A Small-Town Temptation

That stranger, the guy who’d been staring at her in Earl’s gravel yard that morning. He leaned against the counter as if he’d been born with the laminate attached at the hip. His jeans were white at the seams, poised on the edge between ragged and stylish, his wool shirt faded enough to show some use but soft enough to advertise its pedigree. The outfit may have said everyday working guy, but she suspected the labels whispered weekend leisure wear.

He straightened and turned to face her, and she couldn’t help but stare at the flesh and blood embodiment of every bittersweet promise and mortifying low point in her brief and forgettable dating career. There was the lean-muscled build of that high school wrestler, the one who’d been such a perfect fit during a long, slow number at the homecoming dance—the one who’d lost his dinner all over her first formal gown. There was the wavy, dark blond hair of that sexy grad student, the one who’d whisked her away for her first taste of grown-up excitement—the one who’d ducked out in the middle of a double date, doubling her mortification. There were the dark blue, crinkle-cornered eyes of the man who’d been her first serious love affair, the one who’d said he was serious about her, too—the one who’d stood her up for Christmas dinner at her parents’ house four years ago.

And then the lean, sexy, blue-eyed stranger standing at her counter smiled, and his tanned skin stretched and molded in a wonderful combination of sharp cheekbones and square jaw and deeply carved grooves far too manly to pass for dimples. Okay, so the grooves were something new. And that look in his eyes that was making her stomach twist in a breath-robbing knot—no one’s eyes had ever looked at her in quite that way before. As if they were peeling away her clothes and counting every freckle on the skin underneath.

She hated it when guys made her stomach knot up. It gave her heartburn.

Gus gestured with his coffee mug. “This here’s Jackson Maguire, Charlie. He says he has an appointment with David.”

Jackson Maguire thrust his hand forward. “Call me Jack.”

She placed her hand in his, noting a healing nick on his thumb and the calluses rubbing against her palm. This was a man who used his hands for work, but the careful weight of his grip gave the impression of precise and practiced manners. An interesting man, this Call-Me-Jack Maguire. A man of intriguing contrasts and textures.

“Charlie Keene,” she said, and then she pulled her hand from his and shoved it into her pocket, where it would be safe.

“Do you know when David’s due back?” Gus asked her.

“He mentioned he had an appointment,” she said, “but all I know is that it was set for sometime after lunch.”

“I’m afraid I’m early,” said Jack. “Y’all just go about your business, now. Never mind me. Gus, here, is keeping me plenty entertained, in between all those phone calls he handles so well.”

Maguire winked at her. A slow burn kindled in her cheeks, and she knew she’d soon be wearing the same blush he’d seen on her that morning. She covered it with a nod and a shuffle to the coffeemaker.

“Pretty busy place here, even in the afternoon,” Maguire rambled on in his amiable way. “Trucks coming and going, steady as can be. I would have thought things might slow down some after the morning pours, especially in a town this size. I s’pose most of the traffic must involve gravel deliveries about this time of day.”

She couldn’t tell if he was simply making conversation or prying into her business affairs. There was something about the sly specificity of his questions—wrapped up in that “aw, shucks” delivery—that tickled the hairs on the back of her neck.

She turned with a shrug. “Some,” she said.

“Some.” His mouth turned up at one corner. “But not all.”

“Nope.”

Behind her, Gus sputtered through a strangled cough.

Maguire’s grooves deepened. “Now, that’s as concise, and yet at the same time, as eloquent an answer as I think I’ve ever heard.”

“And I imagine you’ve heard all kinds,” she said.

That crooked smile of his seemed to tweak and tease at each of his features before coming to rest in his eyes. Quite a trick. Her stomach was knotting up so tight she wondered if she’d be able to make it back to her office without getting a cramp.

David sauntered in through the office door. He took one look at Maguire, a second at Charlie, and his golfer’s tan faded several shades.

Charlie narrowed her eyes. “David?”

“David Keene?” asked Maguire, although it was obvious he already knew the answer.

At David’s hesitant and guilty-looking acknowledgment, Maguire extended his hand. “Jack Maguire,” he announced. And then he paused and flashed yet another grin in her direction. “From Continental Construction.”

