’s wet, grimy clothing would do to the upholstery. She had more pressing problems than soiled cushions or Dane Conlan, who would be gone from her home soon enough. Then she picked up the telephone and bit back an oath.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, apparently noting her grim expression.
She set the receiver back in the cradle. “Storm must have taken out the line.”
“I don’t suppose you have a cell?”
“It’s in my car.”
“The car that’s in the shop?”
“That would be the one.”
It galled her to think about her yellow Volkswagen Beetle—a refurbished original rather than one of the newer models—sitting uselessly on a hydraulic lift at Hank’s Collision & Repair. Regina had argued with Hank earlier that day over having to pay for a loaner when this was the second time in a month her car had been in because of its faulty starter. Finally she’d stomped out and caught a ride back to Peril Pointe with one of the mechanics. Temper had cost her the rental of a cheap replacement vehicle as well as the use of the cell phone she’d left stowed in the car’s glovebox.
“How far is town? Maybe I can walk.”
“Seven miles by road.” She crossed her arms over her chest as she regarded him. “On a night like this and in your present condition, I don’t think it would be wise.”
“Neighbors?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nearest house is three miles south of here. I’m afraid Peril Pointe is rather remote.”
Which was precisely why developers were clamoring to buy it. The house was situated on the most western tip of seven acres of premium property fronting Lake Michigan. It was prime real estate. The yearly taxes alone put a strain on Ree’s currently limited budget.
He blew out a gusty breath and settled back in the chair. “Well, then, unless you’re going to turn me out into the storm, it looks like I’ll be spending the night.”
She watched his gaze detour briefly to her ruined blouse. Once again awareness lit his eyes as he offered that charming smile that had a single dimple winking low in one cheek. The man could have been on his death bed and she would bet he’d still find the energy to flirt with the nurses.
Ree glanced at the framed photograph of Nonna Benedetta that was perched on the mantel. Her grandmother had been a delightful woman with a firm belief in duty and enough patience to deserve beatification.
With a sigh of resignation, Ree replied, “I guess so.”
I guess so. Not exactly a gracious invitation. Dane noted the furrow between the woman’s neatly arched brows and the tight compression of her mouth, which still somehow managed to look sexy and inviting. Regina Bellini wasn’t happy with the arrangement.
He wasn’t certain he was, either.
He did need medical attention. Not necessarily the trip to the E.R. she had suggested, but the gash on his hand could use a few butterfly bandages—okay, maybe a stitch or two—and his head felt as if the entire drum section of the high school’s marching band was using it to pound out a cadence.
But those weren’t the only reasons for his trepidation when it came to staying the night. The rest had to do with the woman standing before him. She made him nervous as hell and it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’d leveled a double barrel at his chest.
He’d never responded to any woman quite the way he was responding to Regina Bellini. She was beautiful, lushly so with that cloud of dark hair, generous mouth and a pair of heavily fringed eyes that held enough secrets to keep members of the opposite sex curious.
And he was curious, although some things he already knew. She had a body built to complement a man’s: not quite slim, not overly curvaceous, but definitely soft and yielding in the places that mattered most.
More than her array of appealing physical attributes, however, he admired her sheer nerve. This was no shrinking violet, no damsel in distress. She’d answered the door toting a gun, for God’s sake. He grinned at the recollection. Who knew that having his life threatened would prove to be such a turn-on?
And he was turned on. Despite the brutal physical abuse Mother Nature had meted out during the past couple of hours, his libido was humming along in overdrive. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.
“Is it a private joke or are you going to clue me in?” Regina asked, apparently having noted the slight quirking of his lips.
“Just can’t get over my luck today,” he replied smoothly. “I cheated death. Twice.”
Her expression turned contrite as she knotted her fingers together. “About that. I want to apologize for the way I answered the door.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve had a little…trouble lately.”
“With developers?” he guessed, recalling her questions about his occupation.
“Yes.”
“Apology accepted.” When he started to ask about the trouble, though, she shook her head.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Lightning flashed then, followed by a serendipitous clap of thunder. When the sky was dark once again, so was the house, except for the flickering fire. Dane was beginning to think the woman could handle anything. Other than muttering an oath in what sounded like Italian, Regina Bellini didn’t miss a beat. She found a box of matches, lit a couple of candles in the hurricane lamps on the room’s antique tables and rolled another fat log onto the fire.
Dane decided the only thing left to do was joke about their lousy luck.
“I must have done something to tick off the gods. Do you believe in fate?” he asked.
The woman apparently wasn’t in a joking mood. She regarded him for a moment before answering his question seriously.
“I believe we’re responsible for our own situations, our own destiny. No matter what life throws at us, it’s ultimately up to us to find a way to deal with it and make the best of it.”
“Lemonade from lemons?” he asked and she nodded.
That had long been Dane’s philosophy as well. Too many people he knew expected something for nothing or complained copiously rather than rolling up their shirtsleeves and getting down to business to change what they didn’t like.
Dane put his faith in hard work and perseverance. Both yielded results. But, thinking back on the hour he’d spent bobbing around in the waves of Lake Michigan before being spat onto the shore at Peril Pointe, he decided maybe luck played a role, too. How else to explain his presence in the beautiful Regina Bellini’s front parlor?
Lemonade from lemons.
“I like lemonade,” he murmured. His gaze lingered on her pursed lips. “Sweet is nice, but tart is better.”
She shook her head and sighed heavily in exasperation. But when she spoke, her request had his mouth going dry.
“Take off your clothes, Don Juan.”
He blinked and on a startled laugh replied, “Well, that certainly would be making the most of a bad situation, but gee, Ree, I hardly know you. I like to take a woman out to dinner first, maybe see a movie, before we spend the better part of the evening—”
He wasn’t able to finish the sentence before she tossed a crocheted afghan in his direction. It wound up draped half over his head.
“Your clothes are wet and filthy, Mr. Conlan,” she said. “You need to get out of them, and I’m afraid that afghan is about the only thing around here that’s going to fit you unless you’d prefer to wear my bathrobe.”
“Call me Dane. And, just for the record, I prefer to remove women’s garments, not put them on.”
She made a little humming noise that might have been the result of annoyance or reluctant amusement.
He scooted to the front of the chair and peeled off the damp shirt, using the cleanest edge to wipe up the blood drying on his arm.
“I’m messing up your upholstery,” he said and grimaced. “And your clothes. Hope that blouse wasn’t one of your favorites.”
Her expression seemed to soften. “Well, it’s not as if you planned to faint in my arms.”
Planned? No. He considered that a little side bonus given his lousy day. Still, he cleared his throat, feeling the need to clarify, “Men prefer the term ‘passed out.’”
He was pretty sure she was smiling when she turned her back to him.
“The rest of your clothes, please.”
Dane stripped down to bare skin, handing over the remnants of his favorite jeans with a sigh of regret, and then he wrapped the afghan around his body toga-style. When she was gone, he tried to stand without holding the mantel for support. He wasn’t quite successful, but he felt far better than he had an hour ago when he’d washed onto the beach, coughing up water, his arms, legs and lungs burning from the effort it had taken him to get there.
He hadn’t been teasing her about following the Victorian’s lights. They were all he’d seen, those and a light on some structure closer to the shore, beacons of hope that had kept him putting one arm in front of the other as waves tossed him and currents tugged at him with disorienting force. Now those lights were gone as well thanks to the storm. He shivered at the thought of what would have happened to him had the electricity failed earlier.
“I can get you another blanket if you’re cold.”
He hadn’t heard her return, but he glanced over to find her standing next to him, brows furrowed in concern. She’d changed into a pair of capri pants and a pullover that was probably some pastel shade, although he couldn’t discern its color in the firelight. Her feet were bare and the ponytail she’d swept her hair into exposed the graceful line of her neck. She looked younger, softer. And yet he still felt it, that insane blast of attraction that had him wondering if he’d struck his head harder than he’d thought.
“Dane?”
He realized he was staring and coughed. “No, I’m fine. The past few hours are catching up with me is all.”
“I’m sure. You had quite the ordeal.”
In her hands she held a first-aid kit and a bottle of painkillers.
He nodded toward the bottle. “Got anything stronger than ibuprofen?”
The smile she offered was sympathetic. “Sorry, no, but I had just opened a really good bottle of Chianti before you knocked at my door. I’m willing to share.”
“You don’t have anything with a little more…kick?”
As a general rule, he wasn’t one to wallow in the false comfort of hard liquor, but he could do with a good bracing belt of whiskey right about now.
“You probably shouldn’t even have wine,” she told him, sounding almost prim. “But I’m feeling indulgent. Sit.”
She didn’t wait for him to comply, but gently nudged him back into the chair and then knelt on the floor in front of him.
“Let me see your hand.”
Dane did as Regina instructed, deciding he could do with a little TLC and pampering after all he’d been through. Then he sucked in a sharp breath along with an oath when she dabbed the cut on his palm with enough stinging antiseptic to kill half the bacteria in the free world.
“God! Blow on it or something,” he begged between gritted teeth.
“That would defeat the purpose of disinfecting it.”
His eyes were watering. His hand was on fire. “I’ll take my chances. A nasty case of gangrene has to be less painful.”
He leaned over to blow on it himself. When he looked up afterward their gazes held. The air seemed to sizzle as he watched the firelight reflected in her dark eyes. She had questions, too. He saw them there. And it came as a huge relief to discover that he wasn’t the only one mired in this odd, instantaneous need.
The moment stretched before she finally looked away and muttered, “Men are such babies.”
“You’re not going to start in with that argument about how if it were up to us to give birth the human race would have ended with Adam, are you?”
No hint of feminine interest remained, but he felt sure he hadn’t imagined it. She smiled at him with the same smug superiority he’d often seen on his sisters’ faces.
“No. We both know which one is the weaker sex. Why rub it in?”
Then she ran the cotton swab of antiseptic over his broken skin again.
Dane decided to change the subject. To take his mind off the pain, he asked, “So, what have you got against developers that makes you keep a shotgun handy?”
“You mean besides the fact that the one I’ve had to deal with lately is greedy and unprincipled and only interested in buying Peril Pointe so he can tear down my home and put up condos or another high-priced resort that will make that snooty Saybrook’s on Trillium look like a pauper’s retirement community?”
She was affixing butterfly bandages across the ravaged skin of his palm during her vehement response and Dane grimaced. No way in hell he was going to admit to her that in the most basic sense of the word he was a developer or that he and his two sisters actually owned the resort she’d referred to as “that snooty Saybrook’s.”
So, when she finished her minidiatribe, he worked up what he hoped was a charming smile.
