by Renee Roszel
She could do nothing but shake her head. Waning emotions squeezed her throat like a vise. She despised the man, but some basic womanly instinct sent a ripple of appreciation through her as she saw what a marvelous male specimen he was.
“Oh? Too bad.” He appeared thoughtful. “I thought you might have apologized for barging in. My mistake.”
Her face was flaming and had to be the same color as her hair. She attempted to speak, knowing she should atone, but no sound would come.
His lips curving in the vaguest smile, he slowly cocked a hip. Elissa caught the movement and stared, experiencing a lurch in her chest. With the lazy, calculated move, the ends of his towel separated nearly all the way up his thigh, leaving only his masculine essentials to the imagination. Unfortunately her imagination decided to go there with a vengeance. Pulling in a deep breath she belatedly forced her gaze to his face. She was appalled to see that his grin had grown shrewd. “Been a long time, huh?”
Her jaw almost hit the floor when she realized what he meant. Had she been obviously devouring him with her eyes? It was true that she hadn’t dated anyone in a while. But running her inn was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. Her lack of male companionship was her choice. Was he suggesting she was a poor, deprived old maid, lusting after him? Him! Of all people in the world! Realizing her mouth was open, she pressed her lips together and counted to ten. “I beg your pardon!” she finally demanded in a raspy whisper.
He straightened, deftly tossing the shaving kit from one hand to the other. “I accept your apology, Miss Crosby.” His gaze taunting, he took a step back and closed the door between them.
She didn’t know how long she stood there scowling, wishing looks could drill through doors and vaporize arrogant interlopers in their tracks. Her body fairly vibrated with fury. The man was impossible! How long could she bear to have him underfoot, acting so superior, so smug while insisting he owned her inn?
The click of a door opening made her start and she was mortified to be caught still rooted there like a potted geranium. When Mr. D’Amour came out of the bathroom this time, he was wearing a pair of gray shorts. He glanced her way, a sparkle coming to life in his eyes. “How nice—company,” he said, without even a hitch in his step. It was as though he expected her to be there waiting for him. “What can I do for you now, Miss Crosby?”
He began to remove cushions from the sofa, preparing to open it up into a bed. Elissa watched him, noting the play of muscles along his arms and shoulders, the tautness of his belly as he bent over. Not an ounce of extra flesh bulged over the elastic waistband of his shorts. Blast him! As her mind began to wonder about how many sit-ups it might take to create a belly like his, he straightened. Holding a cushion, he gave her a rather amused, speculative look. She frowned. What had he asked?
Laying the cushion aside, he indicated the sofa. “I bet you stayed to help me open the bed.” His eyes were challenging.
Her emotions jangling with embarrassment and indignation, she planted her hands on her hips. “Mr. D’Amour, the only thing I’d care to help you open is an artery.” She jerked her head toward the bathroom. “There are clean sheets and blankets in the linen closet.” In an icy monotone, she added, “Just so you’re perfectly clear on this, I do not consider you a guest, I consider you an intruder.”
His unwavering gaze disconcerted her. After a few ticks of the clock he nodded, then bent to tug open the bed. With a high-pitched creak, it unfolded revealing the thin mattress that covered the springs. When he straightened and looked at her again, he propped his fists on his hips in a gesture that was plainly mocking. “And just so you’ll be perfectly clear, Miss Crosby, I do not consider myself a guest, either. I consider myself a property owner who is being very lenient with a squatter.”
She gasped, horrified. “Squatter!” The suggestion was so outlandish it was laughable. She only wished she could laugh. “If I were you, Mr. D’Amour, I’d watch who I called a squatter. You’re sleeping on my sofa, remember.” She wheeled around toward her bedroom.
“Then maybe you should call me Alex.”
She had taken hold of the doorknob when she started to turn back, then decided against it. She might not be able to keep herself from hurdling the sofa bed and strangling him. How dare he bait her. She was no hypocrite. She didn’t intend to call her worst enemy by anything as intimate as his first name, and he knew it. Especially not after he had suggested it. Too angry to trust her voice, she squeezed the doorknob until her knuckles whitened.