Continental. Charlie’s mug clattered down on the counter, and coffee sloshed over the rim. Oh God oh God oh God.

Maguire tsked at the spilled coffee as he followed David through the doorway to the back offices.

That damn, cocky grin. The stomach-knotting trademark of the man who had appeared out of nowhere, the one who could get her juices flowing with his easy talk and his rough hands—the one who could hurt her more than any other man had ever hurt her in her life.

The hell he could.

Charlie snapped out of panic mode and strode down the hall after them. David’s business appointment was about to get his agenda adjusted.

JACK TOOK ONE OF THE visitors’ chairs in David Keene’s office and crossed an ankle over a knee. He figured he had about ten seconds before David’s sister came barging in.

Five seconds later the office door swung open so hard it bounced off the baseboard spring and closed behind her with a smack. His guess had been off. Charlie Keene moved fast when she was in a temper.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” she said as she dragged the other chair behind David’s desk—to the administrative side of the small room—and tucked it under an anemic-looking potted palm. “Go right ahead and discuss what it was you wanted to discuss. Just ignore the co-owner in the corner.”

She dropped into her seat and slouched with her arms folded across her nearly flat chest, a fraudulent smile thinning her lips.

David leaned back with a sigh. “You’ll have to forgive my sister, Jack. She tends to forget her manners when she walks through that door.”

Jack glanced at the woman glaring at him from her spot beneath the greenery. One scrawny frond brushed against her cheek, and she swatted it out of the way. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “I’m perfectly capable of ignoring something, or someone, I’m told to ignore. Discretion is an important social skill, along with manners and the like.”

He hadn’t thought it was possible for Charlie’s expression to get any more hostile, but he’d guessed wrong about that, too.

He stifled a smile, figuring it would be like setting a torch to a short fuse. Except for his slight miscalculations about her temperament, so far Ms. Charlene Elizabeth Keene was living up to her reputation and his research. Which meant the rest of what he’d discovered was probably true—the lady had a clever enough brain and a strong enough back to carry most of the load at Keene Concrete.

He knew she was after Sawyer’s ready-mix company, too, scheming to ease her competitor into an early retirement and secure her company’s future in Carnelian Cove. Jack wondered how quickly she might blast through her family complications once she learned the purpose of this visit. Soon, he hoped. He relished the challenge of a tough, resourceful adversary.

Her brother cleared his throat, and Jack realized he’d been staring. David swiveled his chair a few degrees, attempting to cut Charlie out of the conversation. “I hope you had a nice trip north.”

“I did at that.” Jack nodded. “Enjoyed the scenery on the way in from the airport. Nice country you’ve got around here.” That was an understatement—the views were spectacular. Massive redwoods crowding the pavement’s edge, twisted cypress hugging cliffs dashed with sea spray. Mountains carpeted in thick forests and rolling pastures dotted with fat dairy cows. Rivers so clear he was tempted to pull over and toss in a lure.

“We like it.” David squeezed a pencil with white-knuckled fingers. “The tourists do, too. We get plenty of visitors. In the summer, when the weather gets nicer.”

Jack nodded. “That would bring ’em out, all right.”

Charlie shifted in her seat and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Jack had to give her points for keeping her mouth shut.

“I’m glad you could make it up here,” said David. “I was hoping you’d be able to check out the situation for yourself.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Jack gave him a wide smile. “To check out the situation.”

David sketched a zigzag in one corner of his desk blotter. “I hear you stopped by Sawyer’s yard this morning.”

“I did, yes.” Jack’s smile stayed in place. “Part of the situation, don’t you think?”

“But not an important one,” said David. “Well, not in a…What I mean is, he’s retiring, and…” He cleared his throat again. “There won’t be any competition around here once he does. Retire, I mean.”

“Continental’s not worried about a little competition,” said Charlie. She leaned forward, her hands on her knees. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Maguire?”

“Please,” said Jack as he leaned more comfortably against the back of his chair, “call me Jack.”

“In fact,” said Charlie, ignoring his request, “Continental doesn’t care which ready-mix outfit it buys. BayRock or Keene Concrete—it doesn’t matter at all, not in the end. It’s a buyer’s market here in Carnelian Cove, isn’t it, Mr. Maguire?”

