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“Look wherever you like, son. I’ll just sit here and finish my wine.” She took another healthy swig. “You let me know if you find anything.”
Curiosity getting the better of him, Nic decided to start at the front of the house. Murphy, who’d been lying happily at his feet, jumped up, eager to follow wherever he led. The front door offered no clues, and the windows appeared secure. No loose locks or broken panes. The bedroom windows were the same. Murphy, thinking there was some game afoot, pranced and barked as he searched.
When they got to the kitchen, the dog ran ahead and jumped up onto the kitchen door. Wondering, Nic stopped, and watched. Sure enough, Murphy jumped again, this time his paws hitting the lever door handle. If the dead bolt hadn’t been in place, the door would have popped right open. “Mrs. Rosenberg, was the kitchen door dead bolted when you were away?”
“The kitchen door? No, the key for that lock got lost a long time ago. But I did push the button in, on the doorknob. That locks it from the inside, and it opens with the same key as the front door.” She paused, eyes wide, “You don’t think someone broke in, do you?”
“No, not a break-in,” he assured her. “Just a break-out. See these scratches on the door? I think Murphy was jumping at the door to follow you, and his paws landed on the handle. That lock opens automatically from the inside as soon as you turn the handle. He just let himself right out. Then I imagine the storm blew it shut again. If you’re going to keep him in, you’re going have replace that lever-style handle with a good old-fashioned doorknob.”
“Oh, my goodness. What a smart boy! Opening doors!” Mrs. Rosenberg beamed at her black-and-white escape artist. “But I see what you mean. We can’t have him gallivanting around town. I’ll have to ask around about a handyman—I’m afraid tools and such just aren’t my area of expertise.”
“I could do it,” Nic said before he could stop himself.
“Would you? Oh, that would be such a load off my mind. I worry so about poor Murphy. I know this isn’t the best home for him, but I’d be sick if anything happened to him.” Before Nic could think of a way to extricate himself, she pressed a wad of cash into his hands. “Palm Hardware is just around the corner. You must have passed it on the way here. Just pick out whatever you think is best.”
Thirty minutes later, Nic was tightening the last screw with, of all things, a pink screwdriver. Murphy had been banished to the bedroom after getting in the way a few too many times, and Mrs. Rosenberg was thrilled. Straightening, he couldn’t help but grin as he packed up the pastel tool kit. Project Dog-Proof was a success, and despite his initial reluctance to get involved, it felt good to know he’d been able to help. Getting his own hands dirty was a lot more satisfying than just signing a work order.
“I have to say, I’m so glad Jillian had that meeting today, and you came instead. Not that I don’t love Jillian,” she clarified hastily. “Murphy adores her and I do, too. But I wouldn’t have felt right asking her to change a doorknob. I’m a bit too old-fashioned for that.”
He grinned. Of all the ways he might describe Mrs. Rosenberg, “old-fashioned” wasn’t one of them. “What sort of meeting she was going to?” He told himself he was only interested as part of his research on the island. He certainly wasn’t prying into the pretty vet tech’s life. Not very much, anyway.
“The Island Preservation Society. Jillian is one of the founding members,” Mrs. Rosenberg said proudly. “I don’t attend the meetings—meetings give me heartburn—but I donate when they have their annual rummage sale, and attend the dinner dance they do in the spring.”
His shoulders tensed. “What exactly does this society do?”
“They mostly work to preserve the historic buildings, protect the coastal habitat, anything that has to do with maintaining the way of life Paradise is known for.” Her eyes shined with pride. “Our little town isn’t as fancy or popular as Daytona or Miami or those other beach places, and that’s just fine with us. We like things the way they are, if you know what I mean.”
Nic was afraid he did know. From what she was saying, he was going to have a fight on his hands, and Jillian was playing for the other side.
* * *
Jillian walked quickly across the hot asphalt parking lot, sticky with sweat and humidity. Ahead, the air-conditioned coolness of the Palmetto County Library beckoned like a mirage, a refuge from the last gasp of summer. Stepping inside, she took a deep breath, embracing the smell of old books that permeated the air. Fortified, she climbed the single staircase to the crowded conference room where Cassie and Mollie were waiting for her.
“We saved you a seat.” Mollie waved, her pixie-like face lighting up at the sight of her friend. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show, and you know I only come to these things because of you.” Formal meetings of any sort were definitely not Mollie’s thing. Grateful, Jillian hugged the petite woman in appreciation.
“I appreciate you making the sacrifice. These meetings really are important, especially now. Rumor is that the Sandpiper’s new owner wants to sell.”