The silence between them grew heavy with tension. “Mr. D’Amour,” she managed to say at last, “don’t ever again wander around my inn—naked.”
Elissa couldn’t recall a time when her luck had been worse. As she opened her door the next morning, she found herself facing the obnoxious Alex D’Amour. His bed had been folded into a sofa again and he was dressed in a pair of jeans, work boots and a burgundy turtleneck sweater. He didn’t look much like a high-powered California lawyer, today. When he noticed her, he spread his arms, palms up. “Okay?”
She frowned, puzzled. “What?”
He grinned. “I’m not naked.”
Her cheeks blazing, she broke eye contact and barreled toward the stairs. “Mr. D’Amour will you please stop harassing me?”
“Harassing you?” He fell into step beside her. “I thought I was making a joke.”
She reached the door at the bottom of the stairs before giving him a look that would ignite coal. “I don’t want to joke with you, Mr. D’Amour,” she said determinedly. “I don’t want to speak to you. I don’t want to see you. Does that make our relationship quite clear?”
His pleasant expression fading, he watched her for a strained moment before he took hold of the doorknob and turned it. “Quite clear, Miss Crosby.” Stepping back he allowed her to precede him. “I’m going to need a table. My contractor is coming by this morning with the remodeling plans.”
Much to Elissa’s dismay, he kept up with her on the stairs. Her shoulder brushed his arm several times and his scent was hard to miss in the confined stairway—something like tobacco with a trace of cedar. She inhaled deciding the scent was pleasantly manly. What a shame it was wasted on Alex D’Amour.
“Miss Crosby?” Hearing him speak pulled her back. She glanced his way as they reached the top of the stairs. “A table?” he repeated.
She was startled that she’d let her mind drift away. With a disgruntled exhale, she faced him. “In the parlor there’s a bridge table in the comer that isn’t used often.”
He nodded. “I’m sure I can find it. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“Don’t worry.”
They were in the short hallway where the basement staircase faced the back door. To their left was the kitchen, to the right was the staircase hall and dining room.
“Something smells good,” he said.
Ignoring him, Elissa turned into the kitchen where every burner on the stove held a steamy pot or pan. Somehow, Bella managed to feed twelve to fifteen guests breakfast every day and still keep the kitchen spotless. Elissa glanced around at the familiar Monday morning fare: blueberry waffles, sausages, scrambled eggs, choices of juices, coffee or tea. It smelled like heaven in the homey kitchen. Elissa greeted the plump cook with as carefree a wave as she could manage. “How’s it coming, Bella? Full house?”
Bella chortled, swiping her forehead with the hem of her starched apron. “Yes, ma’am. You know how it is here at Christmas. So much to do, everybody wanting to get up and out and about.”
Elissa knew all too well. In Branson the Christmas season was their busiest, next to summer. By many it was considered the best time to visit, with their Ozark Mountain Christmas and spectacular Festival of Lights. And with two hundred factory outlet stores, the Ozark’s “Little Las Vegas” was a Mecca for Christmas shoppers. Elissa had grown to love the holidays in Branson, with its quaint, country appeal. The idea of having to leave tore at her.
Bella said something, and Elissa tried to refocus
on business. “Yes?”
“I said half the guests were waiting for me at seven. So most everybody’s already eaten.”
Elissa glanced at her watch. “Really? It’s only seventhirty now.”
Bella’s lilting chortle filled the warm kitchen. “I guess we don’t have any late-sleepers this week.”
Elissa managed a smile. “Then, you’ll get a nice long break this morning.”
Bella nodded. “I plan to put my feet up, have some coffee and daydream.”
“Have any of the guests signed up to be here for dinner tonight or are they all staying in town?”