“I’ll take that wine now, please.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE grandfather clock chimed out the hour as they sipped their wine. It was only ten, but it seemed much later. Indeed, it felt as if hours had passed since Regina first opened the door to find a drenched and injured Dane Conlan on the other side of it. With the electricity out and no phone service for who knew how long, it was clear she wouldn’t be saying goodbye to her handsome houseguest anytime soon.
The thought had her bringing the glass of Chianti to her lips again and drinking deeply.
Two years had passed since Ree had spent an evening alone in the company of a man. The last encounter had ended with a screaming match inside a tent pitched in the Nevada desert. Actually “match” wasn’t the word for it as Ree had done all the screaming, peppering her accusations with the Italian curse words she’d heard her grandfather using when Nonna Benedetta was out of earshot. None of the verbiage had gotten a rise out of the recipient. Paul Ritter had barely managed to look up from the dusty dig log he so meticulously kept to respond.
“Let’s talk about this later, Regina.”
That had been Paul’s mantra throughout their previous five years of marriage, during which Ree had followed her archaeologist husband from one godforsaken dig site to another. Each time he’d promised this one would be the last and he would get a teaching post at a university. Ree wanted a home of her own. She wanted to start a family.
Two years later, she was legally separated and had filed for divorce. Paul had yet to sign the papers, not because he wanted to make their marriage work, but because he just hadn’t gotten around to it. She knew that because the one time she’d managed to reach him by telephone, he’d admitted as much, right after which he’d launched into an excited monologue on his team’s most recent findings. His work, once again, took precedence.
Regina hadn’t pressed the issue. Why rush failure? So she remained in limbo. Now she wondered, was that any better?
She glanced over at Dane. She barely knew him and yet in the span of a mere hour she’d already formed the opinion that he didn’t believe in postponing trouble or confrontations. No, he seemed the sort who faced whatever came along when it came along—from a sinking boat to a raging electrical storm to an angry woman aiming a firearm at his heart.
One broad shoulder poked from the afghan her grandmother had knitted a half-century earlier. Even the cover’s mauve-and-pink squares couldn’t detract from his masculinity. In the flickering light she noted the firm musculature on what she could see of his chest, arms and legs. More than good genes, it took discipline to get a body that looked like that. Ree respected discipline as long as it didn’t snuff out all spontaneity.
She glanced up then and realized he’d been watching her study him. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Are you hungry or would you rather just go to bed?”
His slow smile seemed to fan the heat that was flooding into her cheeks.
“I’m famished.”
It was Dane who spoke and yet Ree found herself moistening her lips. Another kind of appetite whetted as she repeated, “Famished.”
He winked then. “Yeah, but first I’d like to clean up a bit more, if that’s okay with you?”
She’d brought him a damp washcloth and towel after bandaging his hand, not trusting him to stand long enough at the bathroom sink to wash his face. But she could appreciate his desire to rinse off more of the grime.
“Of course.”
He leaned on her once again, putting one arm around her shoulders and holding the flashlight she’d provided in his good hand. With shuffling steps they followed the bouncing beam through the darkened house to the powder room just off the front parlor.
“Fresh hand towels are in the cabinet over the toilet,” she told him as he braced against the pedestal sink. Noting his hunched posture, she added, “I’ll wait outside the door just in case you need me.”
Ten minutes later, she helped him into one of the ladder-back chairs at the table in the home’s large kitchen. His face and upper body were freshly scrubbed, and his hair was as neat as his fingers had been able to make it. Ree hid a smile as she realized that Dane now smelled like the lavender rosettes from the guest soap dish. Then she sobered when he turned his head slightly and the rough stubble of his beard grazed her cheek. Certainly nothing else about the man could be considered remotely feminine.
She lit a few candles, including the one in the centerpiece on the table, and the scents of cinnamon and ginger mingled pleasantly as she moved about the familiar room, completely at ease despite the poor lighting. Ree had grown up in this house. Every squeaky floorboard and stubborn windowpane was committed to memory. Of all the massive house’s rooms, this was her favorite and thanks to her grandmother’s patience, Ree was a good enough cook to do it justice.
If houses had hearts, the kitchen was the Victorian’s. Life pulsed from here. That especially had been true when her grandmother was alive. Even now, as Ree stood in front of the late nineteenth-century cabinetry that unfortunately was starting to show its age, she could almost hear Nonna humming a Dean Martin tune, the blade of her knife making quick work of a bulb of garlic for pesto. It would pain her grandmother that the wood still needed resurfacing and more than a few of the door hinges begged for replacement. Ree had not been able to make those repairs or the many others the home required. Regret came swiftly, but she pushed it away. She swore she heard Nonna’s voice whispering to her that it was impolite to dwell on her own troubles when she had a guest to feed.
“The stove is gas, so it still works. I don’t have much in the fridge at the moment. I’d planned to go grocery shopping today, but…” She shrugged.
“No car,” Dane guessed.
“Exactly. So, grilled cheese and tomato soup okay with you?”
“Sure.”
She pulled a loaf of homemade bread from the old-fashioned metal box on the counter. As she sliced it, she asked conversationally, “So, tell me a little about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s see…” She mulled her answer as she slathered butter onto the bread and transferred the slices to a cast-iron skillet. It was appalling, but the question she wanted to ask was if someone special was waiting for him, worrying over him, back on Trillium. She had no right to ask such a question. No right to even want to ask it.
She settled on the more generic, “Why don’t you tell me about your family.”
“I’ve got a couple of sisters, Ali and Audra. They’re twins.” He grunted out a laugh then. “Of course, they’re nothing alike in either looks or personality.”
Ree sent him a smile over her shoulder, ridiculously relieved that he hadn’t spoken of a wife and kids. “That must be nice. I always thought it would be fun to have a sister or two.”
“An only child, huh?”
“Not exactly.” She stirred water into the pan of condensed soup she’d opened. “I have two half sisters and a half brother, but…we’re not close.”
Not close? The sad truth was Ree had never even met them, and only knew of their existence thanks to an entry in a diary she’d found that had belonged to her mother.
“That’s too bad.”
She decided to redirect the conversation. “So, tell me about your sisters. Are they older, younger?”
“Younger, but that doesn’t keep them from trying to run my life.” There was a smile in his voice despite the complaint. “Ali tried to talk me out of coming over to the mainland for supplies. She wanted me to wait until the morning.”
“Smart woman,” she replied pointedly, giving the soup another stir before flipping the sandwich.
“Yeah, and I can guarantee she’s not going to let me forget it. Neither of them will once they find out I’m okay.” He cleared his throat. “Wish that could be sooner rather than later. My sisters are probably pacing the floor.”
His voice brimmed with remorse. The tone told her that family was important to him. Nothing was more important, Regina knew, and so she couldn’t help but admire Dane Conlan’s priorities. Not everyone put family first. Her husband clearly wasn’t willing to, and her father hadn’t. Or, at least, Ray Masterson hadn’t put the family Regina was a part of first.
She lowered the heat on the soup. Glancing over her shoulder again, she said, “It’s nice to have people who care enough to worry about you.”
“What about you? Who’s worrying about Regina Bellini?”
No one. The sparse reply echoed painfully through her head.
Since her grandmother’s death after a long battle with congestive heart failure several months earlier, Ree had been completely alone. And lonely. So lonely. Tears threatened now and she was grateful that, in the low light, Dane could not see her blink them away.
Even so, she turned back toward the stove, stirring furiously for a moment as she collected her thoughts. “I’m pretty much on my own,” she said at last, amazed that her voice sounded so normal.
She no longer had any immediate family—at least none that acknowledged her. Nor could she count on any close girlfriends. Maintaining meaningful relationships with other women had been difficult when she’d lived like a nomad for half a decade and then had returned to her hometown with her marriage in tatters and the only person who could be of any comfort wasting away in a nursing home bed.
Ree had moved Nonna back to Peril Pointe and hired a private nurse. Between the two of them, they had tended to the fragile, elderly woman until Benedetta Bellini drew her final breath. During those dark and painful months, even if she’d had friends, Ree wouldn’t have had time for them.
She heard both surprise and sympathy in Dane’s voice when he asked, “What about your folks?”
“My mom…died when I was six,” she replied vaguely.
Ree half expected Dane to ask her how. She wasn’t sure what her answer would be, which was strange. She’d never even told Paul the details of her mother’s death beyond saying Angela Bellini had drowned. Suicide was an ugly family secret, one she’d long chosen to keep.
But all Dane said was, “God, I’m really sorry. And your dad?”
She chewed her lower lip for a moment. Another ugly family secret, and yet she found herself sharing this one.
“My mom never married my father, so he wasn’t around when I was growing up.”
She did keep the more painful details to herself, such as the fact that the real reason Ray Masterson had not wed Angela Bellini after the scared and pregnant eighteen-year-old had showed up at his doorstep was that he was already married and the father of two children with a third on the way.
“That had to be tough.”
“It was a long time ago,” she said, trying to sound as if her father’s disavowal of Ree’s very existence didn’t still wound her to the core.
“So, who raised you?”
“My mom’s folks. Great people.” She smiled now as she dished the soup into a blue porcelain bowl and put the sandwich on a matching plate.
“Are they still living?”
“No. They’re both gone. My grandfather passed away during my senior year of college. My grandmother died last Thanksgiving.”
As she set the meal in front of him, Dane surprised her by reaching for her hand. The pad of his thumb rubbed over her knuckles in a negligent caress that still had her breath hitching. “God, Ree. I’m really sorry.”
She stared at their hands, wanting so desperately to turn hers over so she could weave her fingers through his and simply hold on. It felt so good to be consoled, and, God, how she missed being touched. Her grandparents had demonstrated their love with frequent hugs, kisses and pats to her cheek. Paul had run hot and cold with his displays of affection. When a dig was going well, he’d sometimes surprise her with an embrace. If not, days could pass without so much as a brush of fingers against her arm or a chaste peck on the cheek.
“Thank you,” she replied hoarsely. Maybe it was only because Dane was still holding her hand that she admitted, “I really miss them, especially Nonna. She was something else.”
“Nonna?”
His hand fell away and Ree took the seat opposite his at the table. “It’s Italian for grandmother.”
“Tell me about them?”
It came out a question and because he seemed genuinely interested, Ree did.
“Nonna and my grandfather came over from Naples just after the Second World War. My grandfather worked in an automobile factory in the Detroit area and my grandmother stayed home raising my mother. When my mother was a girl, they came north for a vacation and stayed at Peril Pointe. The people who owned it rented out rooms and my grandparents returned every summer after that. My grandfather decided to retire early and they used their savings to buy the house and move here.”
