by Judy Duarte
“I can help you this time at least.” She inserted his key, exerted only a slight amount of pull on the door and heard the lock disengage. She pushed the door open and flipped on a light inside the cheery little two-bedroom cottage, with its small combined living-dining room and kitchen table set in front of the big windows overlooking the lake.
“Thank you for your help,” he said, sounding a little less censorious.
“Anytime.” She smiled, her well-practiced, smooth innkeeper smile. After a decade of running the twenty-room Inn at Haven Point on her own, she had become quite adept at exuding hospitality she was far from feeling.
“May I help you with your bags?”
He gave her a long, steady look that conveyed clearly what he thought of that offer. “I’m good. Thank you.”
What else could she do but shrug? Stubborn man. Let him struggle. “Good night, then. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Yes. I do. Next door, apparently.”
“That’s right. Good night,” she said again, then returned to her front porch, where she and Cyrus settled in to watch him pull a few things out of his vehicle and carry them inside.
She could have saved him a few trips up and down those steps by lending a hand, but clearly he wanted to cling to his own stubbornness instead.
As usual, it was obvious he wanted nothing to do with her. Elliot tended to treat her as if she were a riddle he had no desire to solve.
Over the years, she had developed pretty good strategies for avoiding him at social gatherings, though it was a struggle. She had once been almost engaged to his younger brother. That alone would tend to link her to the Bailey family, but it wasn’t the only tie between them. She counted his sisters, Wynona Bailey Emmett and Katrina Bailey Callahan, among her closest friends.
In fact, because of her connection to his sisters, she knew he was likely in town at least in part to attend a big after-the-fact reception to celebrate Katrina’s wedding to Bowie Callahan, which had been a small destination event in Colombia several months earlier.
Megan had known Elliot for years. Though only five or six years older, somehow he had always seemed ancient to her, even when she was a girl—as if he belonged to some earlier generation. He seemed so serious all the time, like some sort of stuffy uncle who couldn’t be bothered with youthful shenanigans.
Hey, you kids. Get off my lawn.
He had probably never actually said those words, but she could clearly imagine them coming out of that incongruously sexy mouth.
He did love his family. She couldn’t argue that. He watched out for his sisters and was close to his brother Marshall, the sheriff of Lake Haven County. He cherished his mother and made the long trip from Denver to Haven Point for every important Bailey event, several times a year.
Which also begged the question: Why had he chosen to rent a cottage on the inn property instead of staying with one of his family members?
His mother and stepfather lived not far away and so did Marshall, Wynona and Katrina with their respective spouses. While Marshall’s house was filled to the brim with kids, Cade and Wyn had plenty of room and Bowie and Katrina had a vast house at Serenity Harbor that would fit the entire Haven Point High School football team, with room left over for the coaching staff and a few cheerleaders.
Instead, Elliot had chosen to book this small, solitary rental unit at the inn for three entire weeks.
Did his reasons have anything to do with that sling he was sporting? How had he been hurt? Did it have anything to do with his work for the FBI?
The answers to those questions were none of her business, Megan reminded herself. He was a guest at her inn, which meant she had an obligation to respect his privacy.
Elliot came back to the vehicle for one more bag, something that looked the size of a laptop, which gave her something else to consider. He had booked the cottage for three weeks. Maybe he had taken a leave of absence from his job at the FBI to work on another book.
She pulled Cyrus onto her lap and rubbed behind his ears as she considered the cottage next door and the enigmatic man currently inhabiting it. That was another component to the mystery of Elliot Bailey. Whoever would have guessed that the stiff, humorless, focused FBI agent could pen gripping true-crime books in his spare time? She would never admit it to Elliot, but she found it utterly fascinating how his writing managed to convey pathos and drama and even some lighter moments.
True crime was definitely not her groove at all but she had read his last bestseller in five hours, without so much as stopping to take a bathroom break—and had slept with her closet light on for weeks.
That still didn’t mean she wanted him living next door. At this point, she couldn’t do anything to change that. The only thing she could do was treat him with the same courtesy and respect she would any other guest at the inn.
No matter how difficult that might prove.
* * *
WHAT THE HELL was he doing here?
Elliot dragged his duffel to the larger of the cottage’s two bedrooms, where a folding wood-framed luggage stand had been set out, ready for guests.
The cottage was tastefully decorated in what he termed Western chic—bold mission furniture, wood plank ceiling, colorful rugs on the floor. A river rock fireplace dominated the living room, probably perfect for those chilly evenings along the lakeshore.
Cedarwood Cottage seemed comfortable and welcoming, a good place for him to huddle over his laptop and pound out the last few chapters of the book that was overdue to his editor.
Even so, he could already tell this was a mistake.
Why the hell hadn’t he simply told his mother and Katrina he wouldn’t be able to make it to the reception? He had flown to Cartagena for the wedding three months earlier, after all. Surely that showed enough personal commitment on his part to his baby sister’s nuptials.
They would have protested a bit but would have understood—and in the end, it wouldn’t have much mattered whether he made it home for the event or not. The reception wasn’t about him; it was about Bowie and Katrina and the life they were building with Bowie’s younger brother Milo and Kat’s adopted daughter, Gabriella.