“Sell the Sandpiper Inn? That place is an institution! I can remember Dad taking me there as a kid for the annual fish fry and the Christmas tree lighting ceremony. And just a few years ago, he and mom had their twenty-fifth anniversary party there.” Cassie’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s bad enough that they don’t do the community events anymore, but sell it? To who?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “They haven’t even officially put it on the market yet. I think that happens Monday. I only know about it because another one of the Island Preservation Society members, Edward Post, told me about it when I saw him at the grocery store yesterday. He was always close with the Landry family, and had hoped when their daughter inherited the Sandpiper she would bring it back to its glory days. But she’s got her own retail shop over in Orlando, and isn’t interested in being an innkeeper. He thinks she’ll take the first good offer she gets.”
Jillian’s heart hurt just thinking of the stately inn being taken over by outsiders, or worse, torn down. A beacon on the Paradise Isle shoreline, the Sandpiper had stood for more than a century. Its spacious grounds had always served as an unofficial community center, the gregarious owners often hosting holiday events, weddings, even a prom or two. She’d fallen in love with the grand building the first time she saw it and had always imagined she’d bring her own family to events there, one day. Now it might be destroyed before she ever had that chance. It just didn’t seem fair, or right, to let it slip away without a fight.
As the meeting got under way, she found it hard to concentrate on the details of the historic post office renovation, or a proposal for a bike lane on Island Avenue. Normally she was the first volunteer for a Society project, but right now she was too on edge about the fate of the Sandpiper Inn.
And if she was honest with herself, the issue with the Sandpiper wasn’t the only thing making her palms sweat. A good number of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach were about her upcoming date. It wasn’t as if she’d never been on a date before; at twenty-seven, she’d had her share of relationships. But always with local, familiar, safe men. Nothing serious. After a few dates, they’d ended up just friends, leaving her wondering if she was even capable of more intense feelings.
But Nic, with his towering good looks and confident manner, was another kind of man altogether. One that had her squirming in her seat, unsure if she was eager for the meeting to be over or afraid of what came after it.
Finally, the last item on the agenda was addressed. Edward Post stood at the front of the room, faced the folding chairs and cleared his throat. “I know that a few of you have heard rumors about the Sandpiper Inn. I’m afraid those rumors have been confirmed. Ms. Roberta Landry, the current owner, has decided to sell the inn and return to her job in Orlando.” Shifting his weight nervously, he continued, “The board of the Island Preservation Society has spoken with Ms. Landry, and she has agreed to at least entertain the idea of the city purchasing the inn for community use.”
“Can the city afford to buy it?” someone from the crowd asked.
Edward pushed his glasses up his nose, to see who had spoken. “No, not without help. We’re preparing an application to the State Register of Historic Places. If we can get the Sandpiper listed, we may be able to get a grant toward its preservation, which would help offset the purchase price. Our chances are good, but the process can take several months. If there is another offer before that happens, Ms. Landry is within her rights to sell without waiting for the outcome of our application.”
At that point the meeting broke down, voices rising as friends and families discussed the odds of success. Everyone already knew, without being told, that with land prices finally going up, a new owner was likely to raze the inn and parcel the land up.
Heartsick, Jillian avoided the speculating citizens and quietly made her goodbyes. Descending the stairs, she vowed to contact Edward and volunteer to write the grant application herself. Tonight she’d start researching the process, figure out their best way forward. She was going to do whatever she could to increase their chances of getting that grant. This was her home, and she wasn’t giving up without a fight.
Chapter Four (#ulink_74f38f42-6c58-5deb-926f-f85ca646c4e8)
Nic waited for Jillian on the wide shaded porch of the Sandpiper, where a surprisingly efficient ceiling fan kept the air moving and the mosquitoes at bay. Palms and tropical plants he couldn’t identify crowded up against the white railing, as if ready to take over the old inn if given a chance. Farther off, he could hear a woodpecker tapping for his supper, and under all of it was the hypnotic lull of the ocean moving against the shore. He’d traveled the world, stayed at the most luxurious resorts in the most exotic locations, but he couldn’t remember ever enjoying an evening more than he was right now.
Something about the seclusion of the location, nestled as it was against the wildlife sanctuary that made up almost half the island, allowed him to let down walls that he’d spent most of his life putting up. The friendliness of the island people was a part of it, as well. He’d wandered up and down Lighthouse Avenue, the main street through town, and every person he’d seen had greeted him openly, willing to talk about the town, their businesses and their families. He’d learned that the mayor had held office for forty years, and was running again in the spring. The streetlights came on at dusk and the shops closed soon after, but the local diner opened early for the fishermen and commuters. He’d also been warned, with a wink and a nod, that alcohol sales were banned on Sundays, so if he wanted to pick up a six-pack to watch the game with, he’d better get it today. The traditional pace of life here was worlds away from the life he’d known, but right now, sitting on a porch swing waiting for a pretty girl, it definitely had its perks.