“Did they run it as a bed-and-breakfast, too?”
She shook her head. “No. I think they planned to. They took in guests here and there, and they loved meeting new people. But then my mom died and they wound up raising me.”
“They sound like incredible people.”
“They were. And very much in love.” She smiled at the memories that always warmed her. “When my grandfather was still alive, he and Nonna would go for a walk along the beach every evening in the summer. They always held hands.”
Ree had envied them that. Their grand, sweeping love affair had spanned more than five decades of marriage, while even the most tepid of emotions hadn’t been evident just a few short years after her and Paul’s wedding day.
“I can’t imagine that kind of love,” she murmured.
“My sisters seem to have found it,” Dane said thoughtfully after chewing a bite of sandwich.
“They’re both married?”
He nodded. “And Audra’s expecting her first baby in the fall. A girl. The doctor says she’ll arrive around Halloween, but if the kid is anything like Audra, she’ll be so stubborn she’ll hold out till Christmas.”
Interesting, but beneath the humor she thought he’d sounded almost wistful. And so she asked boldly, “What about you? Have you found that kind of love?”
Dane had spooned up a mouthful of soup as Ree spoke. Then he nearly choked on it as the name Julie Weston blasted into his brain with all the subtlety of a stick of dynamite detonating. It was the first time he’d thought of his girlfriend since arriving at Ree’s. He acknowledged that truth with a stab of guilt, followed swiftly by regret, because he knew that neither the knot on his head nor his near-death experience was the real reason she’d failed to show up on his mental radar.
Everyone kept telling him how perfect Julie was for him. After nearly three years of dating, he’d be the first to admit she was a fantastic woman: smart, funny, pretty in an understated sort of way. She cooked a mean beef stew, could carry on an intelligent conversation and was the ideal euchre partner, never reneging or failing to take a trick with trump. But too often he found himself wishing for a loner hand and thinking that something was missing.
One question haunted Dane: Was this all there was?
Ali had Luke. Audra had Seth. Both couples seemed to have hit the mother lode of happiness. They deserved their bliss. Dane didn’t begrudge them a moment of it. But as they feathered their new nests and made plans to start families, he felt envious, and maybe even a little empty.
He was thirty-five, settled and successful. During the past few months he’d begun to agree with Julie: Time was ticking away and they weren’t getting any younger. Yet marriage to her seemed utterly anticlimactic, an epilogue rather than an exciting new chapter in his life. He had enough respect for the institution that he didn’t think it should be that way.
“When are we going to make it official, Dane?” Julie had asked him the question that very afternoon. He’d had no answer for her when he’d left Trillium, so eager to escape that he’d foolishly headed out into a storm on the pretext of getting supplies that the resort hardly needed posthaste.
He glanced across the table at Regina Bellini. God help him, but he did have an answer for Julie now, and it wasn’t one she was going to like. But how could he make a lifetime commitment to one woman when in the space of a couple hours a virtual stranger had helped convinced him that would be a huge mistake?
Love at first sight? Nah. No way. But something was going on here. Something disturbing enough that it had caused him to forget completely the woman with whom he had been inching toward matrimony.
“Well?” Ree asked.
He blinked. “S-sorry?”
“I asked if you’ve managed to find that kind of love.”
The candle flickered briefly between them on the tabletop, the dim light making the room intimate as the revelation in his head slipped past his lips.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
They talked for another hour sitting in her homey kitchen. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but the storm was moving off. Dane credited the food, the painkillers and a second glass of wine for the fact that he no longer felt so shaky and weak. He credited Regina for the fact that he was actually enjoying himself on what undoubtedly had been one of the worst nights of his life.
“Well…” Ree stood and began gathering up the dishes. After depositing them in the sink, she said, “You’re probably getting tired.”
“Not especially. I’m a bit of a night owl,” he admitted. “Besides, I read somewhere that people who take a blow to the head shouldn’t go to sleep—at least not alone. Something about the possibility of lapsing into a coma.”
He couldn’t resist flirting with her and he enjoyed immensely watching one side of her mouth quirk up.
“I think that’s an old wives’ tale,” she replied dryly, but she settled back onto the chair opposite his.
She didn’t rise again for another two hours. By then, they both were yawning.
“I’ll show you to your room,” she told him as she blew out the candle and flipped on the flashlight.
Dane pulled the afghan more securely around his midsection and stood. Even though he felt steady on his feet, he didn’t object when she drew near to assist him.
For the past couple hours they had talked companionably about everything from the right way to eat French fries—doused in mustard rather than catsup—to whether the Detroit Lions would ever manage a winning season. Neither would bet on it. Beneath the newly established camaraderie, awareness had simmered. Now, as he walked with her through the quiet house, that awareness returned to a rolling boil.
“I think you’ll be most comfortable in here. This is the only one of the seven bedrooms located on the main floor.”
Ree opened the door and Dane knew right away that it was hers. The light bewitching floral scent had him inhaling deeply. In the dim light he eyed the big four-poster bed with its fluffy down comforter and then cleared his throat.
“This is your room.”
“Yes.”
“Where will you be sleeping?” It came as quite a surprise to realize he was holding his breath after he asked the question.
“I’ll be in the first room to the left at the top of stairs.”
When he started to protest, she shook her head. “I’ll be perfectly comfortable there. It’s the room I slept in before my grandmother died. Besides, I don’t think you’re ready to navigate stairs in a strange house in the dark. I’ll feel better with you in here.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She was still standing beside him, one arm wrapped loosely around his waist. It took little effort for Dane to turn until they were facing one another. When he bent, he intended only to brush a kiss over her cheek, but she turned her head slightly or maybe he turned his. Either way, his mouth settled over hers and the chaste peck graduated to a kiss full of curiosity.
Still, he might have pulled back and managed to bank the need, but she made a soft moaning sound in the back of her throat that had the same effect as pouring kerosene on a campfire. Heat flared and good intentions were forgotten. He framed her face with his hands. He had to do something with them, because if they were allowed to roam any lower he knew he would be doomed.
And that was before the afghan wrapped around his waist tumbled to the floor right along with the flashlight she’d been holding.
The kiss ended on his strangled laugh and Ree was chuckling as well when Dane rested his forehead against hers.
“I seem to have lost something,” he said at last. “And you, too.”
Oh, Regina knew she’d lost something. Forget the flashlight, she’d lost her mind. This was crazy, foolish and she wasn’t the sort of woman who did crazy, foolish things. She’d toed the line her entire life, eager to spare her grandparents the worry and grief her mother’s impulsiveness had caused.
Thinking of them, she said, “I’d better go.”
“Yes. You should.”
But he didn’t release her and she found herself almost glad. It felt so good to be held, to be wanted. It took all of her willpower to finally step away—and to keep her gaze level with his before she turned toward the door.
“I’ll leave the flashlight with you. Good night, Dane Conlan,” she called over her shoulder when she reached the threshold. “Sleep well.”
He laughed, sounding bemused, and she thought she heard him mutter, “Yeah, like that’s going to happen now.”
Alone in the room upstairs, Ree lit a candle, tugged the dustcovers off the furniture and dropped heavily onto the side of her old bed. She’d never been this wound up or felt this…this physically aware. She scrubbed her hands over her face, amazed by and a little ashamed of her body’s reaction.
As she made up the bed with fresh linens, it dawned on Ree that she’d forgotten to grab a nightgown from the dresser before leaving Dane in her room. She wasn’t fool enough to tempt fate now by going back for it, so she stripped off her clothes and climbed into bed wearing only her underwear.
With a tortured sigh she realized that was one garment more than what the handsome man tucked between the sheets downstairs had on.
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN Ree descended the stairs early the next morning after dressing hastily in the cropped pants and pullover she’d worn the evening before, the scent of frying bacon greeted her. She found Dane in the kitchen standing in front of the stove, his hair wet from an apparent shower and a bath towel hooked low around his waist. A bouquet of bruises bloomed on the middle of his back, but that wasn’t the reason she sucked in a breath. The same outrageous tug of desire she’d felt the night before was still there. It hadn’t moved off with the last of the rain. And she still had no idea how to deal with it.
She cleared her throat. “Good morning.”
Dane turned and offered a smile, revealing that solitary dimple that had haunted her dreams.
“It’s better than a good morning. It’s a great morning. The sun’s shining. Birds are singing. I’m alive.”
Despite the offhanded way in which he said it, she got the feeling he truly meant it. Glancing out the window at Lake Michigan, she remembered the way the waves had heaved and bucked against the shore the evening before. The great lake was calm right now, but it could be brutal and unforgiving under the temper of a storm. He was indeed a lucky man.
“I take it you’re feeling better.”
“Much.” He nodded toward the frying bacon. “I hope you don’t mind, but I rummaged through your fridge and decided to start breakfast.”
She swallowed hard. A gorgeous, half-naked man was standing in her kitchen preparing a meal for her. He’d even made coffee.
“I could get used to this,” she murmured and then was pretty sure she blushed. She couldn’t believe the direction her thoughts were taking. To hide her consternation, she asked, “Finding everything okay?”
He nodded. “You have an amazingly organized kitchen. Everything is right where it should be. Well, except for the coffee.”
“You didn’t find it in the canister marked Coffee?” she asked dryly.
“I found it, but the grounds hold their freshness longer if you keep them in the freezer.”
Regina got down a mug from one of the cupboards and poured herself a cupful of the beverage in question. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said on a chuckle as she stirred in some nondairy creamer.
She leaned against the counter and watched him flip the sizzling strips of bacon with a fork. He looked completely at ease in the kitchen, obviously no stranger to the workings of a stove. Taking a sip of coffee, she nearly sighed. He made a mean cup of joe on top of his other culinary skills. It was scary how the marks in the man’s plus column just kept mounting.
Although she didn’t mean to compare him to Paul Ritter, she found herself doing just that. Her husband didn’t know a coffee pot from a roasting pan. He had always been too distracted by his work and too disinterested in the mechanics of meal preparation to offer to cook her breakfast. He’d never so much as poured her a bowl of cereal. Ree’s gaze strayed to the towel around Dane’s hips. Moistening her lips, she admitted that Paul had never looked quite like that while wearing terry cloth, either.
The toaster popped up and she jumped right along with the delivery of two pieces of evenly browned bread. She wasn’t a woman to let passion overrule dignity and decorum. Nor was she a woman ruled by impulse. That had been her mother, with disastrous results. Ree wasn’t like Angela. She’d made a point of proving that her entire life. As for last night and that kiss, it was but a momentary lapse brought on by stress and the storm.