For his part, Elliot was quite sure he would have been better off if he had stayed holed up in his condo in Denver to finish the book, no matter how awkward things had become for him there. If he closed the blinds, ignored the doorbell and just hunkered down, he could have typed one-handed or even dictated the changes he needed to make. The whole thing would have been done in a week.
The manuscript wasn’t the problem.
Elliot frowned, his head pounding in rhythm to each throbbing ache of his shoulder.
He was the problem—and he couldn’t escape the mess he had created, no matter how far away from Denver he drove.
He struggled to unzip the duffel one-handed, then finally gave up and stuck his right arm out of the sling to help. His shoulder ached even more in response, not happy with being subjected to eight hours of driving only days post-surgery.
How was he going to explain the shoulder injury to his mother? He couldn’t tell her he was recovering from a gunshot wound, not given his family’s history.
Charlene had lost a son and husband in the line of duty and had seen both a daughter and her other son injured on the job.
Nor could he tell his brother Marshall or his brother-in-law Cade about all the trouble he found himself in. He was the model FBI agent, with the unblemished record.
Until now.
Moving into the cottage was an easy job that took him all of five minutes, transferring the packing cubes from his duffel into drawers, setting his toiletries in the bathroom, hanging the few dress shirts he had brought along. When he was done, he wandered back into the combined living room/kitchen.
The front wall was made almost entirely of windows, perfect for looking out and enjoying the spectacular view of Lake Haven during one of its most beautiful seasons, late spring, before the tourist horde des
cended.
On impulse, Elliot opened the door and walked out onto the wide front porch. The night was chilly but the mingled scents of pine and cedar and lake intoxicated him. He drew fresh mountain air deep into his lungs.
This.
If he needed to look for a reason why he had been compelled to come home during his suspension and the investigation into his actions, he only had to think about what this view would look like in the morning, with the sun creeping over the mountains.
Lake Haven called to him like nowhere else on earth—not only the stunning blue waters or the mountains that jutted out of them in jagged peaks, but the calm, rhythmic lapping of the water against the shore, the ever-changing sky, the cry of wood ducks pedaling in for a landing.
He had spent his entire professional life digging into the worst aspects of the human condition, investigating cruelty and injustice and people with no moral conscience whatsoever. No matter what sort of muck he waded through, he had figured out early in his career at the FBI that he could keep that ugliness from touching the core of him with thoughts of Haven Point and the people he loved who called this place home.
He didn’t visit as often as he would like. Between his job at the Denver field office and the six true-crime books he had written, he didn’t have much free time.
That all might be about to change. He might have more free time than he knew what to do with.
His shoulder throbbed again and he adjusted the sling, gazing out at the stars that had begun to sparkle above the lake.
After hitting rock bottom professionally, with his entire future at the FBI in doubt, where else would he come but home?
He sighed and turned to go back inside. As he did, he spotted the lights still gleaming at the cottage next door, with its blue trim and the porch swing facing the water.
The swing was empty now. She wasn’t there.
Megan Hamilton. Auburn hair, green eyes, a smile that always seemed soft and genuine to everyone else but him.
He drew in a breath, aware of a sharp little twinge of hunger deep in his gut.
When he booked the cottage, he hadn’t really thought things through. He should have remembered that Megan and the Inn at Haven Point were a package deal. She owned the inn along with these picturesque little guest cottages on Silver Beach.
In his defense, he had no idea she actually lived in one herself, though. If he had ever heard that little fact, he had forgotten it. Should he have remembered, he would have looked a little harder for a short-term rental property, rather than picking the most convenient lakeshore unit he had found in his web search.
Usually, Elliot did his best to avoid her. Megan always left him...unsettled. It had been that way for ages, since long before he learned she and his younger brother had started dating.
He could still remember his shock when he came home for some event or other and saw her and Wyatt together. As in, together, together. Holding hands, sneaking the occasional kiss, giving each other secret smiles. Elliot had felt as if Wyatt had peppered him with buckshot.
He had tried to be happy for his younger brother, one of the most generous, helpful, loving people he’d ever known. Wyatt had been a genuinely good person and deserved to be happy with someone special.
Elliot had felt small and selfish for wishing that someone hadn’t been Megan Hamilton.
Watching their glowing happiness together had been tough. He mostly had managed to stay away for the four or five months they had been dating, though he tried to convince himself it hadn’t been on purpose. Work had been demanding and he had been busy carving out his place in the Bureau. He had also started the research that would become his first book, looking into a long-forgotten Montana case from a century earlier where a man had wooed, then married, then killed three spinster schoolteachers from New England for their life insurance money before finally being apprehended by a savvy local sheriff and the sister of one of the dead women.
The few times Elliot returned home during the time Megan had been dating his brother, he had been forced to endure family gatherings knowing she would be there, upsetting his equilibrium and stealing any peace he usually found here.
He couldn’t let her do it to him this time.
Her porch light switched off a moment later and Elliot finally breathed a sigh of relief.
