by Nora Roberts
“Lakeside Inn. Oh, hello, Marilyn. No, I’ve been tied up this morning.” She eased a hip down on the edge of the desk and shuffled through her papers. “Yes, I have your message here. I’m sorry, I just got back into the office. No, you let me know when you have all your acceptances back, then we’ll have a better idea of how to plan the food and so on. There’s plenty of time. You’ve got well over a month before the wedding. Trust me; I’ve handled receptions before. Yes, I know you’re nervous. It’s all right, prospective brides are meant to be nervous. Call me when you have a definite number. You’re welcome, Marilyn. Yes, yes, you’re welcome. ’Bye.”
B.J. hung up the phone and stretched her back before she realized Taylor was waiting for an explanation. “That was Marilyn,” B.J. informed him. “She was grateful.”
“Yes, I rather got that impression.”
“She’s getting married next month.” B.J. lifted a hand to rub at the stiffness in the back of her neck. “If she makes it without a nervous breakdown, it’ll be a minor miracle. People should elope and not put themselves through all this.”
“I’m sure there are countless fathers-of-the-bride who would agree with you after paying the expenses of the wedding.” He rose, moving around the desk until he stood in front of her. “Here, let me.” Lifting his hands, he massaged her neck and shoulders. B.J.’s protest became a sigh of pleasure. The word businesslike floated quietly out of her mind. “Better?” Taylor asked, smiling at her closed eyes.
“Mmm. It might be in an hour or two.” She stretched under his hands like a contented kitten. “Ever since Marilyn set the date, she’s been on the phone three times a week to check on the reception. It’s hard to believe someone could get that excited about getting married.”
“Well, not everyone is as cool and collected as you,” Taylor remarked as he ran his thumbs along her jawline, stroking his other fingers along the base of her neck. “And, by the way, I wouldn’t spread that eloping idea of yours around if I were you. I imagine the inn makes a good profit doing wedding receptions.”
“Profit?” B.J. opened her eyes and tried to concentrate on what they had been saying. It was difficult to think with his hands so warm and strong on her skin. “Profit?” she said again and swallowed as her brain cleared. “Oh well . . . yes.” She scooted off the desk and out of his reach. “Yes, usually . . . that is . . . sometimes.” She wandered the room wishing the interlude in the kitchen had not made her forget who he was. “It depends, you see, on . . . Oh boy.” She ended on a note of disgust and blew out a long breath.
“Perhaps you’d translate all that into English?” Taylor suggested. With a twinge of uneasiness, B.J. watched him seat himself once more behind the desk. Owner to manager again, she thought bitterly.
“Well, you see,” she began, striving for nonchalance. “There are occasions when we do wedding receptions or certain parties without charge. That is,” she rushed on as his face remained inscrutable, “we charge for the food and supplies, but not for the use of the lounge . . .”
“Why?” The one word interruption was followed by several seconds of complete silence.
“Why?” B.J. repeated and glanced briefly at the ceiling for assistance. “It depends, of course, and it is the exception rather than the rule.” Why? she demanded of herself. Why don’t I learn to keep my mouth shut? “In this case, Marilyn is Dot’s cousin. You met Dot, she’s one of our waitresses,” she continued as Taylor remained unhelpfully silent. “She also works here during the summer season. We decided, as we do on certain occasions, to give Marilyn the reception as a wedding present.”
“We?”
“The staff,” B.J. explained. “Marilyn is responsible for the food, entertainment, flowers, but we contribute the lounge and our time, and,” she added, dropping her voice to a mumble, “the wedding cake.”
“I see.” Taylor leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers together. “So, the staff donates their time and talent and the inn.”
“Just the lounge.” B.J. met his accusatory glance with a glare. “It’s something we do only a couple of times a year. And if I must justify it from a business standpoint, it’s good public relations. Maybe it’s even tax deductible. Ask your C.P.A.” She began to storm around the office as her temper rose, but Taylor sat calmly. “I don’t see why you have to be so picky. The staff works on their own time. We’ve been doing it for years. It’s . . .”