“Everything okay?” Dane asked.
She smiled to hide her embarrassment. “Barely a sip of coffee and I’m already jumpy.” As he buttered the toast, she added, “I see the electricity came back on.”
“Yep. About six this morning.”
“I wonder if that means phone service has been restored as well.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I already checked for a dial tone. Nothing.”
As she watched, he cracked an egg one-handed into a skillet of melted butter. The man was a regular Wolfgang Puck. Her grandmother would approve. To Nonna, cooking had been on par with praying.
Although he appeared as at ease as she wielding a spatula, good manners compelled her to ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Nah. I’ve got everything under control. And cooking breakfast is the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”
“I really didn’t do that much,” she demurred.
But Dane grinned. That solitary dimple flashed briefly in the stubble on his jaw, and her pulse shot off like a damned emergency flare.
“You did. More than you know.” Before she could ponder what he meant, he asked, “So, how do you like your eggs?”
“That’s an easy one. This morning calls for sunny-side up.”
Just as she had the night before, Ree found herself seated across from Dane at her kitchen table. The conversation flowed surprisingly easily given the way his gaze would sometimes linger on her lips. In the bright morning light Ree realized that his eyes were an interesting cross between gray and blue, and they definitely clashed with the green and purple welt protruding from his temple.
“You’ll need to see a doctor today.”
“I know. When the phone comes back on I’ll make an appointment right after I call my sisters to let them know I’m okay.”
“You’ll probably need stitches.”
He glanced at his bandaged hand. “Possibly.”
“And maybe even a tetanus shot.”
His lips twisted into a grimace. “Yeah, that’s a possibly, too.”
“Do you think they’ll recover your boat?”
“I don’t know how much of it will be left to recover.” Then he shrugged. “I’ve got insurance. It wasn’t fancy anyway.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Not like this house. I didn’t get a chance to appreciate it last night with the lights out and my head on fire.”
“That’s understandable.”
“The detail work is incredible. I’m guessing it was built in the late 1800s, probably between 1885 and 1890.”
“Eighteen eighty-seven,” she confirmed, surprised by his perception.
Motioning with his fork he asked, “Do you know if those are the original cabinets?”
“Yes. The hardware is vintage, too.” She frowned at the worn finish of the cabinet doors and tarnished brass knobs before her gaze dipped to the scored floorboards that peaked from beneath a faded throw rug in front of the stove. “I’m afraid most of the house could use a fresh coat of paint and other renovations.”
Ree could afford none of that right now. She would be lucky to scrape together enough money to pay the taxes when they came due in the fall. Her grandmother’s long illness and then Nonna’s request that both she and her deceased husband’s bodies be interred in the family plot in their native Italy, had depleted not just her grandmother’s bank account but Regina’s limited savings as well.
Dane lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “That’s cosmetic. The structure appears good.”
“For the most part,” she agreed. But since the house was all she had left of her family, it pained her to see it in such shabby condition. “It needs new shingles, though, and part of the floor on the side porch is a casualty of dry rot.”
“Basic maintenance,” he said with another shrug, unaware that Ree had been racking her brain for months trying to figure out how she could afford those necessities. “Get it fixed up and you could turn it into a world-class bed-and-breakfast. The view alone would have customers lining up at the door.”
“I’ve thought about that,” she admitted.
She had more than thought about it, actually. But opening her home to paying overnight guests still required an initial investment. It would take money—and a lot of it—to whip the Victorian into the kind of condition it needed to be in to attract high-paying clientele and hire the required staff. In the meantime, the bank wasn’t likely to extend that kind of credit to a woman who had no stable source of income or track record for running such a business.
It was breaking her heart to think that despite all her efforts, she might wind up selling the place after all.
Dane’s low whistle pulled her back to the conversation. “Did you know that your banister is made of quarter-sawn oak? They don’t make homes like this grand old lady any longer.”
“No, they don’t, which is why I don’t want to see it destroyed by some developer who isn’t as interested in preserving history and beauty as much as he is in making a quick buck.”
“So don’t sell.”
She wiped her mouth on a napkin as the familiar panic settled in.
“It’s not that easy. I own the place outright now. My grandmother left it to me when she died. But the taxes…” With a sigh, she slumped against the back of the chair.
“Steep, I’m sure, especially for this much frontage on Lake Michigan.”
“And especially for me at the moment.” It galled her to admit, “I’m sort of between jobs.”
Actually she hadn’t had a steady job in years. During the time she’d tagged around after Paul, she had worked as a freelance writer for a travel magazine. The pay was decent when she sold something, and living out of a tent, or at times a small trailer, had kept expenses pretty minimal. But her journalism degree hadn’t seen much of a workout since she’d returned to Peril Pointe. In any case, even with the aid of a nurse, caring for her grandmother had been a full-time job. Ree now had her résumé in with the local newspaper and a northern Michigan magazine. But even if she secured full-time employment, the aging Victorian with its constant upkeep and eye-popping taxes would remain well beyond her budget.
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Jackie Braun
Regina Bellini doesn't believe in love at first sight. After all, she knows firsthand that thinking with your heart can only lead to trouble.But then Regina is forced to work for the one man who makes her heart stand still–Dane Conlan. And the storm of emotion brewing within her is undeniable. Perhaps even enough to tempt her into saying yes to her boss, in spite of what–and who–stands between them.
He was staying the night. Though her invitation hadn’t exactly been gracious.
Dane noted the furrow between the woman’s brows and the tight compression of her mouth, which still somehow managed to look sexy and inviting. She wasn’t happy with the arrangement.
He wasn’t certain he was either.
He did need medical attention, but that wasn’t the reason for his trepidation when it came to staying the night. The rest had to do with the woman standing before him. She made him nervous as hell.
Because he’d never responded to any woman quite the way he was responding to Regina Bellini.
Dear Reader,
What is an honorable man to do when he finds himself falling in love with a married woman? That’s Dane Conlan’s dilemma in Saying Yes to the Boss.
He knows he’s smitten the moment Regina Bellini opens the door to her house and thinks he’s someone else. He knows who she is, even though they’ve never met. After all, destiny requires no introduction. But the road from “Hello” to “I do” is not smooth for this pair. I’ve made sure of that. For the final installment of my CONLANS OF TRILLIUM ISLAND trilogy I have paired a woman who is ashamed of her passionate nature with a man who is bound by his honor.
Ree has stayed in a loveless marriage because it is safer than exploring the emotions that led to her mother’s mistakes and ruin. Dane knows that acting on his desire will come at the cost of his self-respect.
Let me know if you like how it all works out. Contact me at www.jackiebraun.com.
Best wishes,
Jackie Braun
Saying Yes to the Boss
Jackie Braun
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JACKIE BRAUN earned a degree in journalism from Central Michigan University in 1987 and spent more than sixteen years working full-time at newspapers, including eleven years as an award-winning editorial writer, before quitting her day job to freelance and write fiction. She is a past RITA® Award finalist and a member of the Romance Writers of America. She lives in mid-Michigan with her husband and their young son. She can be reached through her Web site at www.jackiebraun.com (http://www.jackiebraun.com).
For my big brothers, Bill, Jim and Tom, and in memory of Danny.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u94f855df-66f4-5102-b294-8d6c02329beb)
CHAPTER TWO (#u5f20802f-72e3-5d9d-b491-ca0e70843020)
CHAPTER THREE (#ue15b6db0-3eca-5bb0-8a5c-05d08c969600)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
REGINA BELLINI WAS expecting company.
When she heard the knock at the door, she set aside her glass of Chianti, slid her feet into the soft leather heels she’d picked up during a trip to Italy and stood. Anticipation hummed through her body as she smoothed down the fabric of a slim-fitting skirt and carefully retucked her white silk blouse.
As she passed the gilt-edged mirror that hung in the foyer, she paused to check her appearance. She fussed for a moment, pushing the tumbled mass of dark curls back from her face. Humidity had made a mockery of the hour she’d spent that morning blow-drying her hair straight. Still, she looked presentable.
And so she picked up the shotgun.
It wasn’t loaded, which was a pity she decided as she eyed the man’s silhouette through the oval of stained glass on the old Victorian’s front door. The double barrel, however, made quite a statement. Raising the gun, she swung open the door and pointed its business end directly at the man’s broad chest.
“For the last time, I’m not selling,” Regina said, hollering to be heard over the storm that had turned the July night chilly and inhospitable.
“And I’m not buying, lady,” the man promised, stumbling back a step.
It was not quite nine o’clock but it was nearly pitch-black outside thanks to dark thunderclouds. Lightning cracked as he spoke, illuminating the scene more clearly than did the meager light that burned overhead on the generous expanse of porch. In that brief flash, the shock on the man’s face was unmistakable. It registered right along with the fact that he was handsome as sin and not the pesky developer Regina had been expecting.
“I thought you were somebody else,” she sputtered in surprise.
“Yeah, I got that.” The stranger’s deep voice sounded strained, but it held a hint of amusement. He motioned toward the gun. “Mind pointing that thing someplace else?”
Regina hesitated. He was soaked to the skin, short dark hair plastered to his head. Yet even wet he exuded that same cocky sense of self-assurance she had come up against a little too often lately. She tilted her head to one side and asked, “Are you a developer?”
His dark brows tugged together in an incredulous frown. “Are you going to shoot me if I say yes?”
“You’ll have to answer the question to find out,” she challenged.
The man divided a considering look between Regina and the lethal weapon she still gripped.
“No, ma’am,” he said solemnly and held up a hand as if he were giving an oath.
It was then that she noticed the blood. Bright crimson, it leaked down his arm from a gash across his palm.
“My God! You’re hurt.” Regina quickly set aside the gun and reached for him, tugging him partway into the foyer for a better look. “What happened to you?”
Despite the fact that the stately home was perched on a narrow point of land that jutted into one of the Great Lakes, his reply was the last thing she expected.
“Shipwrecked.”
Then his eyes rolled back and he stumbled forward into her arms in a dead faint, the weight of him taking them both to the floor. More than six feet of man lay on top of her—more than six feet of a wounded and unconscious man. His bulk made it impossible for Regina to scoot far enough inside the house to kick the door closed with the leg that wasn’t trapped between his thighs.
The rain was coming down in a furious assault now, the wind slanting it sideways so that it marched with ruthless precision across the covered porch’s wood floor and then doused them both with its chilly spray.
The man moaned and, coming to, raised his head slightly from where it had come to rest after their fall: facedown between Regina’s breasts. He stared into the gaping V of her blouse for a long moment before transferring his gaze to her face.