“Town,” Bella said with a smile. “Except for that charming Mr. D‘Amour. He’ll be here.” Shuffling to the stove, she stirred a fresh batch of eggs. “Nice intimate dinner, just you two. A pleasant way to get to know your neighbor, don’t you think?” Shifting back, her expression grew expectant. “Fine looking man, that Mr. D’Amour. And so rich. You two make a handsome couple, I’d say.”
Elissa blanched, peering over her shoulder to see if the “fine looking” man in question was standing there. For once luck was with her. Apparently he’d gone to join the others in the dining room. Breathing a sigh, she glanced at her cook, trying not to show her aversion to the idea of eating alone with the man. “Oh—Mr. D’Amour is just a—a—new neighbor, Bella. That’s all there is to it.”
The cook didn’t appear convinced, but glanced away as the waffle iron light indicated another batch was done. “Of course, Miss Elissa, now you go on and have yourself some breakfast.” She waved a spatula toward the dining room. “There’s only that cute Thoron couple and the Parracks left. And—” Bella shambled over to get the waffle serving plate off the kitchen table, glancing at Elissa “—and your new neighbor.” She smiled shrewdly, and Elissa didn’t like the look of it. Clearly the fact that Mr. D’Amour was sleeping in the basement had started the gossip going among the help. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Did they think she was having a quickie affair with a man she’d just met? Well, that couldn’t be helped. She supposed it was better than having them panicking about losing their jobs right before Christmas.
She contrived a smile and pivoted toward the pantry, the shortcut into the dining room. The first sound that assailed her was the rich laughter of her unwelcome lodger. She stepped through the door, distressed to see the young couple, Mr. and Mrs. Thoron leaving. The Parracks were already gone. Mr. D’Amour stood to shake Mr. Thoron’s hand and nod toward his petite wife. Bella’s gaunt, silent kitchen helper, Ramona, was clearing away dishes, her eyes downcast, as she pretended not to exist.
When Alex D’Amour started to seat himself, he saw Elissa lingering in the pantry entrance, and remained standing. “Are you joining me, Miss Crosby?”
She felt caught. Timid Ramona was approaching the pantry entrance burdened with dirty dishes, clearly unsettled that the doorway was blocked. Sidestepping into the dining room, Elissa gave the poor, shy dear an escape route.
As uncomfortable as she could ever remember being, Elissa fought for poise. “I was going to get a cup of coffee,” she lied, heading for the sideboard where the coffee urn sat. Grabbing a mug, she held it beneath the spigot trying to ignore the feel of his gaze on her back.
“The food’s delicious,” he said.
“Of course it is.” With an irritated swipe she shut off the valve and shifted to scowl at him. “I’m offended that you’re continually surprised by the quality of my inn, Mr. D’Amour.”
“Alex,” he said, returning his attention to his plate and taking up his fork. “Don’t let your pride make you go hungry, Elissa. Sit down. Eat.”
Her fingers tightened on her mug. “Don’t call me Elissa,” she spat in a whisper. “We are not friends.”
He peered her way. “Can’t you understand that I’m not stealing this place from you. It’s mine. If you’d care to show me receipts I’ll reimburse you for any improvements you’ve made.” He shifted in his chair, leaning a forearm on the tablecloth to better face her. “I don’t want to be unfair.”
Receipts? Improvements? What about the inn itself? She and her sisters had pooled every penny they had in order to buy it. Besides, running this place was her dream, her life. And he talked about unfair? It seemed that the loss of a person’s life savings and dreams were insignificant details to this tough-as-nails litigator, who obviously had a calculator for a heart. Hysterical laugher gurgled in her throat. “Well, Mr. D’Amour, aren’t you a prince.” Slamming the mug on the table she eyed him with hostility. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business in town.”
Though Elissa found herself tensing up every time she went out to the mailbox, she was relieved that there had been no more threatening letters. Thank heaven. The first one that frightened her so, had undoubtedly been a random act by someone with too much time on his hands and very little social conscience. Hadn’t the police suggested just that? And since there weren’t any discernible fingerprints on the letter, their investigation had gone nowhere, anyway.