Tires crunching over gravel signaled a car pulling into the lot hidden by thick green foliage. Leaving the sheltered sanctuary of the patio, he took the steps two at a time, then followed the winding footpath to the large gravel and sand parking lot. A bright blue compact car was in the first spot, its engine still running.
As he started toward it, the door opened, long legs swinging out. Then she stood, facing him, and he was stopped in his tracks, paralyzed. He’d remembered her as pretty, but now, in the light of day, she was stunning. Gone were the shapeless scrubs. Today she wore snug-fitting jeans and a casual but fitted navy tank top that clung to her generous curves. She’d left her hair loose, a mass of ebony curls tumbling down her back. Her striking blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, framed by dark lashes he knew his sisters would kill for. But it was her smile, innocently seductive, that nearly knocked him over.
“Hi,” she said softly, gripping the door handle. “I hope I’m not late.”
“No, right on time.” He forced himself back into motion, heading for the tiny car. “I heard you pull in, thought I’d save you the walk up.”
“Ah, okay. Well.” She started to walk toward him, then stopped. “Guess we should be going, then.”
“Right, you said it fills up fast, and I’m starving. I think it’s all the fresh air.” He opened the car door and folded himself carefully into the seat. Although roomier than it had first appeared, it was still a tight fit for his six-foot-two frame. “Is it far?”
“Nothing’s far on Paradise Isle.”
“Right, I keep forgetting.” He grinned. “Here on the beach, it seems the sand goes on forever. It’s hard to remember that the actual town is so small.”
“Most of the island is taken up by the wildlife sanctuary and public beach access. Only a small portion is actually developed.” Her tone indicated that she liked things that way, and he tried not to think about how things would change if Caruso Hotels built a resort here. Instead, he focused on the view as they wound their way down the coast along the beachfront road. Pelicans dove and rose, searching for their evening meal, disappearing and reappearing from behind grass-covered dunes. Some kind of vine also grew on the dunes, with big purple flowers soaking up the evening sun.
“I didn’t know flowers could grow in sand,” he said, pointing to the tough-looking vines.
She smiled, either at his interest or at the flowers themselves, he wasn’t sure. “That’s railroad vine. They call it that because it just keeps chugging along the dune, sometimes growing a hundred feet long. The roots help hold the sand in place, protecting the dunes. Best of all, it flowers all year-round. The tall, grasslike plants around it are sea oats—not as pretty, but just as important for the dunes.”
Intrigued, he had her point out a few other interesting species as they drove. By the time they reached the restaurant half a dozen names, like coco plum and wax myrtle, were spinning through his head. Impressed, he told her so.
“It’s my home. To protect it, I had to learn about it,” she said simply.
Another stab of guilt knifed through his stomach. At this rate, he’d be too knotted up to eat a thing. Changing the subject, he focused on the rustic, almost tumbledown appearance of Pete’s Crab Shack and Burger Bar—serving the “coldest beer in town,” if the worn sign above the door could be believed.
He could see what looked like a small dining area inside, but most of the patrons were sitting on the spacious, covered deck, enjoying the ocean view along with their baskets of food. Jillian led him to one of the few empty tables and passed him a plastic menu. Scanning the offerings, he quickly decided on the grilled snapper BLT, fries and a sweet tea.
“A man that knows what he wants,” Jillian commented, raising her head from behind her own menu.
He met her eyes and sparks flew, hotter than the heat lightning flashing in the clouds behind her.
He knew what he wanted.
And it definitely wasn’t on the menu.
* * *
Jillian felt her cheeks become flushed from the heat in Nic’s eyes. Somehow, her innocent comment didn’t feel so innocent anymore. Embarrassed, flattered and more than a little confused, she bit her lip and tried to think of something to say. His eyes caught the movement, narrowing on her lips. Oh, boy. Her previous casual dates had not prepared for her this level of...intensity.
Desperate to ease the tension she turned away, hoping to signal the waiter. Instead, she saw Mollie, weighed down by a giant paper sack, cutting across the deck to their table. Knowing there was no way to stop her, Jillian waved her over.
“Hey, Jillian, who’s the handsome stranger?” Mollie batted her eyelashes theatrically at Nic.
“Mollie, this is Nic. He’s Murphy’s most recent savior. Nic, this is Mollie. She’s the receptionist at the clinic, and a good friend.” She gestured to the overflowing bag. “Stocking up for a hurricane?”