Concussed or not, he had the nerve to smile.
“Given my position, I probably should introduce myself,” he said, the words slightly slurred.
Was that a dimple denting his cheek? She fought the urge to be charmed by either it or the bemused humor lighting his otherwise bleary eyes. How could he laugh at a time like this? A year from now, ten years from now, she might recall this bizarre situation and find it funny. Right now she had to settle for being mortified.
That was an emotion that didn’t sit well with Regina, which is why her tone was clipped when she replied, “No, given the position of my left knee, you probably should get off me. Now.”
He slipped obediently to the side, grunting with the effort. Once on the floor, he rolled onto his back and groaned in earnest.
“Are you okay?” she asked, feeling slightly guilty about her less than sympathetic treatment of him. “Do you think you can sit up?”
He ignored her questions, pointing out instead, “Do you realize that you’ve threatened me with great bodily harm twice and I don’t even know your name?”
Oh, yes, she definitely felt guilty.
Generally speaking, she wasn’t an insensitive woman, much less a violent one. But the persistent badgering and—lately—veiled threats from a local developer had definitely taken their toll on her manners. Still, this man needed medical attention. At the very least, he deserved to be brought in out of the damp night air.
Oh, what Nonna Benedetta would say if she were still alive. Regina’s Italian grandmother had been such a stickler when it came to offering hospitality to house-guests, whether they had come to her door invited or not.
“I’m Regina Bellini. Friends call me Ree,” she said as she stood and attempted to adjust her clothing.
Blood was smeared across the sleeve of her now soggy blouse, the top button of which hung by a useless thread. She pulled the lapels together in an attempt at modesty, which seemed absurd given the fact that the man’s face had been pressed into her cleavage mere minutes ago.
He must have read her mind. His gaze dipped low before he made eye contact again. Awareness sizzled, as dangerous as the electrical storm blowing in off Lake Michigan. Maybe it was only the man’s supine position that made the situation seem so intimate.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ree. I’m Dane Conlan.”
He struggled to sitting with her help, and she was finally able to close the door, which he then leaned against, looking thoroughly exhausted from the effort.
In the foyer’s more generous light she could see that his plain white T-shirt was covered with grime and blood, and the jeans he wore were ripped, exposing one battered knee. He’d apparently lost his shoes and socks, assuming he’d worn them in the first place. His feet were bare and covered in sand and other natural debris from his hike up the dunes that bounded the lake. What she could see of his toes appeared puckered from his time in the water.
“You said you were shipwrecked,” she said, crouching beside him.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. My boat hit some rocks, went down about half a mile from shore. I was coming across from the island, but I got blown off course a bit.”
“I’ll say. The main dock is five miles south of here as the crow flies,” she said. Her own paralyzing fear of water had her asking sharply, “What were you thinking, taking a boat out in a storm?”
He shrugged, but looked chagrined.
“The weather wasn’t that bad when I started out and Trillium is only a few miles out from the mainland,” he said, referring to the large island visible from the docks in Petoskey. On a clear day, it could be seen from the point on which Ree’s house stood sentinel. “I figured I could make it to shore before things got too ugly.”
When she merely raised an eyebrow, he said defensively, “I would have, too, if the engine hadn’t quit on me. I started to drift. I radioed for help, but by that time the boat’s hull was already kissing rocks, so I decided to swim for it.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t drown.”
He regarded her intently for a moment.
“You saved me.”
“What?”
“I saw your lights and kept swimming toward them. I thought I was having a near-death experience.” One side of his mouth lifted in a grin, mitigating the soberness of the moment. “Is this heaven?”
Despite the frightening picture his words conjured up, she couldn’t help herself. She smiled in return. The man’s charm was downright lethal.
“No. And neither is it an emergency room. I think I’d better call an ambulance.”
“Don’t. I’m fine.” He attempted to stand and then sank back to his knees on a groan. “I just need a minute,” he muttered.
Ree was a bit more pragmatic in her assessment of the situation. “You’re bleeding and you passed out. You need to see a doctor.” Raising an eyebrow for emphasis, she added, “It’s obvious you’ve hit your head. You appear delusional.”
“God, you’re something else.”
He wasn’t the first man to tell her so. In fact, the developer she’d been expecting that very evening had used the word “unbelievable” modified by a most foul expletive when she’d spoken to him by telephone earlier in the day. But Dane Conlan’s tone seemed to turn the words into a compliment.
“Just let me use your phone,” he said. “I’ve got friends in town. I’m sure one of them can come get me.”
She relented with a nod and then helped him to his feet.
“I would offer to drive you, but my car is in the shop,” she said.
“That’s okay. I don’t want to be any more trouble than I’ve already been.”
A man who didn’t want to be any trouble. In Ree’s personal experience members of the opposite sex only rarely had been anything but.
When he stood, Dane weaved precariously for a moment before finally leaning against her for support. He wasn’t overly tall. In her heeled shoes she was only half a head shorter than he was, putting him just over six feet. Nor was he thickly built, edging more toward wiry than stocky. But the hand she placed around his waist as she helped him into the Victorian’s parlor was touching taut muscle.
A fire burned cheerfully in the hearth. She guided him toward the wing chair positioned closest to it, and forced herself not to think about what the man’s wet, grimy clothing would do to the upholstery. She had more pressing problems than soiled cushions or Dane Conlan, who would be gone from her home soon enough. Then she picked up the telephone and bit back an oath.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, apparently noting her grim expression.
She set the receiver back in the cradle. “Storm must have taken out the line.”
“I don’t suppose you have a cell?”
“It’s in my car.”
“The car that’s in the shop?”
“That would be the one.”
It galled her to think about her yellow Volkswagen Beetle—a refurbished original rather than one of the newer models—sitting uselessly on a hydraulic lift at Hank’s Collision & Repair. Regina had argued with Hank earlier that day over having to pay for a loaner when this was the second time in a month her car had been in because of its faulty starter. Finally she’d stomped out and caught a ride back to Peril Pointe with one of the mechanics. Temper had cost her the rental of a cheap replacement vehicle as well as the use of the cell phone she’d left stowed in the car’s glovebox.
“How far is town? Maybe I can walk.”
“Seven miles by road.” She crossed her arms over her chest as she regarded him. “On a night like this and in your present condition, I don’t think it would be wise.”
“Neighbors?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nearest house is three miles south of here. I’m afraid Peril Pointe is rather remote.”
Which was precisely why developers were clamoring to buy it. The house was situated on the most western tip of seven acres of premium property fronting Lake Michigan. It was prime real estate. The yearly taxes alone put a strain on Ree’s currently limited budget.
He blew out a gusty breath and settled back in the chair. “Well, then, unless you’re going to turn me out into the storm, it looks like I’ll be spending the night.”
She watched his gaze detour briefly to her ruined blouse. Once again awareness lit his eyes as he offered that charming smile that had a single dimple winking low in one cheek. The man could have been on his death bed and she would bet he’d still find the energy to flirt with the nurses.
Ree glanced at the framed photograph of Nonna Benedetta that was perched on the mantel. Her grandmother had been a delightful woman with a firm belief in duty and enough patience to deserve beatification.
With a sigh of resignation, Ree replied, “I guess so.”
I guess so. Not exactly a gracious invitation. Dane noted the furrow between the woman’s neatly arched brows and the tight compression of her mouth, which still somehow managed to look sexy and inviting. Regina Bellini wasn’t happy with the arrangement.
He wasn’t certain he was, either.
He did need medical attention. Not necessarily the trip to the E.R. she had suggested, but the gash on his hand could use a few butterfly bandages—okay, maybe a stitch or two—and his head felt as if the entire drum section of the high school’s marching band was using it to pound out a cadence.
But those weren’t the only reasons for his trepidation when it came to staying the night. The rest had to do with the woman standing before him. She made him nervous as hell and it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’d leveled a double barrel at his chest.
He’d never responded to any woman quite the way he was responding to Regina Bellini. She was beautiful, lushly so with that cloud of dark hair, generous mouth and a pair of heavily fringed eyes that held enough secrets to keep members of the opposite sex curious.
And he was curious, although some things he already knew. She had a body built to complement a man’s: not quite slim, not overly curvaceous, but definitely soft and yielding in the places that mattered most.
More than her array of appealing physical attributes, however, he admired her sheer nerve. This was no shrinking violet, no damsel in distress. She’d answered the door toting a gun, for God’s sake. He grinned at the recollection. Who knew that having his life threatened would prove to be such a turn-on?
And he was turned on. Despite the brutal physical abuse Mother Nature had meted out during the past couple of hours, his libido was humming along in overdrive. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.
“Is it a private joke or are you going to clue me in?” Regina asked, apparently having noted the slight quirking of his lips.
“Just can’t get over my luck today,” he replied smoothly. “I cheated death. Twice.”
Her expression turned contrite as she knotted her fingers together. “About that. I want to apologize for the way I answered the door.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve had a little…trouble lately.”
“With developers?” he guessed, recalling her questions about his occupation.
“Yes.”
“Apology accepted.” When he started to ask about the trouble, though, she shook her head.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Lightning flashed then, followed by a serendipitous clap of thunder. When the sky was dark once again, so was the house, except for the flickering fire. Dane was beginning to think the woman could handle anything. Other than muttering an oath in what sounded like Italian, Regina Bellini didn’t miss a beat. She found a box of matches, lit a couple of candles in the hurricane lamps on the room’s antique tables and rolled another fat log onto the fire.
Dane decided the only thing left to do was joke about their lousy luck.
“I must have done something to tick off the gods. Do you believe in fate?” he asked.
The woman apparently wasn’t in a joking mood. She regarded him for a moment before answering his question seriously.
“I believe we’re responsible for our own situations, our own destiny. No matter what life throws at us, it’s ultimately up to us to find a way to deal with it and make the best of it.”
“Lemonade from lemons?” he asked and she nodded.
That had long been Dane’s philosophy as well. Too many people he knew expected something for nothing or complained copiously rather than rolling up their shirtsleeves and getting down to business to change what they didn’t like.
Dane put his faith in hard work and perseverance. Both yielded results. But, thinking back on the hour he’d spent bobbing around in the waves of Lake Michigan before being spat onto the shore at Peril Pointe, he decided maybe luck played a role, too. How else to explain his presence in the beautiful Regina Bellini’s front parlor?
Lemonade from lemons.
“I like lemonade,” he murmured. His gaze lingered on her pursed lips. “Sweet is nice, but tart is better.”
