“Maybe you should take a break.”
“That’s why I came to Serenity Harbor. For a change of scenery. But I still have deadlines. And—” She drank the rest of her drink, got up and tossed the used cup in the trashcan. She pulled a fresh one off the wall and poured in more brandy. “I don’t think I can speak next week. I have so much work to do.”
Amazingly, Rob felt disappointed. He wouldn’t mind seeing Belle again after tonight.
If they got through it.
“Hailey will be crushed.”
Belle smiled. “Maybe we can have lunch together instead. You do let her out for lunch, don’t you?”
“She even gets bathroom breaks. I’ll have you know I’m an excellent employer.” The fact he hadn’t strangled Hailey yet was proof of it.
“Good. You’ll tell her for me, won’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Rob teased. “She might attack me with a book and beat me to death. She’ll think it’s my fault you changed your mind. Because, um, I’m not as much of a romance fan as she is.”
“You aren’t a romance fan at all,” Belle laughed.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’d like to give that duke a run for his money. Belle, would you kiss me? Or shouldn’t I ask and just go ahead and do it?”
Chapter 6
“One can never be too prepared,” the Dowager Duchess of Whitford said archly.
—The First Sin is the Sweetest by Belle Standish
Belle put her paper cup down. “Uh, what?”
“Kiss you. I want to taste the brandy on your lips. Would one of your heroes say that, or is it too cheesy?”
Was he drunk already? Was she? The idea of kissing him had some appeal. More than some. A lot. Considerable. And other words, if she could think of them.
“You want to kiss me?”
“I just said so. I’ve wanted to for a while now. Maybe even since I noticed your hair curl around your face at your house.”
“It’s the humidity,” Belle said, feeling extraordinarily stupid.
“Whatever. It’s very…fetching.”
Fetching? Who used words like that nowadays except for her? Well, there was that “fetch” joke in Mean Girls, but it wasn’t the same at all.
“I don’t go around kissing strange men.” Gah. She sounded like a prim spinster.
“I’m not strange anymore, am I? Really, we’ve discussed anti-feminism in literature. You know all about my family. And your dog likes me.”
“Does he?”
“He didn’t bite me.”
“I told you, he doesn’t bite anyone. Just licks them.”
“I’d much rather have you lick me. Oh my God. I said that out loud and you heard it, didn’t you? In vino veritas, I guess. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.”
He was embarrassed, and so he should be! They were in a compromising position, and he was taking advantage of the situation like some—like some damned Regency rake! Like they were behind the potted palms in a ballroom, or tossed together in a pirate ship’s berth. She was no naïve virginal miss who was too stupid to live. She would say—
“All right.” Why not? What harm would it do to kiss a handsome librarian? And he was handsome, especially since he’d rumpled his hair in exasperation a few times. It now stood up in very endearing—very fetching—tufts.
“Thank you.” He said it so quietly, Belle barely heard it.
“My place or yours?” she wisecracked.
“I’d love it if you came over here and sat on my lap.”
“The chair won’t hold both of us. I’m no lightweight.”
“Let’s test it out. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“We break the chair and fall on our asses to the floor.” Goldilocks again. But surely she should not have said asses. That was not ladylike at all.
“I’m willing to take the risk. I can always requisition a new chair from the town office.”
“So practical,” she murmured.
“I try to have all the answers. I’m a Library and Information Specialist, you know.”
Let’s see if he specialized in kissing. Belle rose, feeling somewhat weak-kneed. All she had to do was walk around the desk. It wasn’t far, and Rob was there with a hopeful look on his face. He really was kind of adorable.
She almost made it. But somehow the trashcan impeded her progress as she was admiring Rob and she fell rather than sat on his lap.
“Oh! Did I hurt you?”
“Not at all. You may have knocked some sense into me. Are you sure you want to kiss me?”
Belle looked up into his face. “Oh, yes. I have nothing better to do.”