Jack spread his hands. “It would sure be nice to think so, especially if a fellow were on a shopping trip.”

David sent his sister a murderous look. “Be that as it may, I’m sure Continental will want to consider getting the best value for its money in the Cove—in the local market.”

“The best value? The local market?” Charlie stood and shoved the palm frond out of her way. “If Continental buys Keene Concrete, Earl won’t be able to sell his outfit to anyone, and there go his retirement plans—everything he’s worked so hard for all these years. If Continental buys BayRock, it’ll cut the price of concrete below cost and bleed us into bankruptcy in a matter of months.”

She rested a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Either way, Mr. Maguire’s bosses aren’t going to have any competition in Carnelian Cove.” She tilted her head to the side and leveled her dark gray eyes on Jack’s. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Maguire?”

“It’s Jack.” God almighty, going a round or two with this woman was going to be a whole lot of fun. Not to mention that the more he looked at her, the more he wanted to keep right on looking at her. She’d pulled off her cap, and that thick, springy hair seemed to wave and wind around her shoulders with a will of its own. Her wide mouth softened into a pillowy curve during those rare moments she wasn’t frowning or cursing or arguing. And the crackling intelligence in her smoky eyes made it difficult for him to tug his gaze from hers.

“Well now, David.” Jack set his foot on the ground and rose from his chair with a friendly smile. “I’d like that look at your operation you promised, if you don’t mind.”

Chapter Three

JACK SWUNG HIS GARMENT bag over his shoulder later that afternoon and paused to admire the gaily colored Victorian houses standing shoulder-to-shoulder in their postcard pose along Oyster Lane. Stretched atop the rail of a white picket fence, a fat tabby spared him a crotchety meow before shifting its attention to the gulls overhead. The scents of salt-crusted docks, wood smoke and early hyacinths blended in the offshore breeze, a perfume that was Carnelian Cove’s own.

An interesting town, he thought, packed with the kind of character that came with several different interests nurtured in relative isolation. Fishermen and artists, lumberjacks and university professors, dairy farmers and silversmiths—all rubbing up against each other in an eclectic collection of shops and neighborhoods that appeared to predate the concept of zoning restrictions. Untidy and unexpected, and charming in an offbeat way.

Sort of like the carved driftwood sign hanging from a reproduction London gaslight: Villa Veneto Bed and Breakfast.

He wondered what his boss would make of such a jumble. Bill Simon liked his private surroundings and business dealings streamlined and simplified, so he could make his personal and executive decisions as quickly and neatly as possible. Such a cool efficiency had its own appeal, but Jack sometimes preferred mucking through life’s muddles—especially when he discovered the diamonds in the rough patches.

Uncut, unpolished diamonds like Sawyer’s BayRock Enterprises. Buying Sawyer’s company could satisfy Continental’s insatiable appetite for raw materials while establishing a viable—and potentially valuable—presence north of San Francisco. And it was up to Jack to prove that viability and estimate that potential.

To streamline and simplify the muddle.

He nodded an apology for disturbing the tabby cat before opening the low picket gate and strolling up aged concrete steps to the stained-glass entry. The gingerbread tacked onto every nook and cranny made the villa look homey and fussy, giving the impression the inside was likely stuffed to its curlicued rafters with antiques and doodads.

As he stepped onto a wide wooden porch furnished with wicker and ferns, one of the lace curtains swagged across a bay window twitched discreetly and settled back into its graceful curve. Jack grinned, pleased to see his hunch had paid off. Just as he’d suspected when he’d phoned, Agatha Allen was a nosy hostess. Bed and breakfasts weren’t the typical business-trip lodgings, but they often provided one benefit in addition to a comfortable place to sleep and a home-cooked meal to start the day: a built-in source of small-town gossip.

Moments after he twisted an ornate brass bell knob, a handsome woman, neat and trim and somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty, opened the heavy mahogany door.

“Agatha Allen?” he asked.

She nodded and stepped aside, waving him in. “And you must be Jack. Welcome to Villa Veneto. Oh, put that away,” she said with another wave as he shifted his bag over his arm and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “We can take care of the paperwork after you’ve had a chance to settle in.”

