by Nora Roberts
Thank goodness I’ve read Romeo and Juliet a dozen times, she thought, watching his pleased saunter as he moved to his table.
“One day, he’s going to catch you, and you’re going to draw a blank.”
“Life’s a series of risks,” she returned flippantly. “Better to accept its challenges.”
Reaching over, he tucked a stray lock behind her ear, and she jerked away from his touch, unexpectedly shy.
“For the most part,” he drew the words out with infuriating emphasis, “I believe you do. It should make things very interesting. More coffee?” His question was pleasant and easy as if they had shared the morning meal on a regular basis. B.J. shook her head in refusal. . . . She felt uneasily inept at parrying words with this domineering, sophisticated man. . . .
***
Sunlight poured through the many-paned windows, spilling in patchwork patterns on the floor, a lawn mower hummed along the outer edges of lawn, and somewhere close, a bird sang his enjoyment of a golden day. Closeted in the office with Taylor, B.J. tuned even these small pleasures out, keeping her mind firmly on the business at hand. Here, with the impersonal wedges of invoices and account books between them, she felt confident and assured. In discussing the inn’s procedure, her feet were on solid ground. Honesty forced her to admit that Taylor Reynolds knew his profession down to the finest detail. He skimmed through her books with the sharp eye of an accountant, shifted and sorted invoices with the ease of a business manager.
At least, B.J. told herself, he doesn’t treat me like an empty-headed imbecile who can’t tally monthly accounts. Rather, she found him listening to her explanations with attentive respect. Soothed by his obvious appreciation of her intelligence B.J. decided if he did not yet look on the Lakeside Inn as she did, perhaps that too would come.
“I see you deal with a great many small businesses and local farms.”
“That’s right.” She searched the bottom drawer of her desk for an ashtray as he lit a cigarette. “It’s advantageous on all sides. We get more personal service and fresher produce, and it boosts local economy.” Finding a small ceramic ashtray under a pile of personal correspondence, B.J. placed it on the desk. “The Lakeside Inn is essential to this district. We provide employment and a market for local products and services.”
“Umm.”
Finding his response less than illuminating, B.J. opened her mouth to continue when the door burst open.
“B.J.” Eddie stood, bottom lip trembling. “It’s the Bodwins.”
“I’ll be right there.” Suppressing a sigh, she made a mental note to tell Eddie to knock during Taylor’s stay.
“Is that a natural disaster or a plague?” Taylor asked, watching Eddie’s speedy exit.
“It’s nothing, really.” She edged toward the door. “Excuse me, I’ll just be a minute.”
Shutting the door behind her, B.J. hurried to the lobby.
“Hello, Miss Patience, Miss Hope.” She greeted the elderly Bodwin sisters with a wary smile.
Tall and lean as two aged willows, the Bodwins were long-standing guests.
“It’s so nice to see you both again.”
“It’s always a pleasure to come back, Miss Clark,” Miss Patience announced, and Miss Hope murmured in agreement. Habitually Miss Patience announced, and Miss Hope murmured. It was one of the few things which separated them. Over the years they had melded into mirror images from their identical wire rimmed spectacles to their identical orthopedic shoes.
“Eddie, see that the luggage is taken up, please.” Miss Patience flashed a knowing smile which B.J. tried not to notice. B.J. saw her sharp-eyed glance drift over her head. Turning, she spotted Taylor.
“Miss Patience, Miss Hope, this is Taylor Reynolds, the owner of the inn.” Miss Patience shot her a meaningful look.
“A pleasure, ladies.” Gallantly, he took each thin-boned hand in his. A blush, dormant for twenty-five years, rose to Miss Hope’s wrinkled cheek.
“You’re a very fortunate young man.” Miss Patience gave Taylor a thorough survey, then nodded as if satisfied. “I’m sure you know what a treasure you have in Miss Clark. I hope you appreciate her.”
B.J. resisted grinding her teeth for fear the sound would be audible. With a smile, Taylor laid a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m quite convinced Miss Clark is indispensable and my appreciation inadequate.”
Satisfied, Miss Patience nodded.
B.J. shook the offending hand from her shoulder and assumed a coolly professional manner. “You have your regular table, number 2.”
“Of course.” Miss Patience moved her lips into a smile and patted B.J.’s cheek. “You’re a good girl, Miss Clark.” Smiling vaguely, the two ladies drifted away.
“Surely, B.J.” Taylor turned to B.J. with an infuriating smile. “You’re not going to give those two dotty old girls the second table?”
“The Lakeside Inn,” she said coldly, turning to precede him to the office, “makes it a habit to please its guests. I see no reason why the Bodwins shouldn’t sit wherever they want. Mr. Campbell always seated them at number 2.”
“Mr. Campbell,” Taylor countered with infuriating calm, “no longer owns the inn. I do.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Her chin tilted higher in defiance. “Do you want me to turn out the Bodwin sisters and place them at the table near the kitchen? Don’t they look fancy enough for you? Why don’t you think of them as people rather than little black numbers in the bloody account book?”