She shook her head and sighed heavily in exasperation. But when she spoke, her request had his mouth going dry.
“Take off your clothes, Don Juan.”
He blinked and on a startled laugh replied, “Well, that certainly would be making the most of a bad situation, but gee, Ree, I hardly know you. I like to take a woman out to dinner first, maybe see a movie, before we spend the better part of the evening—”
He wasn’t able to finish the sentence before she tossed a crocheted afghan in his direction. It wound up draped half over his head.
“Your clothes are wet and filthy, Mr. Conlan,” she said. “You need to get out of them, and I’m afraid that afghan is about the only thing around here that’s going to fit you unless you’d prefer to wear my bathrobe.”
“Call me Dane. And, just for the record, I prefer to remove women’s garments, not put them on.”
She made a little humming noise that might have been the result of annoyance or reluctant amusement.
He scooted to the front of the chair and peeled off the damp shirt, using the cleanest edge to wipe up the blood drying on his arm.
“I’m messing up your upholstery,” he said and grimaced. “And your clothes. Hope that blouse wasn’t one of your favorites.”
Her expression seemed to soften. “Well, it’s not as if you planned to faint in my arms.”
Planned? No. He considered that a little side bonus given his lousy day. Still, he cleared his throat, feeling the need to clarify, “Men prefer the term ‘passed out.’”
He was pretty sure she was smiling when she turned her back to him.
“The rest of your clothes, please.”
Dane stripped down to bare skin, handing over the remnants of his favorite jeans with a sigh of regret, and then he wrapped the afghan around his body toga-style. When she was gone, he tried to stand without holding the mantel for support. He wasn’t quite successful, but he felt far better than he had an hour ago when he’d washed onto the beach, coughing up water, his arms, legs and lungs burning from the effort it had taken him to get there.
He hadn’t been teasing her about following the Victorian’s lights. They were all he’d seen, those and a light on some structure closer to the shore, beacons of hope that had kept him putting one arm in front of the other as waves tossed him and currents tugged at him with disorienting force. Now those lights were gone as well thanks to the storm. He shivered at the thought of what would have happened to him had the electricity failed earlier.
“I can get you another blanket if you’re cold.”
He hadn’t heard her return, but he glanced over to find her standing next to him, brows furrowed in concern. She’d changed into a pair of capri pants and a pullover that was probably some pastel shade, although he couldn’t discern its color in the firelight. Her feet were bare and the ponytail she’d swept her hair into exposed the graceful line of her neck. She looked younger, softer. And yet he still felt it, that insane blast of attraction that had him wondering if he’d struck his head harder than he’d thought.
“Dane?”
He realized he was staring and coughed. “No, I’m fine. The past few hours are catching up with me is all.”
“I’m sure. You had quite the ordeal.”
In her hands she held a first-aid kit and a bottle of painkillers.
He nodded toward the bottle. “Got anything stronger than ibuprofen?”
The smile she offered was sympathetic. “Sorry, no, but I had just opened a really good bottle of Chianti before you knocked at my door. I’m willing to share.”
“You don’t have anything with a little more…kick?”
As a general rule, he wasn’t one to wallow in the false comfort of hard liquor, but he could do with a good bracing belt of whiskey right about now.
“You probably shouldn’t even have wine,” she told him, sounding almost prim. “But I’m feeling indulgent. Sit.”
She didn’t wait for him to comply, but gently nudged him back into the chair and then knelt on the floor in front of him.
“Let me see your hand.”
Dane did as Regina instructed, deciding he could do with a little TLC and pampering after all he’d been through. Then he sucked in a sharp breath along with an oath when she dabbed the cut on his palm with enough stinging antiseptic to kill half the bacteria in the free world.
“God! Blow on it or something,” he begged between gritted teeth.
“That would defeat the purpose of disinfecting it.”
His eyes were watering. His hand was on fire. “I’ll take my chances. A nasty case of gangrene has to be less painful.”
He leaned over to blow on it himself. When he looked up afterward their gazes held. The air seemed to sizzle as he watched the firelight reflected in her dark eyes. She had questions, too. He saw them there. And it came as a huge relief to discover that he wasn’t the only one mired in this odd, instantaneous need.
The moment stretched before she finally looked away and muttered, “Men are such babies.”
“You’re not going to start in with that argument about how if it were up to us to give birth the human race would have ended with Adam, are you?”
No hint of feminine interest remained, but he felt sure he hadn’t imagined it. She smiled at him with the same smug superiority he’d often seen on his sisters’ faces.
“No. We both know which one is the weaker sex. Why rub it in?”
Then she ran the cotton swab of antiseptic over his broken skin again.
Dane decided to change the subject. To take his mind off the pain, he asked, “So, what have you got against developers that makes you keep a shotgun handy?”
“You mean besides the fact that the one I’ve had to deal with lately is greedy and unprincipled and only interested in buying Peril Pointe so he can tear down my home and put up condos or another high-priced resort that will make that snooty Saybrook’s on Trillium look like a pauper’s retirement community?”
She was affixing butterfly bandages across the ravaged skin of his palm during her vehement response and Dane grimaced. No way in hell he was going to admit to her that in the most basic sense of the word he was a developer or that he and his two sisters actually owned the resort she’d referred to as “that snooty Saybrook’s.”
So, when she finished her minidiatribe, he worked up what he hoped was a charming smile.
“I’ll take that wine now, please.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE grandfather clock chimed out the hour as they sipped their wine. It was only ten, but it seemed much later. Indeed, it felt as if hours had passed since Regina first opened the door to find a drenched and injured Dane Conlan on the other side of it. With the electricity out and no phone service for who knew how long, it was clear she wouldn’t be saying goodbye to her handsome houseguest anytime soon.
The thought had her bringing the glass of Chianti to her lips again and drinking deeply.
Two years had passed since Ree had spent an evening alone in the company of a man. The last encounter had ended with a screaming match inside a tent pitched in the Nevada desert. Actually “match” wasn’t the word for it as Ree had done all the screaming, peppering her accusations with the Italian curse words she’d heard her grandfather using when Nonna Benedetta was out of earshot. None of the verbiage had gotten a rise out of the recipient. Paul Ritter had barely managed to look up from the dusty dig log he so meticulously kept to respond.
“Let’s talk about this later, Regina.”
That had been Paul’s mantra throughout their previous five years of marriage, during which Ree had followed her archaeologist husband from one godforsaken dig site to another. Each time he’d promised this one would be the last and he would get a teaching post at a university. Ree wanted a home of her own. She wanted to start a family.
Two years later, she was legally separated and had filed for divorce. Paul had yet to sign the papers, not because he wanted to make their marriage work, but because he just hadn’t gotten around to it. She knew that because the one time she’d managed to reach him by telephone, he’d admitted as much, right after which he’d launched into an excited monologue on his team’s most recent findings. His work, once again, took precedence.
Regina hadn’t pressed the issue. Why rush failure? So she remained in limbo. Now she wondered, was that any better?
She glanced over at Dane. She barely knew him and yet in the span of a mere hour she’d already formed the opinion that he didn’t believe in postponing trouble or confrontations. No, he seemed the sort who faced whatever came along when it came along—from a sinking boat to a raging electrical storm to an angry woman aiming a firearm at his heart.
One broad shoulder poked from the afghan her grandmother had knitted a half-century earlier. Even the cover’s mauve-and-pink squares couldn’t detract from his masculinity. In the flickering light she noted the firm musculature on what she could see of his chest, arms and legs. More than good genes, it took discipline to get a body that looked like that. Ree respected discipline as long as it didn’t snuff out all spontaneity.
She glanced up then and realized he’d been watching her study him. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Are you hungry or would you rather just go to bed?”
His slow smile seemed to fan the heat that was flooding into her cheeks.
“I’m famished.”
It was Dane who spoke and yet Ree found herself moistening her lips. Another kind of appetite whetted as she repeated, “Famished.”
He winked then. “Yeah, but first I’d like to clean up a bit more, if that’s okay with you?”
She’d brought him a damp washcloth and towel after bandaging his hand, not trusting him to stand long enough at the bathroom sink to wash his face. But she could appreciate his desire to rinse off more of the grime.
“Of course.”
He leaned on her once again, putting one arm around her shoulders and holding the flashlight she’d provided in his good hand. With shuffling steps they followed the bouncing beam through the darkened house to the powder room just off the front parlor.
“Fresh hand towels are in the cabinet over the toilet,” she told him as he braced against the pedestal sink. Noting his hunched posture, she added, “I’ll wait outside the door just in case you need me.”
Ten minutes later, she helped him into one of the ladder-back chairs at the table in the home’s large kitchen. His face and upper body were freshly scrubbed, and his hair was as neat as his fingers had been able to make it. Ree hid a smile as she realized that Dane now smelled like the lavender rosettes from the guest soap dish. Then she sobered when he turned his head slightly and the rough stubble of his beard grazed her cheek. Certainly nothing else about the man could be considered remotely feminine.
She lit a few candles, including the one in the centerpiece on the table, and the scents of cinnamon and ginger mingled pleasantly as she moved about the familiar room, completely at ease despite the poor lighting. Ree had grown up in this house. Every squeaky floorboard and stubborn windowpane was committed to memory. Of all the massive house’s rooms, this was her favorite and thanks to her grandmother’s patience, Ree was a good enough cook to do it justice.
If houses had hearts, the kitchen was the Victorian’s. Life pulsed from here. That especially had been true when her grandmother was alive. Even now, as Ree stood in front of the late nineteenth-century cabinetry that unfortunately was starting to show its age, she could almost hear Nonna humming a Dean Martin tune, the blade of her knife making quick work of a bulb of garlic for pesto. It would pain her grandmother that the wood still needed resurfacing and more than a few of the door hinges begged for replacement. Ree had not been able to make those repairs or the many others the home required. Regret came swiftly, but she pushed it away. She swore she heard Nonna’s voice whispering to her that it was impolite to dwell on her own troubles when she had a guest to feed.
“The stove is gas, so it still works. I don’t have much in the fridge at the moment. I’d planned to go grocery shopping today, but…” She shrugged.
“No car,” Dane guessed.
“Exactly. So, grilled cheese and tomato soup okay with you?”
“Sure.”
She pulled a loaf of homemade bread from the old-fashioned metal box on the counter. As she sliced it, she asked conversationally, “So, tell me a little about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s see…” She mulled her answer as she slathered butter onto the bread and transferred the slices to a cast-iron skillet. It was appalling, but the question she wanted to ask was if someone special was waiting for him, worrying over him, back on Trillium. She had no right to ask such a question. No right to even want to ask it.