“Inn policy,” Taylor finished for her. “Perhaps I should have you list all the eccentricities of inn policy for me. But I should remind you, B.J., that the inn’s policy is not carved in stone.”
“You’re not going to drop the axe on Marilyn’s reception,” B.J. stated, prepared for a fight to the finish.
“I’ve misplaced my black hood, B.J., so I can’t play executioner. However,” he continued before the look of satisfaction could be fully formed on her face, “you and I will have to have a more detailed discussion on the inn’s public relations.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied in her most wintry voice, and was saved from further argument by the ringing of the phone.
Taylor motioned for her to answer it. “I’ll get us some coffee.”
B.J. watched him stroll from the room as she lifted the phone to her ear.
When Taylor returned a few moments later, she was seated behind the desk just replacing the receiver. With a sound of annoyance, she supported her chin on her elbows.
“The florist doesn’t have my six dozen daffodils.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Taylor placed her coffee on the desk.
“Well, you should be. It’s your inn, and they are actually your daffodils.”
“It’s kind of you to think of me, B.J.,” Taylor said amiably. “But don’t you think six dozen is a bit extreme?”
“Very funny,” she muttered and picked up her coffee cup. “You won’t think it’s such a joke when there aren’t any flowers on the tables.”
“So, order something besides daffodils.”
“Do I look like a simpleton?” B.J. demanded. “He won’t have anything in that quantity until next week. Some trouble at the greenhouse or something. Blast it!” She swallowed her coffee and scowled at the far wall.
“For heaven’s sake, B.J., there must be a dozen florists in Burlington. Have them delivered.” Taylor dismissed the matter of daffodils with an airy wave.
B.J. gave him an opened mouth look of astonishment. “Delivered from Burlington? Do you have any idea how much those daffodils would cost?” Rising, she paced the room while she considered her options. “I simply can’t tolerate artificial flowers,” she muttered while Taylor sipped his coffee and watched her. “They’re worse than no flowers at all. I hate to do it,” she said with a sigh. “It’s bad enough having to beg for her jelly, now I’m going to have to beg for her flowers. There’s absolutely nothing else I can do. She’s got the only garden in town that can handle it.” Making a complete circle of the room, B.J. plopped down behind the desk again.
“Are you finished?”
“No,” B.J. answered, picking up the phone. “I still have to talk her out of them.” Grimly, she set her teeth. “Wish me luck.”
Deciding all would be explained in due time, Taylor sat back to watch. “Luck,” he said agreeably and finished off his coffee.
When B.J. had completed her conversation, he shook his head in frank admiration. “That,” he said as he toasted her with his empty cup, “was the most blatant con job I’ve ever witnessed.”
“Subtlety doesn’t work with Betty Jackson.” Smug, B.J. answered his toast, then rose. “I’m going to go pick up those flowers before she changes her mind.”
“I’ll drive you,” Taylor offered, taking her arm before she reached the door.
“Oh, you needn’t bother.” The contact reminded her how slight was her will when he touched her.
“It’s no bother,” he countered, leading her through the inn’s front door. “I feel I must see the woman who, how did you put i
t? ‘Raises flowers with an angel’s touch.’”
“Did I say that?” B.J. struggled to prevent a smile.
“That was one of your milder compliments.”
“Desperate circumstances call for desperate measures,” B.J. claimed and slid into Taylor’s Mercedes. “Besides, Miss Jackson does have an extraordinary garden. Her rosebush won a prize last year. Turn left here,” she instructed as he came to a fork in the road. “You know, you should be grateful to me instead of making fun. If you’d had your way, we’d be eating up a healthy percentage of the inn’s profits in delivery fees.”
“My dear Miss Clark,” Taylor drawled, “if there’s one thing I can’t deny, it’s that you are a top flight manager. Of course, I’m also aware that a raise is in order.”
