Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  “Oh.” Her shoulders slumped a bit more and her eyes beseeched him. “I don’t suppose you’d know someone who could help me.”

  The longing he sensed reached right inside him and grabbed hold. Logically, he knew he should discourage her from this wild idea, but logic had nothing to do with the way he felt when he looked into her hopeful blue eyes. “I could probably help you some. Point you in the right direction, at least.”

  “You could?” Her whole face brightened. “Oh, Chance, that would be great.” She laid a hand on his arm and the contact sent a streak of awareness through his system.

  “I, um...” He struggled to think straight, but every breath filled him with her fragrance. “What I mean is, Ron and Betsy McMillan, who own the Laughing Mermaid Inn, do their banking here. Maybe I could give them a call and ask for advice on where you should start.”

  “Do you really think they’d help?”

  “I don’t see why not.” His gaze moved to her smile and he wondered if her lips tasted as good as she smelled. “Is there a number where I can reach you?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Leaning back, she fumbled through the mesh bag she carried as a purse. “Do you have something I can write on?”

  He rose and retrieved a notepad from his desk, then took a breath to clear his head. “Here.” He turned to hand it to her and found that she’d followed him. Taking the pad, she bent over his desk and began to write. He tried not to notice how the shorts rose up to show the backs of her thighs. God, she had great legs.

  “Here you go.” She straightened and handed him the pad. “That’s the mobile number for the tour-boat office. We usually turn it off when we’re out on the water but you can leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

  “Sure.” He frowned as he remembered the muscle-bound boat driver and wondered if they did more than work together. “Why don’t you take my card, so you’ll know how to reach me?”

  Taking the card he offered, she ran her thumb over the gold print and cream linen paper. “Nice card,” she said quietly.

  “Thanks. I’ll, um”—he swallowed hard as she caressed the raised type that spelled out his name—”be in touch with you as soon as I’ve talked to Ron and Betsy.”

  When she glanced up, the space between them seemed to shrink. “I can’t thank you enough. You have no idea what this means to me.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, as heat hummed through his veins. “Although maybe you should wait until you’ve talked to the McMillans to thank me.” Needing some space to cool off, he moved to the door to show her out. “You may not like what they have to say. Starting a business is a huge undertaking.”

  “I know. Whatever they say, though, I appreciate your help.”

  He opened the door, bumping it against the back of his shoe.

  She extended her hand. “And thanks for not laughing at me, even though I know you probably wanted to.” She wrinkled her nose, and he noticed she had freckles, a light dusting of them on the bridge of her nose.

  “Not at all.” He took her hand, intending to shake it, but wound up standing there, simply holding it.

  “Well,” she said, seeming perfectly comfortable with her hand in his, their bodies almost touching in the confines of the doorway.

  “Yes.” He admired the lively blue color that danced in her eyes. “Well.”

  “I guess I should be going.” She took a step back, bumped into the doorjamb, and laughed.

  “Careful!” He laughed also, and reached toward her head. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “I’m fine.” A pink blush stained her cheeks. “Just clumsy.”

  “That’s probably my fault. I didn’t realize it was contagious.”

  “If it is, you’re in trouble.” She wrinkled her nose again, and he had the wild impulse to kiss those fascinating freckles. Or maybe her mouth. Definitely her mouth. Man, it was gorgeous, so ripe and full-lipped. The red color appeared natural, not from cosmetics. In fact, she wasn’t wearing any cosmetics. “I really do have to go.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “I guess I’ll hear from you later?” She stepped safely into the hall this time. “As soon as I talk to the McMillans.”

  “Okay, then.” She waved and took a few steps backward before she turned and headed across the lobby. His gaze followed her all the way to the door, mesmerized by the spring in her stride and those long, bare legs.

  The moment she disappeared, though, doubt raised its head. He hoped his father wouldn’t take offense at his offering to help a descendant of Marguerite Bouchard buy Pearl Island. He knew his father wanted to give John first right to buy the place back, but so far the man had showed no interest in doing so. Rumor had it John LeRoche had fallen into some serious financial difficulties since he’d put the house up as collateral.