Her tirade was sharply cut off as he gripped her shoulders. She found she had swallowed the remaining words before she could prevent herself.
“You have,” he began in an ominously low voice, “a very unfortunate temper and some very odd ideas. No one tells me how to run my business. Absolutely no one. Advice is accepted upon request, but I only make the decisions, and I alone give the orders.”
He moved toward her. She could only stare, fascinated and faintly terrified.
“Do we understand each other?”
B.J. nodded, wide-eyed, then gathered courage to answer audibly. “Yes, perfectly. What would you like me to do about the Bodwins?”
“You’ve already done it. When you do something which displeases me, B.J., I’ll let you know.” The underlying threat brought storm warnings to her eyes. “Of course you know,” Taylor continued, his tone softening, “you’re a very ingenious lady. You’ve managed to share my breakfast table and work with me throughout the morning without once using my name. You’ve skirted around it, jumped over it and crawled under it, fascinating me with the acrobatics.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She attempted to shrug, but his hands were firm on her shoulders. “Your imagination needs re-oiling.”
“Then perhaps . . .” His arms moved to capture her waist. She arched away only to be brought steadily closer. “You’d say it now.” His mouth hovered above hers. She felt the unfamiliar sweet flow of weakness, the trembling warmth just under her skin.
“Taylor.” She failed to bring her voice above a whisper.
“Very good, you’ll use it more often.” His mouth curved, but she saw the smile only in his eyes. “Do I frighten you, B.J.?”
“No.” Her denial was faint. “No,” she repeated with more firmness.
“Liar.” His laugh was both amused and pleased as his mouth teased hers. It rubbed lightly, holding back the promise until with a moan she drew him closer and took it.
Her breasts crushed against his chest, her lips instinctively found his. She felt herself tumbling in helpless cartwheels down an endless shaft where lights whirled in speeding colors. His hands moved from her waist to her hips, his strong fingers discovering the secrets of subtle curves as his mouth took everything she offered. Craving more, she strained against him until her sharpened senses began to dim, and the world spun hazily around her and vanished.
Fear rose like a phoenix from the flames of passion, and she struggled away, stunned and confused. “I . . . I need to
check how lunch is going.” She fumbled behind for the doorknob.
His hands in his pockets, Taylor rocked back on his heels and held her gaze with steady assurance. “Of course. . . . Now run away to your duties. But you understand, B.J., that I intend to have you sooner or later. I can be patient up to a point.”
Her hand connected with the knob. She found her voice. “Of all the appalling nerve! I’m not a piece of property you can have your agent pick up for you.”
“No, I’m handling this strictly on my own.” He smiled at her. “I know when something’s going to be mine. Acquiring it is simply a matter of timing.”
“I’m not an it.” More outraged than she had thought possible, she took a step toward him. “I have no intention of being acquired and added to your trophies! And timing will get you nowhere!”
His smile was maddeningly confident. B.J. slammed the door full force behind her.
Chapter 4
Mondays always kept B.J. busy. She was convinced that if a major calamity were to fall, it would fall on a Monday simply because that would be the time she would be least able to cope with it. Taylor Reynolds’ presence in her office was an additional Monday morning burden. His calm statement of the previous day was still fresh in her mind, and she was still seething with resentment. In an icy voice, she explained to him each phone call she made, each letter she wrote, each invoice she filed. He would not, she decided, accuse her of being uncooperative. Frigid perhaps, she thought with wicked pleasure, but not uncooperative.
Taylor’s impeccable, businesslike attitude did nothing to endear him to her. She was well aware that her cold politeness bordered on the insulting.
Never had she met a man more in control or more annoying. Briefly, she considered pouring her coffee into his lap just to get a reaction. The thought was satisfying.
“Did I miss a joke?” Taylor asked as an involuntary smile flitted over B.J.’s face.
“What?” Realizing her lapse, B.J. struggled to compose her features. “No, I’m afraid my mind was wandering. You’ll have to excuse me,” she went on, “I have to make sure that all the rooms are made up by this time of day. Will you be wanting lunch in here or in the dining room?”
“I’ll come to the dining room.” Leaning back, Taylor studied her as he tapped his pencil against the corner of the desk. “Are you joining me?”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” B.J.’s tone was falsely saccharine. “I’m swamped today. I recommend the roast beef, though. I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory.” Satisfied with her delivery, she closed the door quietly behind her.
With ingenuity and luck, B.J. managed to avoid Taylor throughout the afternoon. The inn was nearly empty as most of the guests were outdoors enjoying the mild spring weather. B.J. was able to slip down the quiet corridors without running into Taylor. She kept her antenna tuned for his presence, however. Though she knew it was childish, she found herself enjoying the one-way game of hide and seek. It became a self-imposed challenge that she keep out of his sight until nightfall.