He would only be here three weeks. Twenty-one days. Despite the proximity of his cabin to hers, he likely wouldn’t even see her much, other than at Katrina’s reception.
She would be busy with the inn, with her photography, with her wide circle of friends, while he should be focused on finishing his manuscript and allowing his shoulder to heal—not to mention figuring out whether he would still have a career at the end of that time.
Don’t miss THE COTTAGES ON SILVER BEACH
by RaeAnne Thayne,
available July 2018
wherever HQN books and ebooks are sold!
Copyright © 2018 by RaeAnne Thayne
The Secret Son’s Homecoming
by Helen Lacey
Chapter One
Connie Bedford knew from experience that regrets were pointless. She also knew that foolish behavior could not be undone—only not repeated. And she certainly had no intention of repeating the foolishness she’d carried out with the man standing across the dance floor from her.
Jonah Rickard.
Six feet plus of dark-haired, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed handsomeness that made her knees weak and turned her good sense to mush every time he was within a few feet of her.
Everyone had a weakness, she told herself. For some, it was chocolate or champagne. For others, it was extreme sports and adrenaline rushes. For Connie, it seemed as though it was Jonah. Even though she knew he was bad news and that he didn’t appear to feel anything for her other than disdain.
And she didn’t like him, either. Not really. It was simple chemistry. Alchemy. A straight-up physical reaction. The fact that it was still wreaking havoc with her good sense even though that crazy night had been over ten months ago frustrated her beyond belief. Particularly considering that every time she’d seen him since, each encounter had been even more awkward than the last. And it wasn’t as though anything had really happened. Just a few minutes of insane impulsiveness. It should have been easy to forget.
I’m the master of forgetting things. I can forget this, too.
“Earth to Connie?”
She instantly turned on her heels. Nicola Radici stood behind her. Nicola O’Sullivan now, she corrected herself. And the very reason that Connie was at the O’Sullivan ranch. She’d had three weeks to help prepare her friend for the Cedar River wedding of the year, and she was delighted that the whole day had gone off without any drama. The tent, the tasteful decorations, the lighting, the electric fire pits keeping the cold early November air at bay—it was a dreamy and beautiful event. And Nicola looked amazing in her antique lace gown. Connie was thankful and happy that all the preparations had come together and the bride and groom had had a lovely ceremony. What didn’t make her happy was the fact that Jonah was the groom’s half brother, and since she was a bridesmaid, she knew she was about ten minutes away from being partnered with him on the dance floor.
Because the last thing in the world that she wanted was to be in his arms.
Again.
She shook off the memory of his touch suddenly seeping through her blood and tried to think about anything other than Jonah’s arms, or any other part of him, for that matter. She half turned and faced the bride, plastering a smile on her face that was so sweet it made her teeth hurt.
“Sorry,” she said to the smiling bride. “I’m in personal-assistant mode, just making sure everything’s going off without a hitch.”
Nicola, her beautiful face beaming, grasped Connie’s arm. “You did an amazing job organizing everything so quickly. I can’t thank you enough for making this happen.”
“It wasn’t all my doing,” she said and grinned. “I’m a little OCD and like to be
really organized. And you’re my friend, so I wanted to do this.”
“Today wouldn’t have happened without you,” Nicola assured her. “Now, have you seen my handsome husband?”
Connie curled her thumb toward the buffet table. “Over there.”
Sure enough, Kieran O’Sullivan stood by the buffet, alongside his elder brother, Liam, his younger brother, Sean...and Jonah. Half brother to the three O’Sullivan siblings. Born out of a secret relationship their father, J. D. O’Sullivan, had with then-eighteen-year-old Kathleen Rickard. The whole situation was revealed when Liam, the eldest son, eloped with Kayla Rickard, Kathleen’s niece. The Rickards and the O’Sullivans had been sworn enemies for thirty years—and Jonah was the secret spanning those decades. J.D. had, essentially, two separate families. One in Cedar River, South Dakota—the other in Portland, Oregon.
As Liam’s personal assistant at the big O’Sullivan hotel in town, and a family friend, Connie had been privy to the entire situation for the past year. It was complicated and messy and had resulted in the end of J.D. and Gwen O’Sullivan’s thirty-five-year marriage. But for the sake of their children and grandchildren, with some time and effort, the O’Sullivans and the Rickards had somehow managed to put aside their grievances and bitterness and tried to cobble together an uneasy truce from the fallout.
Well, except for Jonah.
He still clearly hated J.D. and resented the fact that his beloved mother had moved back to Cedar River so she could heal her estranged relationship with her own aging mother and brother. Yeah, complicated didn’t cover the half of it. And it wasn’t as though the O’Sullivan brothers hadn’t tried to include Jonah in the reconciliation of the family—including J.D. It was just that Jonah was stubborn and his sole focus appeared to be protecting his mother—and resenting his father.
If she was a sensible woman—and she’d always considered herself to be—Connie knew she would put all thoughts of Jonah out of her mind and forget he existed. Like he had with her. Since he’d pretty much ignored her every time they’d met during the past ten months.