She settled on the more generic, “Why don’t you tell me about your family.”
“I’ve got a couple of sisters, Ali and Audra. They’re twins.” He grunted out a laugh then. “Of course, they’re nothing alike in either looks or personality.”
Ree sent him a smile over her shoulder, ridiculously relieved that he hadn’t spoken of a wife and kids. “That must be nice. I always thought it would be fun to have a sister or two.”
“An only child, huh?”
“Not exactly.” She stirred water into the pan of condensed soup she’d opened. “I have two half sisters and a half brother, but…we’re not close.”
Not close? The sad truth was Ree had never even met them, and only knew of their existence thanks to an entry in a diary she’d found that had belonged to her mother.
“That’s too bad.”
She decided to redirect the conversation. “So, tell me about your sisters. Are they older, younger?”
“Younger, but that doesn’t keep them from trying to run my life.” There was a smile in his voice despite the complaint. “Ali tried to talk me out of coming over to the mainland for supplies. She wanted me to wait until the morning.”
“Smart woman,” she replied pointedly, giving the soup another stir before flipping the sandwich.
“Yeah, and I can guarantee she’s not going to let me forget it. Neither of them will once they find out I’m okay.” He cleared his throat. “Wish that could be sooner rather than later. My sisters are probably pacing the floor.”
His voice brimmed with remorse. The tone told her that family was important to him. Nothing was more important, Regina knew, and so she couldn’t help but admire Dane Conlan’s priorities. Not everyone put family first. Her husband clearly wasn’t willing to, and her father hadn’t. Or, at least, Ray Masterson hadn’t put the family Regina was a part of first.
She lowered the heat on the soup. Glancing over her shoulder again, she said, “It’s nice to have people who care enough to worry about you.”
“What about you? Who’s worrying about Regina Bellini?”
No one. The sparse reply echoed painfully through her head.
Since her grandmother’s death after a long battle with congestive heart failure several months earlier, Ree had been completely alone. And lonely. So lonely. Tears threatened now and she was grateful that, in the low light, Dane could not see her blink them away.
Even so, she turned back toward the stove, stirring furiously for a moment as she collected her thoughts. “I’m pretty much on my own,” she said at last, amazed that her voice sounded so normal.
She no longer had any immediate family—at least none that acknowledged her. Nor could she count on any close girlfriends. Maintaining meaningful relationships with other women had been difficult when she’d lived like a nomad for half a decade and then had returned to her hometown with her marriage in tatters and the only person who could be of any comfort wasting away in a nursing home bed.
Ree had moved Nonna back to Peril Pointe and hired a private nurse. Between the two of them, they had tended to the fragile, elderly woman until Benedetta Bellini drew her final breath. During those dark and painful months, even if she’d had friends, Ree wouldn’t have had time for them.
She heard both surprise and sympathy in Dane’s voice when he asked, “What about your folks?”
“My mom…died when I was six,” she replied vaguely.
Ree half expected Dane to ask her how. She wasn’t sure what her answer would be, which was strange. She’d never even told Paul the details of her mother’s death beyond saying Angela Bellini had drowned. Suicide was an ugly family secret, one she’d long chosen to keep.
But all Dane said was, “God, I’m really sorry. And your dad?”
She chewed her lower lip for a moment. Another ugly family secret, and yet she found herself sharing this one.
“My mom never married my father, so he wasn’t around when I was growing up.”
She did keep the more painful details to herself, such as the fact that the real reason Ray Masterson had not wed Angela Bellini after the scared and pregnant eighteen-year-old had showed up at his doorstep was that he was already married and the father of two children with a third on the way.
“That had to be tough.”
“It was a long time ago,” she said, trying to sound as if her father’s disavowal of Ree’s very existence didn’t still wound her to the core.
“So, who raised you?”
“My mom’s folks. Great people.” She smiled now as she dished the soup into a blue porcelain bowl and put the sandwich on a matching plate.
“Are they still living?”
“No. They’re both gone. My grandfather passed away during my senior year of college. My grandmother died last Thanksgiving.”
As she set the meal in front of him, Dane surprised her by reaching for her hand. The pad of his thumb rubbed over her knuckles in a negligent caress that still had her breath hitching. “God, Ree. I’m really sorry.”
She stared at their hands, wanting so desperately to turn hers over so she could weave her fingers through his and simply hold on. It felt so good to be consoled, and, God, how she missed being touched. Her grandparents had demonstrated their love with frequent hugs, kisses and pats to her cheek. Paul had run hot and cold with his displays of affection. When a dig was going well, he’d sometimes surprise her with an embrace. If not, days could pass without so much as a brush of fingers against her arm or a chaste peck on the cheek.
“Thank you,” she replied hoarsely. Maybe it was only because Dane was still holding her hand that she admitted, “I really miss them, especially Nonna. She was something else.”
“Nonna?”
His hand fell away and Ree took the seat opposite his at the table. “It’s Italian for grandmother.”
“Tell me about them?”
It came out a question and because he seemed genuinely interested, Ree did.
“Nonna and my grandfather came over from Naples just after the Second World War. My grandfather worked in an automobile factory in the Detroit area and my grandmother stayed home raising my mother. When my mother was a girl, they came north for a vacation and stayed at Peril Pointe. The people who owned it rented out rooms and my grandparents returned every summer after that. My grandfather decided to retire early and they used their savings to buy the house and move here.”
“Did they run it as a bed-and-breakfast, too?”
She shook her head. “No. I think they planned to. They took in guests here and there, and they loved meeting new people. But then my mom died and they wound up raising me.”
“They sound like incredible people.”
“They were. And very much in love.” She smiled at the memories that always warmed her. “When my grandfather was still alive, he and Nonna would go for a walk along the beach every evening in the summer. They always held hands.”
Ree had envied them that. Their grand, sweeping love affair had spanned more than five decades of marriage, while even the most tepid of emotions hadn’t been evident just a few short years after her and Paul’s wedding day.
“I can’t imagine that kind of love,” she murmured.
“My sisters seem to have found it,” Dane said thoughtfully after chewing a bite of sandwich.
“They’re both married?”
He nodded. “And Audra’s expecting her first baby in the fall. A girl. The doctor says she’ll arrive around Halloween, but if the kid is anything like Audra, she’ll be so stubborn she’ll hold out till Christmas.”
Interesting, but beneath the humor she thought he’d sounded almost wistful. And so she asked boldly, “What about you? Have you found that kind of love?”
Dane had spooned up a mouthful of soup as Ree spoke. Then he nearly choked on it as the name Julie Weston blasted into his brain with all the subtlety of a stick of dynamite detonating. It was the first time he’d thought of his girlfriend since arriving at Ree’s. He acknowledged that truth with a stab of guilt, followed swiftly by regret, because he knew that neither the knot on his head nor his near-death experience was the real reason she’d failed to show up on his mental radar.
Everyone kept telling him how perfect Julie was for him. After nearly three years of dating, he’d be the first to admit she was a fantastic woman: smart, funny, pretty in an understated sort of way. She cooked a mean beef stew, could carry on an intelligent conversation and was the ideal euchre partner, never reneging or failing to take a trick with trump. But too often he found himself wishing for a loner hand and thinking that something was missing.
One question haunted Dane: Was this all there was?
Ali had Luke. Audra had Seth. Both couples seemed to have hit the mother lode of happiness. They deserved their bliss. Dane didn’t begrudge them a moment of it. But as they feathered their new nests and made plans to start families, he felt envious, and maybe even a little empty.
He was thirty-five, settled and successful. During the past few months he’d begun to agree with Julie: Time was ticking away and they weren’t getting any younger. Yet marriage to her seemed utterly anticlimactic, an epilogue rather than an exciting new chapter in his life. He had enough respect for the institution that he didn’t think it should be that way.
“When are we going to make it official, Dane?” Julie had asked him the question that very afternoon. He’d had no answer for her when he’d left Trillium, so eager to escape that he’d foolishly headed out into a storm on the pretext of getting supplies that the resort hardly needed posthaste.
He glanced across the table at Regina Bellini. God help him, but he did have an answer for Julie now, and it wasn’t one she was going to like. But how could he make a lifetime commitment to one woman when in the space of a couple hours a virtual stranger had helped convinced him that would be a huge mistake?
Love at first sight? Nah. No way. But something was going on here. Something disturbing enough that it had caused him to forget completely the woman with whom he had been inching toward matrimony.
“Well?” Ree asked.
He blinked. “S-sorry?”
“I asked if you’ve managed to find that kind of love.”
The candle flickered briefly between them on the tabletop, the dim light making the room intimate as the revelation in his head slipped past his lips.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
They talked for another hour sitting in her homey kitchen. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but the storm was moving off. Dane credited the food, the painkillers and a second glass of wine for the fact that he no longer felt so shaky and weak. He credited Regina for the fact that he was actually enjoying himself on what undoubtedly had been one of the worst nights of his life.
“Well…” Ree stood and began gathering up the dishes. After depositing them in the sink, she said, “You’re probably getting tired.”
“Not especially. I’m a bit of a night owl,” he admitted. “Besides, I read somewhere that people who take a blow to the head shouldn’t go to sleep—at least not alone. Something about the possibility of lapsing into a coma.”
He couldn’t resist flirting with her and he enjoyed immensely watching one side of her mouth quirk up.
“I think that’s an old wives’ tale,” she replied dryly, but she settled back onto the chair opposite his.
She didn’t rise again for another two hours. By then, they both were yawning.
“I’ll show you to your room,” she told him as she blew out the candle and flipped on the flashlight.
Dane pulled the afghan more securely around his midsection and stood. Even though he felt steady on his feet, he didn’t object when she drew near to assist him.
For the past couple hours they had talked companionably about everything from the right way to eat French fries—doused in mustard rather than catsup—to whether the Detroit Lions would ever manage a winning season. Neither would bet on it. Beneath the newly established camaraderie, awareness had simmered. Now, as he walked with her through the quiet house, that awareness returned to a rolling boil.
“I think you’ll be most comfortable in here. This is the only one of the seven bedrooms located on the main floor.”
Ree opened the door and Dane knew right away that it was hers. The light bewitching floral scent had him inhaling deeply. In the dim light he eyed the big four-poster bed with its fluffy down comforter and then cleared his throat.
“This is your room.”
“Yes.”
“Where will you be sleeping?” It came as quite a surprise to realize he was holding his breath after he asked the question.
“I’ll be in the first room to the left at the top of stairs.”