“Picking up dinner for Emma and me. Cassie got an emergency call, and her parents couldn’t babysit, some concert or something. I said I’d swing by and pick the munchkin up, take her home and feed her. I wasn’t sure what she likes, so I had Pete throw in a bit of everything.” She shrugged. “I figure Cassie can eat whatever is left over when she gets home.”
“An emergency? That’s odd—I didn’t get a call from her.” Jillian dug in her purse for her phone. Cassie usually called her for assistance in emergencies.
Mollie grabbed her hand. “Chill out. She didn’t call because she said you were, and I quote, ‘on a hot date.’” She scanned Nic from head to toe, slowly. “I guess he qualifies.” Jillian kicked her under the table. “Seriously, no worries. She said she had it handled, something about a pug having an allergic reaction. She just wants to observe it for a while at this point, make sure the medication is working.”
“Oh.” Somewhat appeased, she put the phone down. “Well, I’m available if she needs me.”
“No, you aren’t,” Mollie said, winking at Nic. “Hot date, remember?” Avoiding another kick from Jillian, she took her paper bag and strolled out, obviously pleased with herself. Nic, for his part, looked incredibly amused by the entire situation.
“Something funny?”
“Nope, just enjoying myself. And the view,” he added, looking pointedly at her.
Those butterflies were rapidly morphing into pterodactyls. Thankfully, Nic’s flirting was curtailed by the arrival of the waitress. Jillian ordered the crab cakes, and Nic his sandwich.
The perky waitress, in shorts that covered less than most bikini bottoms, couldn’t take her eyes off him, and really, who could blame her? He looked every bit as masculine and commanding in jeans and a casual button-down shirt as he had in his professional clothing the night before. If anything, the more relaxed attire highlighted his chiseled features and hard body.
Annoyed with Ms. Skimpy Pants and irritated with herself for caring, Jillian drummed her fingers on the paper placemat. Nic smiled at her frustration, but to his credit kept his eyes on her, not the scantily clad waitress, who thankfully was called away to another table.
By the time the red plastic baskets of food arrived, Jillian felt a bit more relaxed. Nic, despite his tendency to make her breath catch and pulse race, was a pleasant dining companion. They chitchatted about the weather, which was still warm, even in October, then he relayed the story of his rendezvous with the eccentric Mrs. Rosenberg. His description of her enthusiastic greeting and the way she had bamboozled him into changing her doorknob had her breathless with laughter. “I’m sorry. I should be thanking you instead of laughing at you.” She shook her head. “Seriously, thanks for helping her. I’m sure she didn’t give you much choice, but thanks, anyway.”
“She was definitely persuasive.” He sipped his tea, then continued, “But I would have done it, anyway. I’m sure she’s very capable for her age, but she’s not up to replacing doorknobs. And it needed to be done.”
His simple answer spoke volumes about him. Most single guys didn’t go around acting as handymen for little old ladies. That Nic didn’t realize how uncommon his charitable streak was made it even more appealing. She found herself wanting to know more about this mystery man, and how he’d come to be so chivalrous. “Where did you learn how to change a doorknob, anyway?”
“My dad taught me. That, and a lot of other things. He didn’t believe in paying someone else to do what you could do yourself. So he taught us about household repairs, car maintenance, that kind of thing.”
“Us?”
“I have a brother and two sisters. I’m the oldest.”
“He taught the girls to do that stuff, too?”
“Definitely. No gender discrimination there. And we all learned to cook, too, no exceptions.”
“Your dad cooked?” Jillian was flabbergasted. None of her foster fathers had, of course, but most of their wives hadn’t, either. She’d grown up on frozen dinners and boxed mac and cheese.
“Of course he cooked, he’s Italian. But my nana is the one that taught us kids. When Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, they were busy, you know, trying to get food on the table in a hurry. Nana had more time and patience, so she taught us all. We would start with tossing salads, easy stuff, and then move up to more complicated things when we were ready. By the time we were in high school, we could all cook reasonably well.” He popped a fry in his mouth. “Except for my brother, Damian. He does more than reasonably well. He just finished culinary school, and now he’s in Italy getting advanced training. He’s a magician with food.”
“What about your sisters...what are they like?”
“Smart,” he answered without hesitation. “Both are really smart, but complete opposites. Claire is a total bookworm. She’s studying for a masters in English at NYU. Isabella is more practical. She has an MBA and works for a big investment firm.”