“When I want a raise, I’ll ask for one,” B.J. snapped. As she gave her attention to the view out the side window, she missed Taylor’s glance of speculation. She had not liked his use of her surname, nor had she liked being reminded again so soon of the status of their positions. He was her employer, and there was no escaping it. Closing her eyes, she chewed on her lower lip. The day had not run smoothly, perhaps that was why she had been so acutely annoyed over such a small thing. And so rude, she added to herself. Decidedly, it was her responsibility to offer the olive branch. Turning, she gave Taylor a radiant smile.
“What sort of raise?”
He laughed, and reached over to ruffle her hair. “What an odd one you are, B.J.”
“Oh, I know,” she agreed, wishing she could understand her own feelings. “I know. There’s the house.” She gestured as they approached. “Third from the corner.”
They alighted from opposite sides of the car, but Taylor took her arm as they swung through Betty Jackson’s gate. This visit, B.J. decided, thinking of the silver blue Mercedes and Taylor’s elegantly simple silk shirt, should keep Miss Jackson in news for six months. The doorbell was answered before it had stopped ringing.
“Hello, Miss Jackson,” B.J. began and prepared to launch into her first thank you speech. She closed her mouth as she noticed Betty’s attention was focused well over her head. “Oh, Miss Jackson, this is Taylor Reynolds, the owner of the inn. Taylor, Betty Jackson.” B.J. made introductions as Betty simultaneously pulled her apron from her waist and metal clips from her hair.
“Miss Jackson.” Taylor took her free hand as Betty held the apron and clips behind her back. “I’ve heard so much about your talents, I feel we’re old friends.” Blushing like a teenager, Betty was, for the first time in her sixty odd years, at a loss for words.
“We came by for the flowers,” B.J. reminded her, fascinated by Betty’s reaction.
“Flowers? Oh, yes, of course. Do come in.” She ushered them into the house and into her living room, all the while keeping her hand behind her back.
“Charming,” Taylor stated, gazing around at chintz and doilies. Turning, he gave Betty his easy smile. “I must tell you, Miss Jackson, we’re very grateful to you for helping us out this way.”
“It’s nothing, nothing at all,” Betty said, fluttering her hand with the words. “Please sit down. I’ll fix us a nice pot of tea. Come along, B.J.” She scurried from the room, leaving B.J. no choice but to follow. Safely enclosed in the kitchen, Betty began to move at lightning speed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing him?” she demanded, flourishing a teapot.
“Well, I didn’t know until . . .”
“Goodness, you could have given a person a chance to comb her hair and put her face on.” Betty dug out her best china cups and inspected them for chips.
B.J. bit the inside of her lip to keep a grin from forming. “I’m sorry, Betty. I had no idea Mr. Reynolds was coming until I was leaving.”
“Never mind, never mind.” Betty brushed aside the apology with the back of her hand. “You did bring him after all. I’m positively dying to talk to him. Why don’t you run out and get your flowers now before tea?” She produced a pair of scissors. “Just pick whatever you need.” She dismissed B.J. with a hasty wave. “Take your time.”
After the back door had closed firmly in her face, B.J. stood for a moment, torn between amusement and exasperation before heading towards Betty’s early spring blooms.
When she re-entered the kitchen about twenty minutes later, armed with a selection of daffodils and early tulips, she could hear Betty laughing. Carefully placing her bouquet on the kitchen table, she walked into the living room.
Like old friends, Taylor and Betty sat on the sofa, a rose patterned teapot nestled cozily on the low table. “Oh, Taylor,” Betty said, still laughing, “you tell such stories! What’s a poor woman to believe?”
B.J. looked on in stunned silence. She was certain Betty Jackson had not flirted this outrageously in thirty years. And, she noted with a shake of her head, Taylor was flirting with equal aplomb. As Betty leaned forward to pour more tea, Taylor glanced over her head and shot B.J. a grin so endearingly boyish it took all her willpower not to cross the room and throw herself into his arms. He was, she thought with a curious catch in her heart, impossible. No female under a hundred and two was safe around him. Unable to do otherwise, B.J. answered his grin.