She plucked a tasseled key ring from a row of hooks behind her tiny reception desk and led the way up a steep, narrow flight of stairs covered with a floral runner. “I hear you’ve been in the Cove practically all day already. Kate down at the Abalone waited on you at lunch, and she called to tell me you got here safe and sound, since she knew I’d be worrying. You must have caught your plane at the crack of dawn, you poor thing. I’ll bet you’re ready for a cup of tea. Which do you prefer—black or herbal?”

He shook his head at her back. “Neither, though I truly appreciate the offer.”

“Coffee, then.” Agatha tossed him a no-nonsense glance over her shoulder and nodded with a finality that let Jack know he’d be having a cup of coffee before he stepped foot out her front door again, come hell or high water.

“And something to eat,” she continued. “I took the last batch of coconut macaroon cookies out of the oven not five minutes ago. I make them up to crush for my chocolate silk pie crust—and don’t you go telling anyone about that secret while you’re here, or I’ll find out—but I can always spare a couple of cookies for a snack.”

“Coconut macaroons just happen to be one of my favorites,” he said.

She paused when they reached the second floor and studied him as if she were attempting to divine the truth of his statement, and he suffered through the panic of a guilty moment. He wondered what the penalty might be if she discovered he could barely tolerate coconut, in macaroons or pie crusts or anywhere else.

“And my secret?” she asked at last.

“Is safe with me,” he answered with relief.

He followed her along a wide balcony and a curve in the hallway that wrapped back around the stairwell, past several tall, transomed doors punctuating rose- and lily-papered walls. Doors with exotic names calligraphied in gold paint on thickly trimmed panels: Lido, Rialto, Murano.

She stopped at the last in the line and handed him the key to the San Marco suite. “They have these in Venice, you know,” she said.

“Venice?” He stared at the old-fashioned brass key in his hand, struggling to make the transition from coconut crust to canals.

“The tassels.”

“Ah.” He gave her a suitably impressed nod. “Nice touch.”

“It’s in the Italian style, you see.”

“Yes,” he said, although he really didn’t.

“Like Versace and Armani.”

“Two of my favorites,” he said as he jiggled the key into the lock. He wondered what she’d think of his Armani suit and nearly regretted leaving it behind. He hadn’t thought there’d be much occasion for designer labels in Carnelian Cove. “Just like coconut macaroons.”

“Oh.” She flipped her little wave at him again. “There’s no need to lay the charm on so thick. Although I do enjoy a dose of it every once in a while, just like the next person. And especially when it comes out sounding so nice, like it does with that accent of yours. Louisiana?”

“No, ma’am. South Carolina.”

“Charleston?”

He stepped into the room and spread his bag across the quilt-covered double bed. “A small place west of there. Nothing anyone’s ever heard of.”

Nothing—and nobody—from nowhere. That’s what he’d felt like when he’d left, and that’s why he’d never go back. He’d worked his way across the country and struggled for a foothold on the corporate ladder, and he’d done it on his own.

And now he was going to collect the rest of his things, and settle down for some late-afternoon coffee and cookies, and pump Agatha Allen for every shred of information he could coax out of her. He’d kick back and relax, thicken his accent a touch and see what unexpected tips it might tickle loose.

Corporate intrigue came in all shapes and sizes, even coconut macaroons.

A KELP-SCENTED, BONE-CHILLING fog thickened the darkness on Cove Street that evening when Charlie steered her truck toward A Slice of Light, the stained-glass shop owned by Addie Sutton. The jeweled tones of the samples dangling in the windows slid over her windshield as she angled into the parking space behind Tess Roussel’s sporty red compact. Her two best friends in the same place at the same time—twice the sympathy, double the outrage. Fewer brownies to go around, she thought as she stuffed a pink bakery box inside a deep grocery bag and slipped out the driver’s door, but the moral support would be worth it.

She needed all the support she could muster after today’s potentially devastating developments.

Ignoring the Closed sign in the window, she rapped on the shop door. After a shivering wait and a second round of more insistent knocking, Tess—long-legged even without her three-inch heels—appeared in the darkened shop and sauntered over to open the door. Why the town’s newest architect wanted to wrestle her way into pantyhose and thigh-hugging skirts every day was a mystery.