With great relief, she put her silly fears from her mind, determining to move on. She had enough troubles with Alex D’Amour and his very real threat to take away her property.
The inn remained filled to capacity all week, and Elissa was too busy to dwell on the Alex D’Amour problem. She was grateful for small favors.
Though he was gone most of the day with his contractors, he invariably returned in time for dinner. A couple of evenings that week, new arrivals checked in just in time for the evening meal, but even with extra people present, Elissa couldn’t choke down her food while those cold eyes hounded her every move. After the third evening under his scrutiny, she’d made an excuse to Bella that she had a lot of paper work to do, and ate the rest of her evening meals at her desk.
Tonight, she couldn’t even force down her food in the privacy of her office. She kept checking her watch. Any minute her sisters and their families would arrive. What was she going to do about Mr. D’Amour? What was she going to tell her sisters? She couldn’t ruin their Christmas with the news that she might lose the inn as well as their investment in it.
And worse. Her old law professor, Dr. Grayson, had no good news about her ownership. No news, really. The holidays were a terrible time to try to get anything done. It seemed that anyone in government offices who had any authority was on vacation. She was so frustrated she wanted to scream.
She toyed with her coffee cup, closing her eyes in a silent prayer that this would not be the last Christmas she would spend here. And, if the worst happened and it was, that this holiday not be spoiled for her sisters by the heartless heir to the D’Amour property.
A knock at the office door jarred her, and her eyes snapped open. “Who is it?”
“Alex. I need to use your fax.”
She bowed her head, fighting off a bout of anxious queasiness. “Come in,” she called. “We need to talk.”
The door squeaked opened, and Elissa pushed up from her chair, straightening her navy wool skirt more out of uneasiness than need.
“This is unusual,” he said as she twisted to face him. “No hurling insults? No barring of the door? No threats of beheading?” He stopped behind her chair, brows lifting in question. “I gather you’ve poisoned my stew and you want to watch me die.”
She crossed her arms before her and sat back against her desk. “My favorite fantasy—but no.”
He cocked his head, looking cautious. “I know you haven’t heard good news from your lawyer friend, because there won’t be any.”
She gritted her teeth, biting back a sharp denial. She didn’t have the luxury of time to fight with him. “Look,” she said through a resigned sigh. “I have to ask you a favor.”
His gaze narrowed, and she could see high skepticism in his expression. “I refuse to jump off the roof.”
Eyeing heaven, she clutched her hands together. “Be serious.” She checked her watch again, then reclasped her hands. “There’s not much time.”
The crease
in his brow deepened. “For what?”
“My...” She swallowed. “My family is coming for Christmas. I don’t want them upset by this—this misunderstanding about the inn.”
“Miss Crosby, you must face the—”
“So!” she interrupted, “I want you to go along with my plan to tell them we’re old friends from law school.”
“Law school?” He looked skeptical. “What are you, around thirty, thirty-two, tops? I’m thirty-eight, Miss Crosby. I graduated from Harvard Law, and I was in practice before you—”
“Okay, okay!” She shook her head. “Say we met at some law conference or something.”
“And what?”
Unsettled by his cross examination, she broke eye contact, absently scanning the gray cement walls. “I don’t know. We became friends, I suppose. What else?”
“No. We had an affair.”
She jerked to stare at him. “What?”
He shrugged, his eyes glittering eerily. “Why else would I be here?”
“Lots of men have platonic female friends.”
“I don’t.” His grin was revealing. The woman in her knew—without a doubt—that no female who had ever befriended Alex D’Amour had any desire to keep the relationship platonic. “This could be fun,” he went on. “Of course, if we use that lie, I’d have to sleep with you.”
She stared, stunned, then saw the sparkle in his eyes and realized he was baiting her. “That’s very funny, Mr. D’Amour. Does that line work for you?”
“Apparently not.” He grinned crookedly, clearly far from crushed by her rejection. “It’s worth thinking about, though.”