That was not the right thing to say. For a wordsmith, her words were failing her. So she decided to shut up for the time being. Very carefully, she positioned herself, putting her arms around him. She closed her eyes, because if she didn’t, she might go cross-eyed permanently.
Or at least that’s what her mother had said when she was a little girl and pretended to be somewhere she wasn’t and scrunched up her eyes. See? She’d been pretending all her life. Making stuff up. Dreaming. Imagining.
But this was real. She could smell Rob’s soap and hear his rough breathing. She opened her mouth to sigh, and he swept in.
His kiss was firm. Gentle, yet resolute. She gathered after the first fifteen seconds that he did indeed know his business in the kissing department. She happily complied with his direction, allowing herself to relax and enjoy and return his regard.
He tasted of coffee and chocolate and just a trace of Colgate. She felt him fumble near his face, and heard his glasses drop to the desk. Then his hands got busy, smoothing her sunburned cheeks with the lightest of touches, rippling through her hair, cupping her jaw. She wanted them to go lower, but no doubt he would figure that out soon because he was so smart, even if he’d looked at classic literature the wrong way his whole life. Not every man could be instantly enlightened.
Belle became aware of some turmoil beneath her bottom—she was never saying ass again if she could help it—and knew he was every bit as stimulated as she was. Was it the brandy? She didn’t care. She hadn’t been kissed like this before. Ever.
Heavens. This was the sort of thing she wrote about all the time, when the innocent heroine made the jaded hero forget all the illicit nooky he’d ever had. It was nonsense, of course, but canon. The magical hoo-ha cured all ennui and evil. Of course, Rob was nowhere near her hoo-ha yet, and she was the jaded one. Disillusioned. An unbeliever. But maybe, just maybe…
They couldn’t very well make love on the floor, could they? Her characters did it all the time in her books—or up against walls, on hall consoles, in runaway carriages, but really, splinters and destruction would have been inevitable. However, this floor was linoleum, not wood, unless he tried to mount her on the desk.
But perhaps she’d mount him? Belle was becoming very enthusiastic. She was quite sure her writer’s block was getting chipped away by a Rob-shaped chisel.
Suddenly he pulled back. She opened her eyes and saw the wild look in his.
“Why did you stop?”
“Because I don’t want to. I promised to be a gentleman.”
“Oh, gentlemen are overrated. I told you, everyone wants a Bad Boy.”
“All right,” Rob growled. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
* * *
Some thirteen hours and twelve minutes later, two guys from the town maintenance department were taking the office door off its hinges. Belle sat demurely on the spare chair watching, her white shirt only slightly crumpled from its night on the floor. The brandy bottle and the cups and condoms had been disposed of in a plain brown grocery bag buried at the bottom of the trashcan. Rob had sprayed the room liberally with Apple Orchard air freshener, so the whole place smelled like pie. Belle was starving, the candy and granola bars history. Having the best sex of one’s life, on the floor cushioned by months of Library Journals, no less, was hungry work.
How surprised she had been when Rob opened the filing cabinet around nine-thirty last night and presented her with an unexpected gift—an unopened box of Trojans. Along with the Allen’s Coffee Brandy, they were amongst the spoils of dealing with naughty middle schoolers. God bless them, every one.
There was a satisfied grunt as the door came off. “There you go, Rob. Quite a night for you poor guys, huh?”
They simply had no idea. And Belle was certain there would be plenty of nights and days ahead just like it.
Maybe even a lifetime.
The End
About Maggie Robinson
Maggie Robinson is a former teacher, library clerk and mother of four who woke up in the middle of the night, absolutely compelled to create the perfect man and use as many adjectives and adverbs as possible. A transplanted New Yorker, she lives with her not-quite perfect husband in Maine, where the cold winters are ideal for staying inside and writing hot historical romances. Her books have been translated into French, German, Portuguese, Turkish, Russian, Japanese, Thai, Dutch and Italian. She’s also a two-time nominee for the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice award. Her next series, Cotswold Confidential, begins with Schooling the Viscount on January 31, 2017. For more information and first chapters, visit www.MaggieRobinson.net
SEPTEMBER
The Legacy of
Parkers Point
Delsora Lowe
Two lives, one legacy—the lure of Parkers Point
One runs from …
Inheriting his grandfather’s estate on the rocky point in Serenity Harbor, Maine is the perfect escape from the biggest professional disaster of Grayson Mann’s life. Will distance and space help Gray heal old family and professional wounds enough to open his heart to love?