  Those rumors were almost enough to make Chance wonder if Pearl Island really was a good-luck charm—that is, if he was the type to believe in magic and ghosts.

  Chapter Four

  Rory left the bank and headed on foot for Pier Nineteen. Throughout the historic downtown district, tourists wandered in and out of antiques shops and art galleries, admiring the facades of nineteenth-century buildings. A horse-drawn carriage clopped by, and she smiled at the tour guide who sat sideways pointing out attractions to his passengers.

  On Harborside Drive, the buildings changed to newer shops and restaurants built of weathered wood. Flowering baskets hung from replicas of old-fashioned street lamps along brick walkways. She breathed it all in, enjoying the sounds and scents of Galveston, a blend of fried seafood and salt water, the shriek of seagulls and the blast of a tugboat bringing in a barge. Somehow, today, it all seemed brighter, more vivid.

  “Hey, there, gorgeous,” Captain Bob said when she stepped into the small metal building that served as the tour-boat office. “‘Bout time you got here.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” she offered, still lost in dreams of the future, plans and possibilities. Slipping behind the counter, she tucked her bag away.

  “Catching up on your beauty sleep?” He leaned on the opposite arm of the L-shaped counter, crunching on a peppermint with those flashing white teeth of his. “Not that you need it.”

  “No, I just had an errand to run this morning.”

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “Hmm?” She looked up to see the smile had vanished. “Oh, sorry,” she laughed, understanding his concern. Normally, she matched him tease for tease, which was why they got along so well. She never took Bobby or anything he said seriously, while other women trailed after him with their tongues hanging out, making absolute fools of themselves. And heaven forbid he should flex his tanned muscles, or favor some female with one of his wicked grins. Then they melted into cooing puddles at his feet.

  Rory, however, had never put much stock in physical appearance. She came from a long line of legendary beauties and her own brother was so good-looking, tourists frequently asked if he was a movie star. But the lesson Marguerite had passed down to her daughter, and all the Bouchard descendants, was that beauty wasn’t always a blessing. The true measure of a person was what lay beneath the surface. So while Rory found Bobby charming at times, she’d realized early on how irresponsible he could be about everything but his boat.

  When it came to the Daydreamer, however, responsibility was his middle name. Moving to the doorway, she admired the pontoon boat tied to the concrete landing. The open area for passengers took up the forward half of the vessel with a cabin and small deck aft. Up top was an observation and sunning deck with a slide to the water. In addition to guided tours, Bobby chartered the boat for private parties.

  On the dock, a steady stream of tourists passed by on their way to the nearby shops and restaurants. More than one stopped to look over the boat and pick up a pamphlet for prices and schedules.

  “Was it hard to start your own business?” she asked.

  “Not really.” He stepped past her and scooped up a brass lantern and a polishing cloth
. Taking a seat, he set to work; the arms exposed by his rolled-up sleeves bulged and flexed with the task. “What with my old man being a shrimper down in Corpus Christi, I sort of grew up on the water. Never did care much for getting up before dawn, though, to go shrimping—especially after I’d been out partying half the night.” He winked.

  “That sounds like you,” she chided as she leaned against the doorjamb where the sun slanted in to warm her legs.

  He shrugged. “Mostly, I just love boats. I guess I’ve crewed about every kind of rig that floats until I saved up enough to buy one of my own.” Pride shone on his face as he looked at his vessel. “The Daydreamer may not be the fanciest boat in the harbor, but she’s all mine.”

  Mine. Closing her eyes, Rory tipped her face toward the sun and let the dreams tumble through her mind. Overhead seagulls screeched and the breeze carried the scent of seafood from Chez Laffite.

  A mobile phone rang and she heard Bobby rummage through the tools at his side, searching for it. “Captain Bob’s Big Bay Boat Tours,” he answered. A moment later, his voice changed, became strangely formal. “Aurora St. Claire? Yes, I believe she might be available.” Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of her full name. She opened her eyes and found Bobby staring at her with raised eyebrows. “Might I inquire who’s calling?”