“Well, look what the tide washed in,” said Tess. “A little red-shelled crab.”

“What are you doing here?” Charlie angled past her and headed toward the long, deep counter dividing the shop’s display area from Addie’s work space. She paused near a table bristling with pins holding dozens of cut glass pieces in place. It was the beginning of a peacock, the body crafted in rich hues and the tail cascading in intricate detail over the jagged outline of a tree limb.

“Same as you,” said Tess. “Scrounging for dinner company.”

“Shouldn’t you be out on some hot date with some hot dude?”

“It’s Thursday. Give me another twenty-four hours.” Tess closed the shop door and flipped the lock. “On the other hand, another day probably won’t make a difference. I’m fresh out of hot prospects in this town. Nothing but lukewarm lately.”

Charlie shot a skeptical glance at the woman with whom she’d shared every summer vacation during their school years. Tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous, Tess had only to crook a manicured finger at any available man in Carnelian Cove to have him panting after her.

“Besides,” said Tess as she brushed her short, layered hair out of her eyes, “I’m too busy being brilliant.”

“And humble.”

“Only when required.”

Charlie followed Tess through the curtained glass door at the rear of Addie’s shop and stepped into the odd apartment ranged along the building’s back wall. Antique kitchen appliances lined one side of the open space, and a thrift-shop sofa and woodstove directly opposite defined the seating area. Pipes and heating ducts snaked around lighting fixtures suspended from the high ceiling. The loft effect at ground level.

She passed an old, claw-footed oak table crowded with books, rolls of paper and a fat yellow pitcher stuffed with tulips and set her package on the slanted farmhouse sink, near the wreckage of a fast-food meal. She helped herself to one of the fries heaped on wrinkled paper and waved another one toward the mess on the table. “Is that your stuff taking up all the eating space?”

“My latest sketches. Look.” Tess spread one of the rolls of paper and anchored the corners with the books. “Look.”

Charlie popped another fry into her mouth and wiped her hands on her jeans before studying Tess’s sketch for a proposed bayside project. The opportunity to develop the property with her own design had played a major role in luring Tess from a large architectural firm in San Francisco. Charlie and Addie had been delighted when their childhood friend had hung her shingle above one of the Cove’s Main Street storefronts.

“I’ve decided the main entrance should feature stained-glass sidelights,” said Tess. “Maybe some more touches, here, and here—” she indicated “—if I can incorporate the design into the structure.”

Charlie marveled again at the way Tess had managed to capture and update Carnelian Cove’s architectural traditions with clean lines and decorative details. The building would add a fresh touch to the waterfront while blending in with its nineteenth-century neighbors “I hate to admit it,” she said, “but you’re right. You are brilliant.”

“Best idea I’ve seen in a long time,” said Addie in her low, raspy voice as she stepped around the partition screening her bedroom from the rest of her apartment. Her long blond hair fell in tangled spirals from a clip that had slipped to one side of her head. “Although I told her she should come back tomorrow morning so we can look at some glass samples in the sunlight.”

Charlie traced a finger over the drawing. “All that glass looks like a lot of work.”

“I could use a lot of work,” Addie said. “Business has been slow.” She crossed to the sink, rummaged through the large brown bag holding Charlie’s contributions to the impromptu dinner party and pulled out the pink box. “Is this from Bern’s Bakery?”

“Marie-Claudette’s brownies?” Tess snatched the box from Addie and ripped through the tape. “God, yes.”

“The ones with the fudge frosting?” Addie reached around Tess and fished out a chunky pastry. “And sprinkles. Look—red ones, for Valentine’s Day.”

“Dibs on the blondies,” said Tess.

“Don’t worry. They’re all yours.” Addie licked dark brown frosting from the corner of her mouth. “They’re disgusting.”

“Just because they’re not chocolate—”

“Which makes them disgusting—”

“Please.” Charlie pulled her soda six-pack from the crumpled grocery sack and wrenched a can from its plastic ring. “I’m in the middle of a crisis here.”

“Charlie.” Addie’s blue eyes darkened with worry. “What is it?”

Charlie took a long sip of her soda. “David’s really done it this time.”