One runs toward …
Lauralee Adler struggles to save the family art gallery as she watches her aunt succumb to Alzheimer’s. Returning to Serenity Harbor is payment for the kindness that saved her life and soul. Now she’s on a quest to find her father. Will this trip home help her learn to trust and finally convince her she can truly belong for the first time in her life?
Dedication
To Muffy Wallace, who from the beginning had faith that I could write a book, lit a fire under me time and again to keep my spirits up throughout the journey, read my manuscripts, and offered honest advice. I thank you for your friendship!
To my Maine Romance Writers group who as cheerleaders and friends kept me sane these last thirteen years. To my critique partners and confidants, Luanna Nau, Judi Phillips, and Susan Vaughan for their never ending editing and support. And to my editor Jessa Slade, whose sage advice and insightful questions helped me see this story in a new light.
Chapter 1
Grayson Mann wiped down the bar, his arm sweeping over the smooth black wood, to bring up the shine. He glanced toward the bank of windows knee-high to ceiling across the front of the intimate restaurant. Layer upon layer of sheer curtains on the bottom half gave the room a shimmery, under-water appearance in daylight and cocooned customers at night. The top half, festooned with white twinkle lights, cast sparkles of light during the day and at night mimicked starlight.
Dusk had long been his favorite time of the day. On an early fall Friday afternoon, it was his respite between the languid hush of late lunches, easing him into happy hour when locals’ laughter bounced off celery-colored walls. The quiet settled him, between the times when his thoughts wandered to places they shouldn’t and moving into the rote activity of bartender. Soon he’d slam out drinks while picking up shards of conversations piercing his brain with details of his customer’s lives he wanted little to do with.
The wide slab of wood running the length of the back-end of the restaurant served as his personal protective force. Bartender against the world.
Unless she wandered in before he got too busy to pay attention. The one person who made him want to listen and talk and care. After only two weeks.
Gray heard the footsteps before he heard the deep baritone of his best friend. His not-by-birth brother, the man who’d saved his life in more ways than one.
“Evenin’, bro.”
“Partner, you ready for tonight?” Gray shelved bar glasses fresh from the dishwasher.
“Probably like any other Friday night, I’d say.”
“Full moon.”
“Lordy—think the crazies will be about?”
“Sure of it. Maybe tone down the music—always seems to tame the nuts.”
“Sure thing. I’ll tickle out some slow, sweet melodies and soft jazz.”
Gray tossed his wadded-up, damp bar rag in the air, caught it and slam-dunked it in the bucket beneath the bar. “Score.”
“When you going to learn to play real ball like the big boys?”
“Maybe when you get your ass off your piano stool and teach me what you and your brothers never did when we were kids.”
“Ha. You had privilege. We had ball. Truth is, if we’d a known then what we know now, we’d a let you scrimmage.”
Gray released a smile he usually held close to the chest. “Throwing me a bone?”
“Hey, man, you always been taut as a wire. You’d a let us see your smile more often instead of strutting your privilege, we could’ve been tighter as kids.”
Gray shrugged and let go of the sentiment. Luke had been harping on the same ol’, same ol’ for years. Fact was, he and Sam Johnson a.k.a. Cool Piano Hands Luke had been tight from the second they’d met. “You’re so full of bull—always have been. Now look at me—reduced to lofting rags into bins.”
“At least you’re hitting your target now, boss.”