  “Bobby!” She jumped down from the doorway. “Give me that.”

  “Oliver Chancellor?” Bobby turned to keep the phone out of her reach. “One moment, please.” He lowered the phone and managed to cover the mouthpiece before he spoke. “New boyfriend?”

  “No, he’s not my boyfriend.” She glared at him.

  “Too bad.” Bobby grinned. “He sounds rich.”

  “Would you give me that phone!” She grabbed it out of his hands, then took a deep breath, composed herself, and brought the phone to her ear. “Chance, hi. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

  “I just finished talking to Betsy McMillan, and thought you’d want to hear what she had to say.” His voice sounded smooth and cultured, and deep enough to be sexy.

  “Yes, of course!” She stepped back into the office, hoping for a small amount of privacy.

  “Betsy’s eager to meet you,” Chance said. “Turns out, she and the other bed-and-breakfast owners have an association that meets once a month. She said they’d be happy to help you however they can.”

  “Really?” Hope soared at his words.

  “In fact, the McMillans are hosting the next meeting tomorrow. It’s going to be an afternoon tea, four o’clock in their courtyard garden. Betsy asked if you’d like to come.”

  “An afternoon tea?” Rory placed a hand over her chest, excited at the opportunity to meet an innkeeper, but unnerved at the thought of meeting so many of them at once. And at a tea party. Did she even have anything appropriate to wear?

  “Only one catch.” Chance sounded hesitant. “Betsy invited me to come, as well, and I wasn’t sure what to say. It’s late enough in the day I could easily get away from the bank, and she’s been inviting me to one thing and another at the inn for years. I’m afraid if I turn her down this time, she’ll never forgive me. I don’t want to offend one of my accounts, but I don’t want to barge in on your time with her, either.”

  “Actually, I’d love for you to come. Really.” She all but pounced on the idea. The thought of Chance being with her somehow made it less intimidating.

  “If you’re sure you don’t mind, I’ll call Betsy back and tell her to expect both of us around four.”

  “Four o’clock?” She bit her lip, wondering how she’d talk Bobby into letting her off work early. Although midweek wasn’t that busy since the summer tourist season wouldn’t be in full swing for a couple of weeks.

  “Is that okay?” he asked.

  “Certainly.” She closed her eyes, deciding to deal with Bobby later.

  “Should we meet there, or would you like for me to pick you up?”

  She thought fast. If Chance picked her up, she wouldn’t run the risk of arriving first. Nor would she have to juggle with Adrian and Allison for who got what vehicle. Between the three of them, they only had a Jeep, their aunt’s luxury sedan—which was big and awkward for her to drive—and Adrian’s motorcycle. But then they all worked within walking distance of the cottage, so transportation was rarely a problem. “I’d rather you pick me up, if that’s okay.”

  “I’ll be glad to drive. Do you still live in the old Bouchard Cottage?”

  “Yes,” she answered, not a bit surprised he knew where she lived since the Bouchard Cottage was on the historic walking tour. Anyone who was up on the island’s history knew who lived there.

  “I’ll see you shortly before four, then.”

  She turned off the phone, feeling dazed. She had an appointment to meet an innkeeper. Several innkeepers. The first step toward making her dream a reality!

  “Hot date?” Bobby asked from the doorway.

  She turned, laughing. “Yes, in a manner of speaking, I have a very hot date.” And she could hardly wait.

  On Wednesday, Chance left the bank and drove the few blocks to where Aurora’s family had lived since before the Great Storm of Nineteen Hundred. In Galveston, everything fell into two categories: pre-Storm and post-Storm.

  On the gulf side—or beach side—of the island, where he lived, nothing had survived the wall of fury that had slammed into the Texas coast, killing more than six thousand people in Galveston alone. While the hurricane had failed to wipe “the New York of the Gulf” from existence, it had left a permanent mark that had literally reshaped the island.