His pride in them was obvious; she could tell just from his tone how much he cared for his family. A small stirring of envy clawed at her, but she pushed it away. She’d spent much of her childhood wishing for a family like his, with siblings and parents and grandparents. But she was an adult now; she’d had plenty of time to learn that wishes didn’t always come true.
* * *
Nic enjoyed talking about his family, but the questions about their careers made him nervous. He knew it was dishonest, but he didn’t want her to ask what his father did or what he did. He’d had too many women want him just because of his family, or rather the family fortune. Of course, in this case, his family being the driving force behind Caruso Hotels didn’t seem like news she’d be happy to hear, with the Sandpiper being up for sale. If she knew he was here to look into buying it, well, that would definitely wipe the smile off her face.
And it was a knockout of a smile. Her whole face glowed, and her nose scrunched up, just a little, in the most adorable way. In the end, business would have to stay business. His father and the whole company were counting on him to make this deal. If he was going to take over from his dad one day, he needed to prove he could handle the job. But in the meantime, he couldn’t help but want to spend some time with a woman who seemed to like him, not his money or his glamorous lifestyle.
Hoping to change the subject, he asked casually, “So what about your family? Do they live around here?” Her face blanched, just briefly, and he saw a flash of pain in her eyes that had him reaching for her hand as she caught her breath. Caught off guard by her reaction, he kept silent as he waited.
She looked down at their joined hands, then into his eyes.
“I don’t have any family.”
When he didn’t react, other than to squeeze her hand reassuringly, she continued. “My parents died in a car accident when I was two years old. They were caught in a bad storm and lost control of the car. I’m told they died on impact, but paramedics found me buckled in my car seat, not a scratch on me.”
He didn’t know what to say, had nothing to offer, other than “I’m sorry.”
Smiling at that, she said, “Yeah, so am I. They—I—didn’t have any family, at least that anyone knew of. I ended up in foster care, moving every year or so. Eventually I ended up here, on Paradise Isle. When I was in high school, I got an after-school job at the clinic, back when Cassie’s dad was still running things. Later, when my foster parents moved to Jacksonville, I convinced the social worker to let me stay here. I had some money saved up, and I got some financial assistance from the state. I finished out my senior year living in a motel room. After I graduated and could work full-time, I found an apartment and started classes at the community college. A few years ago, I passed my State Board exams, and got certified as a veterinary technician.”
“You’ve been on your own since high school? With no help?”
“I had my friends, and Doc Marshall, Cassie’s father, helped by convincing the case worker not to put me back in foster care. I was almost eighteen and with foster homes so scarce, it wasn’t a hard sell. But without him backing me, and giving me a job, it never would have worked.”
Nic couldn’t even imagine that kind of self-reliance. His family had always been involved in his life—sometimes too involved. But as much as their expectations and demands could feel like an albatross around his neck, they had always been there for him when he needed them. They were the only people he could truly count on.
No wonder Jillian was so attached to the community—it was all she had. The guilt he had pushed aside began chewing a fresh hole in his gut. If he green-lighted the Caruso Hotel project, it would completely change the island, and although he’d assumed that change would be for the better, he had a feeling she wouldn’t agree.
Carefully, he tried to feel her out on the subject. “So why Paradise? Of everywhere you lived, what made you stay here?”
Jillian smiled. “Because it felt like home. Nowhere else ever did. Here, the people I met really seemed to care, to want to know me. No one brushed me off as just a foster kid, or acted like I was a lost cause. The town is small enough that people really get to know each other—there are no strangers. And everyone looks out for each other. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to having family.” Her voice quavered at her last few words, leaving no doubt as to the extent of her loyalty.
Nic wanted to argue, to offer some counterpoint, but he couldn’t. Even in his short time on the island, he’d seen the camaraderie she was describing. Her friend Mollie’s willingness to give up her Saturday night to help a friend was just one more example. He wished he could say there were plenty of places like Paradise, but if there were, he’d never seen them.
Of course, small towns, isolated from the fast pace of modern life, weren’t his usual haunts. Caruso Hotels were found in the busier tourist destinations; some of their larger resorts became cities unto themselves. On paper, Paradise Isle had seemed like a blank canvas, waiting for development. Choosing an unknown place wasn’t their usual mode of operation, but he’d thought it a brilliant and cost-saving strategy, one that would pay handsomely when they transformed Paradise Isle into a tourist hot spot.
Now, seeing the town for himself, he realized how arrogant he’d been. Paradise might be small, but that didn’t mean it was insignificant. A revelation that was a bit too late in coming. How could he tell his father, the CEO of a world-renowned business, not to purchase a prime piece of property because “the people are really nice”? It was absurd. He’d just have to figure something out.
And find a way to live with himself afterward.
* * *