“Miss Jackson,” B.J. said, carefully readjusting her features. “Your garden is lovely as always.”
“Thanks, B.J. I really do work hard on it. Did you get all that you wanted?”
“Yes, thank you. I don’t know how I would have managed without you.”
“Well.” Betty sighed as she rose. “I’ll just get a box for them.”
Some fifteen minutes later, after Betty had exacted a promise from Taylor that he drop by again, B.J. was in the Mercedes beside him. In the back seat were the assortment of flowers and a half a dozen jars of jelly as a gift to Taylor.
“You,” B.J. began in the sternest voice she could manage, “should be ashamed.”
“I?” Taylor countered, giving her an innocent look. “Whatever for?”
“You know very well what for,” B.J. said severely. “You very near had Betty swooning.”
“I can’t help it if I’m charming and irresistible.”
“Oh, yes, you can,” she disagreed. “You were deliberately charming and irresistible. If you’d said the word, she’d have ripped up her prize rosebush and planted it at the inn’s front door.”
“Nonsense,” Taylor claimed. “We were simply having an enjoyable conversation.”
“Did you enjoy the camomile tea?” B.J. asked sweetly.
“Very refreshing. You didn’t get a cup, did you?”
“No.” B.J. sniffed and folded her arms across her chest. “I wasn’t invited.”
“Ah, now I see.” Taylor sighed as he pulled in front of the inn. “You’re jealous.”
“Jealous?” B.J. gave a quick laugh and brushed the dust from her skirt. “Ridiculous.”
“Yes, I see it now,” he said smugly, repressing a grin. “Silly girl!” With this, he stopped the car, and turning to B.J. lowered his smiling mouth to hers. Imperceptibly, his lips lost their teasing quality, becoming warm and soft on her skin. B.J.’s playful struggles ceased, and she stiffened in his arms.
“Taylor, let me go.” She found it was more difficult now to catch her breath than it had been when she had been laughing. A small moan escaped her as his lips trailed to her jawline. “No,” she managed, and putting her fingers to his lips, pushed him away. He studied her, his eyes dark and full of knowledge as she fought to control her breathing. “Taylor, I think it’s time we established some rules.”
“I don’t believe in rules between men and women, and I don’t follow any.” He said this with such blatant arrogance, B.J. was shocked into silence. “I’ll let you go now, because I don’t think it’s wise to make love with you in broad daylight in the front seat of my car. However, the time will come when the circumstances will be more agreeable.”
B.J. narrowed her eyes and found her voice. “You seriously don’t think I’ll agree to that, do you?”
/> “When the time comes, B.J.,” he said with maddening confidence, “you’ll be happy to agree.”
“Fat chance,” she said as she struggled out of the car. “We’re never going to agree about anything.” Slamming the door gave her some satisfaction.
As she ran up the front steps and into the inn, B.J. decided she never wanted to hear the word businesslike again.
Chapter 6
B.J. was standing on the wide lawn enjoying the warmth of the spring sun. She had decided to avoid Taylor Reynolds as much as possible and concentrate on her own myriad responsibilities. Unfortunately, that had not been as easy as she had hoped: she had been forced to deal with him on a daily business basis.
Though the inn was relatively quiet, B.J. knew that in a month’s time, when the summer season began, the pace would pick up. Her gaze traveled the length and height of the inn, admiring the mellowed bricks serene against the dark pines, the windows blinking in the bright spring sun. On the back porch, two guests were engaged in an undemanding game of checkers. From where she was standing, B.J. could barely hear the murmur of their conversation without hearing the words.
All too soon, this peace would be shattered by children shouting to each other as they raced across the lawn, by the purr of motorboats as they sped past the inn. Yet, somehow, the inn never lost its informal air of tranquility. Here, she mused, the shade was for relaxing, the grass invited bare feet, the drifting snow for sleigh rides and snow men. Elegance had its place, B.J. acknowledged, but the Lakeside Inn had a charm of its own. And Taylor Reynolds was not going to destroy it.