***
In the pre-dinner lull, the inn was drowsy and silent. Humming to herself, B.J. carefully checked off linens in the third floor supply room. She was confident Taylor would not venture into that area of the inn, and relaxed her guard. Her mind traveled from her task, touching on pictures of boating on the lake, walks in the woods, and long summer evenings. Though her daydreams were pleasant, they were underlined by a nagging dissatisfaction. She tried to shrug it off but found it stubborn. There was something missing from the images, or rather someone. Whom would she be boating with on the lake? Whom would she be walking with in the woods? Who would be there to make the long summer evenings special? A distressing image began to form in B.J.’s brain, and she squeezed her eyes tight until it faded.
“I don’t need him,” she muttered, giving a pile of freshly laundered sheets a pat. “Absolutely not.” B.J. backed from the tiny room and quietly pulled the door shut. When she backed into a solid object, she shrieked and fell forward against the closed door.
“Jumpy, aren’t you?” Taylor took her shoulders and turned her to face him. His expression was amused. “Muttering to yourself, too. Maybe you need a vacation.”
“I . . . I . . .”
“A long vacation,” he concluded, giving her cheek a fatherly pat.
Finding her tongue, B.J. responded with reasonable calm. “You startled me, sneaking around that way.”
“I thought it was a rule of the house,” he countered as his grin broke out. “You’ve been doing it all afternoon.”
Furious that her cunning had fallen short of the mark, she spoke with frosty dignity. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Did you know you get a half-inch vertical line between your eyebrows when you’re annoyed?”
“I’m very busy.” She kept her voice cool as she did her best to keep the space between her brows smooth. Blast the man! she thought as his engaging smile began to have its effect on her. “Taylor, if there is something specific you want . . .” She stopped as she saw his grin widen until it nearly split his face. “If there’s some business you want to discuss—” she amended.
“I took a message for you,” he informed her, then lifted a finger to smooth away the crease between her brows. “A very intriguing message.”
“Oh?” she said casually, wishing he would back up so that she did not feel so imprisoned between his body and the closed store-room door.
“Yes, I wrote it down so there’d be no mistake.” He took a slip of paper from his pocket and read. “It’s from a Miss Peabody. She wanted you to know that Cassandra had her babies. Four girls and two boys. Sextuplets.” Taylor lowered the paper and shook his head. “Quite an amazing feat.”
“Not if you’re a cat.” B.J. felt the color lacing her, cheeks. Why would he have to be the one to take the message? Why couldn’t Cassandra have waited? “Miss Peabody is one of our oldest guests. She stays here twice a year.”
“I see,” said Taylor, his mouth twitching. “Well, now that I’ve done my duty, it’s your turn to do yours.” Taking her hand, Taylor began to lead her down the corridor. “This country air gives me quite an appetite. You know the menu, what do you recommend we have?”
“I can’t possibly,” she began.
“Of course you can,” he interrupted mildly. “Just think of me as a guest. Inn policy is to give the guests what pleases them. It pleases me to have dinner with you.”
Cornered by her own words, B.J. offered no argument. Within minutes, she found herself seated across from the man she had so successfully avoided during the afternoon.
B.J. thought dinner a relatively painless affair. She felt too, as it neared an end, that she had done her duty and done it superbly. It was, however, difficult to resist the pull of Taylor’s charm when he chose to put it into use. The charm itself was so natural and understated that she often found herself captivated before she realized what was happening. Whenever she felt her walls of indifference crumbling, she retreated a step and shored up the holes. What a shame he isn’t someone else, she mused as he recounted an anecdote. It would be so nice to enjoy a quiet dinner with him if there weren’t any boundaries. But there are, she reminded herself, quickly pulling out of the range of his charm. Very definite, very important boundaries. This is war, she reflected, thinking of their conversation of the previous day. I can’t afford to get caught behind enemy lines. As Taylor raised his glass and smiled at her, B.J. wondered if Mata Hari had ever been faced with a tougher assignment.
They had reached the coffee stage when Eddie approached their table. “Mr. Reynolds?” B.J. looked on with approval as Eddie neither fidgeted nor seemed ready to burst with the tidings he bore. “There’s a phone call for you from New York.”
“Thank you, Eddie. I’ll take it in the office. I shouldn’t be long,” Taylor told her as he rose.
“Please, don’t rush on my account.” B.J. gave him a careful smil
e, resigning herself to the fact she was a coward. “I still have several things to see to this evening.”
“I’ll see you later,” Taylor returned in a tone that brooked no argument. Their eyes met in a quick clash of wills. In a swift change of mood, Taylor laughed and bent down to kiss B.J. on the forehead before he strolled away.
Mouth agape, B.J. rubbed the spot with her fingertips, wondering why she suddenly felt lightheaded. Forcing herself back to earth, she drank her coffee and hurried off to the lounge.
Monday nights at the inn were an old tradition. The lounge was the center of activity for the weekly event. As B.J. paused in the doorway, she ran a critical eye over the room. The candles had been lit inside each of the coach lanterns which sat on the huddled tables. The lights flickered against the wood. Scents of polish, old wood and smoke melded. The dance floor was gently lit with amber spotlights. Satisfied that the mood was set, B.J. crossed the room and halted next to an ancient Victrola. The faithful mechanism was housed in a rich mahogany cabinet. With affection, B.J. trailed a finger over the smooth lid before opening it.