When he started to protest, she shook her head. “I’ll be perfectly comfortable there. It’s the room I slept in before my grandmother died. Besides, I don’t think you’re ready to navigate stairs in a strange house in the dark. I’ll feel better with you in here.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She was still standing beside him, one arm wrapped loosely around his waist. It took little effort for Dane to turn until they were facing one another. When he bent, he intended only to brush a kiss over her cheek, but she turned her head slightly or maybe he turned his. Either way, his mouth settled over hers and the chaste peck graduated to a kiss full of curiosity.
Still, he might have pulled back and managed to bank the need, but she made a soft moaning sound in the back of her throat that had the same effect as pouring kerosene on a campfire. Heat flared and good intentions were forgotten. He framed her face with his hands. He had to do something with them, because if they were allowed to roam any lower he knew he would be doomed.
And that was before the afghan wrapped around his waist tumbled to the floor right along with the flashlight she’d been holding.
The kiss ended on his strangled laugh and Ree was chuckling as well when Dane rested his forehead against hers.
“I seem to have lost something,” he said at last. “And you, too.”
Oh, Regina knew she’d lost something. Forget the flashlight, she’d lost her mind. This was crazy, foolish and she wasn’t the sort of woman who did crazy, foolish things. She’d toed the line her entire life, eager to spare her grandparents the worry and grief her mother’s impulsiveness had caused.
Thinking of them, she said, “I’d better go.”
“Yes. You should.”
But he didn’t release her and she found herself almost glad. It felt so good to be held, to be wanted. It took all of her willpower to finally step away—and to keep her gaze level with his before she turned toward the door.
“I’ll leave the flashlight with you. Good night, Dane Conlan,” she called over her shoulder when she reached the threshold. “Sleep well.”
He laughed, sounding bemused, and she thought she heard him mutter, “Yeah, like that’s going to happen now.”
Alone in the room upstairs, Ree lit a candle, tugged the dustcovers off the furniture and dropped heavily onto the side of her old bed. She’d never been this wound up or felt this…this physically aware. She scrubbed her hands over her face, amazed by and a little ashamed of her body’s reaction.
As she made up the bed with fresh linens, it dawned on Ree that she’d forgotten to grab a nightgown from the dresser before leaving Dane in her room. She wasn’t fool enough to tempt fate now by going back for it, so she stripped off her clothes and climbed into bed wearing only her underwear.
With a tortured sigh she realized that was one garment more than what the handsome man tucked between the sheets downstairs had on.
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN Ree descended the stairs early the next morning after dressing hastily in the cropped pants and pullover she’d worn the evening before, the scent of frying bacon greeted her. She found Dane in the kitchen standing in front of the stove, his hair wet from an apparent shower and a bath towel hooked low around his waist. A bouquet of bruises bloomed on the middle of his back, but that wasn’t the reason she sucked in a breath. The same outrageous tug of desire she’d felt the night before was still there. It hadn’t moved off with the last of the rain. And she still had no idea how to deal with it.
She cleared her throat. “Good morning.”
Dane turned and offered a smile, revealing that solitary dimple that had haunted her dreams.
“It’s better than a good morning. It’s a great morning. The sun’s shining. Birds are singing. I’m alive.”
Despite the offhanded way in which he said it, she got the feeling he truly meant it. Glancing out the window at Lake Michigan, she remembered the way the waves had heaved and bucked against the shore the evening before. The great lake was calm right now, but it could be brutal and unforgiving under the temper of a storm. He was indeed a lucky man.
“I take it you’re feeling better.”
“Much.” He nodded toward the frying bacon. “I hope you don’t mind, but I rummaged through your fridge and decided to start breakfast.”
She swallowed hard. A gorgeous, half-naked man was standing in her kitchen preparing a meal for her. He’d even made coffee.
“I could get used to this,” she murmured and then was pretty sure she blushed. She couldn’t believe the direction her thoughts were taking. To hide her consternation, she asked, “Finding everything okay?”
He nodded. “You have an amazingly organized kitchen. Everything is right where it should be. Well, except for the coffee.”
“You didn’t find it in the canister marked Coffee?” she asked dryly.
“I found it, but the grounds hold their freshness longer if you keep them in the freezer.”
Regina got down a mug from one of the cupboards and poured herself a cupful of the beverage in question. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said on a chuckle as she stirred in some nondairy creamer.
She leaned against the counter and watched him flip the sizzling strips of bacon with a fork. He looked completely at ease in the kitchen, obviously no stranger to the workings of a stove. Taking a sip of coffee, she nearly sighed. He made a mean cup of joe on top of his other culinary skills. It was scary how the marks in the man’s plus column just kept mounting.
Although she didn’t mean to compare him to Paul Ritter, she found herself doing just that. Her husband didn’t know a coffee pot from a roasting pan. He had always been too distracted by his work and too disinterested in the mechanics of meal preparation to offer to cook her breakfast. He’d never so much as poured her a bowl of cereal. Ree’s gaze strayed to the towel around Dane’s hips. Moistening her lips, she admitted that Paul had never looked quite like that while wearing terry cloth, either.
The toaster popped up and she jumped right along with the delivery of two pieces of evenly browned bread. She wasn’t a woman to let passion overrule dignity and decorum. Nor was she a woman ruled by impulse. That had been her mother, with disastrous results. Ree wasn’t like Angela. She’d made a point of proving that her entire life. As for last night and that kiss, it was but a momentary lapse brought on by stress and the storm.
“Everything okay?” Dane asked.
She smiled to hide her embarrassment. “Barely a sip of coffee and I’m already jumpy.” As he buttered the toast, she added, “I see the electricity came back on.”
“Yep. About six this morning.”
“I wonder if that means phone service has been restored as well.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I already checked for a dial tone. Nothing.”
As she watched, he cracked an egg one-handed into a skillet of melted butter. The man was a regular Wolfgang Puck. Her grandmother would approve. To Nonna, cooking had been on par with praying.
Although he appeared as at ease as she wielding a spatula, good manners compelled her to ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Nah. I’ve got everything under control. And cooking breakfast is the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”
“I really didn’t do that much,” she demurred.
But Dane grinned. That solitary dimple flashed briefly in the stubble on his jaw, and her pulse shot off like a damned emergency flare.
“You did. More than you know.” Before she could ponder what he meant, he asked, “So, how do you like your eggs?”
“That’s an easy one. This morning calls for sunny-side up.”
Just as she had the night before, Ree found herself seated across from Dane at her kitchen table. The conversation flowed surprisingly easily given the way his gaze would sometimes linger on her lips. In the bright morning light Ree realized that his eyes were an interesting cross between gray and blue, and they definitely clashed with the green and purple welt protruding from his temple.
“You’ll need to see a doctor today.”
“I know. When the phone comes back on I’ll make an appointment right after I call my sisters to let them know I’m okay.”
“You’ll probably need stitches.”
He glanced at his bandaged hand. “Possibly.”
“And maybe even a tetanus shot.”
His lips twisted into a grimace. “Yeah, that’s a possibly, too.”
“Do you think they’ll recover your boat?”
“I don’t know how much of it will be left to recover.” Then he shrugged. “I’ve got insurance. It wasn’t fancy anyway.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Not like this house. I didn’t get a chance to appreciate it last night with the lights out and my head on fire.”
“That’s understandable.”
“The detail work is incredible. I’m guessing it was built in the late 1800s, probably between 1885 and 1890.”
“Eighteen eighty-seven,” she confirmed, surprised by his perception.
Motioning with his fork he asked, “Do you know if those are the original cabinets?”
“Yes. The hardware is vintage, too.” She frowned at the worn finish of the cabinet doors and tarnished brass knobs before her gaze dipped to the scored floorboards that peaked from beneath a faded throw rug in front of the stove. “I’m afraid most of the house could use a fresh coat of paint and other renovations.”
Ree could afford none of that right now. She would be lucky to scrape together enough money to pay the taxes when they came due in the fall. Her grandmother’s long illness and then Nonna’s request that both she and her deceased husband’s bodies be interred in the family plot in their native Italy, had depleted not just her grandmother’s bank account but Regina’s limited savings as well.
Dane lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “That’s cosmetic. The structure appears good.”
“For the most part,” she agreed. But since the house was all she had left of her family, it pained her to see it in such shabby condition. “It needs new shingles, though, and part of the floor on the side porch is a casualty of dry rot.”
“Basic maintenance,” he said with another shrug, unaware that Ree had been racking her brain for months trying to figure out how she could afford those necessities. “Get it fixed up and you could turn it into a world-class bed-and-breakfast. The view alone would have customers lining up at the door.”
“I’ve thought about that,” she admitted.
She had more than thought about it, actually. But opening her home to paying overnight guests still required an initial investment. It would take money—and a lot of it—to whip the Victorian into the kind of condition it needed to be in to attract high-paying clientele and hire the required staff. In the meantime, the bank wasn’t likely to extend that kind of credit to a woman who had no stable source of income or track record for running such a business.
It was breaking her heart to think that despite all her efforts, she might wind up selling the place after all.
Dane’s low whistle pulled her back to the conversation. “Did you know that your banister is made of quarter-sawn oak? They don’t make homes like this grand old lady any longer.”
“No, they don’t, which is why I don’t want to see it destroyed by some developer who isn’t as interested in preserving history and beauty as much as he is in making a quick buck.”
“So don’t sell.”
She wiped her mouth on a napkin as the familiar panic settled in.
“It’s not that easy. I own the place outright now. My grandmother left it to me when she died. But the taxes…” With a sigh, she slumped against the back of the chair.
“Steep, I’m sure, especially for this much frontage on Lake Michigan.”
“And especially for me at the moment.” It galled her to admit, “I’m sort of between jobs.”
Actually she hadn’t had a steady job in years. During the time she’d tagged around after Paul, she had worked as a freelance writer for a travel magazine. The pay was decent when she sold something, and living out of a tent, or at times a small trailer, had kept expenses pretty minimal. But her journalism degree hadn’t seen much of a workout since she’d returned to Peril Pointe. In any case, even with the aid of a nurse, caring for her grandmother had been a full-time job. Ree now had her résumé in with the local newspaper and a northern Michigan magazine. But even if she secured full-time employment, the aging Victorian with its constant upkeep and eye-popping taxes would remain well beyond her budget.
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Jackie Braun
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Regina Bellini doesn′t believe in love at first sight. After all, she knows firsthand that thinking with your heart can only lead to trouble.But then Regina is forced to work for the one man who makes her heart stand still–Dane Conlan. And the storm of emotion brewing within her is undeniable. Perhaps even enough to tempt her into saying yes to her boss, in spite of what–and who–stands between them.