“You want me to let go of privilege, stop calling me Boss. You have equal stake in this place. Why you keep insisting—”
“ ‘Cause it gets your goat, partner. Every. Time.” Luke’s deep belly laugh resonated off the walls.
Gray’s grin widened. “You’re the devil, you know.” A devil he’d let be his wingman for the rest of his days.
“What they all say.” Luke lumbered up the three steps to the small stage set in the back corner near the far end of the bar. He sat at the ol’ grand the two had rescued from a dusty back corner of a barn. Above his head, yards and yards of sheer material draped and billowed underneath more twinkles, like wispy clouds on a starry night—or so Gray’s decorator explained as she transformed the once utilitarian space.
Gray scanned his dream—a business he and Luke could call their own—and realized this place wouldn’t exist without the sweat-equity the two had invested, along with the generous guidance of many in his adopted town far from the big city.
Luke paused after warming up the keys.
“You miss the City?” Gray spoke into the silence.
Luke flashed a wide-open smile. “Nah. Nice to get back to the bustle and bright lights every now and again. But nah.”
Thank god Luke had seen fit to encourage Gray’s dream to hightail it out of New York City. And thank god Luke wanted to escape the relentless drudgery stardom had brought to his doorstep. They both breathed easier in this tiny town on the coast of Maine.
This was what Gray needed. What he still needed after everything that happened.
* * *
Lauralee Adler clapped the dust from her palms before she swiped the back of her hand across her cheek. The last four hours spent moving boxed paintings, rearranging framing and art supplies, and wiping down shelves sent a spasm up her back as she straightened.
Not what she’d expected when she’d answered her Aunt Mindi’s call for help. It had been a few weeks since she’d moved back to Maine, in the nick of time, and studied the books and business of running the Ocean’s End gallery. Her aunt had deteriorated fast. She’d covered up her illness until it was almost too late.
A full-blown shudder shot down her spine to join the cramp now lodged in her side. What a mess. Auntie Mindi. This place. Her life. And now her future. How the hell was she going to handle all this?
The h
ard, physical work of the last hours had done nothing to purge the worries brought on by the morning’s mail containing another pile of bills. But those she would ignore. For now.
No matter what, she wasn’t about to spiral into a pity party. Stripping off the charcoal apron, she strode through the narrow hallway, between closed storage cabinets, into the sun-lit gallery. A ball of orange fire hovered over the mountain, its rays sparkling off the dust motes she’d stirred up and arrowing streaks of setting sun to spotlight the paintings.
One more chore—feather dust the entire gallery.
Her stomach rumbled. Breakfast had been eons ago. So engrossed in putting the gallery to rights, and blocking tears from memories of good times with Aunt Mindi, she’d forgotten lunch. Half hour to closing. Nothing in the till to count. Why bother staying open?
With a weariness she’d tried to tamp down over the last month, she plodded toward the door and the coveted closed sign. A shadow crossed the threshold and the door shoved open. She swallowed a groan.
“Lauralee?”
Surprised, she nodded.
“Why, you’re a sight for sore eyes. You look so much like your mama.” The accent, an exact replica of her aunt’s, and she assumed her mama’s, floated over her as if on a soft spring breeze tickling wisps of her hair. South Carolina, without a doubt.
Wiping her palms against her jeans, Lauralee held out her hand. Like Pavlov’s dog, she’d been trained to mind her manners when she heard a southern accent. “Yes, ma’am. So everyone tells me.” With only a few photos and her aunt’s memories, since she’d never met her mother, the stranger’s words filled her with a sense of place, belonging. Something she rarely felt.
“PattiSue Tuttle.” The woman cradled Lauralee’s hand in her own two. “Mindi and Missy and I spent summers together here. We called your mama Missy. She always hated Melissa. Y’all know how teens can be—hatin’ everything.”
Lauralee nodded as she removed her hand from PattiSue’s grip. Now thrust into the twilight zone of a life lived long before she was born, she couldn’t utter a word.
Welcome to Serenity Harbor Page 29