  After the storm, a massive concrete retaining wall, known as the seawall, had been built along the beach, seventeen feet high and stretching for miles. In the years following the wall’s completion, massive amounts of dirt had been pumped by pipeline to fill in behind the wall, physically raising the level of the island’s east end.

  Just as noticeable and lasting a reminder, though, was the boundary that marked where the devastation had ended, a boundary where the pile of broken houses, pier pilings, carriages, and the bodies of the dead had become so great that even one of the worst hurricanes in recorded history could no longer push it inland. Everything on the gulf side of that barrier had been destroyed, while the downtown area and a small circle of neighborhoods around it had survived remarkably intact.

  The St. Claires lived within that boundary among treasures from a more romantic age, beautiful Victorian, antebellum, and Greek Revival homes, from small cottages to lavish mansions. Some had been restored, but many had not. Older families lived in homes they’d inherited but could barely afford to maintain next to New Money couples who were renovating houses from the ground up. The gay community mingled with the straight; wealth lived among the middle class; and everywhere tropical flowers offered a colorful contrast to rugged Texas oaks.

  That jumble of people and plant life was one of the things he liked best about Old Galveston. There were no geographic lines of distinction, no good neighborhoods or bad neighborhoods, no rich areas or poor areas, no white, Hispanic, or black sections. Everyone lived side by side.

  Unfortunately, the invisible lines of social status weren’t nearly as vague. The Old Money families might live beside new wealth or old poverty, but they knew who was one of them and who wasn’t. In that respect, Galveston was famous for its snobbery.

  Chance accepted this with a resigned sigh, a fact of life as old as Galveston itself, as he pulled to a stop before the one-story white house just east of downtown. He could already hear the whispers that would ripple all the way out to the west end of the island when word got out about whose dark blue BMW had been seen parked in front of the Bouchard Cottage.

  As he got out of the car, he glanced at the plaque that stood on a pole just inside the white picket fence. There visitors could learn that the charming little cottage with the lovingly tended flower beds had been built in the late 1800s by Henri LeRoche for his daughter, Nicole Bouchard, an actress w
ho had been the toast of New York, London, and Paris.

  What the plaque didn’t say—but everyone who’d lived in Galveston for more than a generation knew—was that the cottage had not been built as a present from a loving father, but as a place for a brutal man to banish his only child when she shunned his name in favor of her mother’s maiden name. Or that Nicole had died in that house, a destitute divorcée.

  When it came to the Bouchards, the old families of Galveston would always remember the scandalous deeds as if they’d happened yesterday. Shaking off the thought, he passed through the gate and headed up the brick path to the cool shade of the front porch. Deep green shutters added a touch of charm to the windows.

  Through the screen door, he heard the sound of a baseball game battling with the buzz of a vacuum cleaner. The door rattled on its hinges when he knocked. A dog barked and a second later a Sheltie appeared on the other side of the screen with tongue lagging and tail wagging. There was a friendly gleam in the brown eyes, the certain knowledge that Chance had come to see her—or him. Actually, Chance decided, any creature that flirtatious had to be a her.

  “Hang on!” a male voice called. As the vacuum cleaner went silent, Chance caught the sound of a bat cracking against a baseball. The excited announcer called the play over the pandemonium of the crowd.

  “Go, go, go! Yes!” the man beyond the door shouted. The dog bounded out of sight, barking with glee. “Woo-hoo! Sadie, did you see that, girl?”

  A second later, Adrian St. Claire appeared in the doorway, bending down to scratch the dog’s ears with one hand as he opened the screen with the other. “Hey, Chance, long time no see. Come on in.”

  “Adrian.” Chance nodded in greeting as he stepped inside. He remembered Adrian St. Claire from high school, even though they had run in different circles. Adrian had been the most popular guy on campus, someone who excelled in every sport and never lacked for a date. He had been Chance’s first lesson in all the things money couldn’t buy. It pleased him to realize he no longer begrudged Adrian any of that.