To his disappointment, there was no sign of Lissa in the lobby. On the front desk stood a little brass bell with a long, slender handle, just back of a sign saying Ring for Service. If he did, would she come running down the stairs, all flushed and breathless from having to hurry away from whatever she was doing to make his room appear haunted? Or would she come from that back room she’d disappeared into early Sunday morning when he’d made such a fool of himself? If she did, would she be tousled from sleep?
Did she have to stay awake all night when she was on duty, or did she simply have to be on the premises and available?
He thought about ringing the bell—after all, he owed her an apology. His joke about proposing to her had been completely out of line. No wonder she’d walked away from him and shut the door in his face. In the three days since then, he’d seen nothing of her. An apology was best given as soon as possible, he knew. So he really should ring that bell and get her out there where he could talk to her. But not if she was sleeping.
He turned from the desk and wandered down into the lounge where there were plenty of comfortable chairs and sofas. He’d sit down here and read till he was damn good and tired. Hopefully then, the odd goings-on in his room wouldn’t keep him awake. Nothing would.
He tried reading his book for a while. It still didn’t grab him so he picked up a magazine. While leafing through it, he stopped suddenly at a shampoo ad. He smiled.
The woman in it, her back to the camera, had long, molasses-colored hair, thick and sleek as he remembered Lissa’s was when released from her braid the night they had danced. The model’s hands and arms were raised, lifting the hair from her nape, letting it cascade down over her shoulders and back. It looked silky.
He could almost imagine smelling it, almost imagine stroking the smooth strands.
He imagined Lissa, sitting at a dressing table, brushing her hair. He would approach quietly, slip up behind her, take the brush from her hand. Slowly, gently, he’d run it through her thick tresses. He’d let them slide over and through his fingers, fall loose on his wrists and arms. The scent of her shampoo would rise to engulf him with its sweetness as he massaged her scalp. She’d sigh, lean back against his chest and tilt her head on his shoulder. He’d turn her half-around and lower his head toward her welcoming lips and taste them fully for the first time.…
Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, letting the fantasy play out.
Under her nightgown, her breasts, firm and round, would fill his hands with their warmth and heaviness. He would tip her back over his arm, then bend and take one of those delicious globes in his mouth, hearing her soft moan of pleasure and her voice encouraging him, telling him to take what he wanted because she was his, she belonged to him, she would do anything for him.… Don’t stop, she’d beg. Don’t ever stop, and he would promise her he never would and tell her in graphic detail all the things he was going to do to her, while she whispered yes, yes, yes, to each one …
Lissa tossed on the narrow cot in the back room where she spent a few hours of the night whenever she had a chance. She punched her pillow, turned it over and tried to find a cool spot on it.
Why wasn’t she sleeping? Dammit, she knew why. She knew it all too well. In her head was a vision of Steve Jackson’s hands, large and square and warm on her back, his body cradling hers, his thighs against hers and the sound of his voice, a low rumble, singing to her just as he had the night they’d danced together.
Did he sing to every woman he danced with? Who was she kidding? Of course he did! She knew that. It was his style. It was the style of all the men just like him she’d ever met, and she’d met plenty. Too many. Too many, at least, to be losing sleep over the guy.
She only wished Larry had gotten the CD all set up as he’d promised, but when a big powerboat with a bent propeller had limped into his marine machine shop, he’d been tied up with work about fifteen hours a day. Then Janie, his wife, arrived home on this evening’s ferry after a week at her grandmother’s, and Larry had naturally had other things on his mind. Tomorrow, he’d promised. Tomorrow, the spook-stuff would be in position.
She flopped on her back. At least she’d been spared the task of keeping Steve occupied since her dad and the committee had asked her to do it. Yesterday, he’d gone fishing with the Allenda sisters, and today, he’d gone out on his own, according to Merv, the marina manager. That suited her just fine. As long as he was fishing, he was out of her jurisdiction.
If he went fishing again tomorrow, and Larry had no emergency jobs come in, everything would be in place by noon.
The cot felt lumpier than it usually did. Her pillow was too thin. The top sheet tangled around her bare legs so she had to fight to get rid of it. Heat seemed to have baked into the stone walls all day and was now being released into this small room. If she couldn’t sleep now for thinking of Steve Jackson in his bed on the top floor, then she’d sleep tomorrow aboard her boat while he was out fishing, something at which she’d truly hate to join him.
She sat up quickly and flung her legs over the side of the bed. Not that she’d really like to join him upstairs, either, but well, a girl couldn’t always control her mind’s fantasies.
However, the reality was that she wasn’t going to sleep any time soon. Fine. She’d go into the lounge and try to read some more of that big, boring book on medieval times. Not that it had given her a lot of ideas for the festival. She’d done better with the picture book of fairy tales she’d checked out of the library at the same time—along with The Paper Bag Princess, which she’d meant to offer Steve as bedtime reading only to do so, she’d have had to meet him face-to-face or leave the book on his pillow, whereupon he’d feel obliged to come down from his room to thank her and … Nah. Best not to go there.
She laughed softly. That was a princess with attitude: the right kind of attitude, one she could relate to—and would do well to emulate.
She rose, pulled on a skirt, straightened her scoop neck cotton knit top and tidied her hair as best she could without rebraiding it. Then she went to the desk, hefted the big book of medieval times, all without bothering to turn on a light.
A light shone in the lounge and just as she was about to enter, she came to an abrupt halt, taken aback by the sight of Steve sitting quietly in a chair, his bare feet on a coffee table, a magazine on his lap.
He was completely unaware of her presence, so she took the opportunity to study him, trying to figure out just what it was about him that attracted her so strongly when every bit of good sense told her to steer clear.
Oh, he was a sexy devil, all right, and bantering with him had been fun. How long was it since she’d met a man who excited her, amused her, entertained her as much as he did? Too long, obviously, because she was way too interested in him.
She found herself wishing the light from the lamp at his side didn’t cast such a golden glow over his hair and skin.
If only he’d go away!
He shifted slightly and she hoped he wouldn’t look in her direction. His head began to nod, the magazine fell to the floor, and he lolled sideways against the wing back of the chair.
Sleeping! In the lounge! Now what was she supposed to do?
One thing, obviously. Her duty as night clerk demanded she march over there, grab his shoulder, shake him hard and wake him up. Send him back up to his room. Guests weren’t supposed to sleep in the lounge, for Pete’s sake! Pete. Right. All she needed was for Pete Hoskins, the manager, to make one of his rare surprise inspections and find Steve sleeping down here with her on duty. Pete didn’t like her and would take any good excuse to get rid of her. She was lucky he’d never heard of the ceiling episode. Not that he’d have cared about the damage; Pete had, through managerial inaction, allowed the inn to deteriorate more in the two years of his tenure than all the absentee owners had throughout the years of her grandfather’s and father’s management. Sometimes, she thought it was almost willful neglect, as if he wanted to see the inn tumble into the ocean.
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Maybe it was time for them to let it go, to let Steve Jackson’s father come and kill it outright, rather than have to watch its slow and agonizing demise.
What if she simply walked down into the lounge, woke him up and told him to take it, take the whole shebang, take the responsibility off her shoulders? Then, she’d be free. But … free of what? She nearly laughed. Not guilt, that was certain. No, she was in this now and would see it through to the end. Whatever that end might be.
Lissa quickly moved toward Steve. Then she stood gazing at him. His eyes were closed as he breathed in the slow, steady rhythms of deep slumber.
What in the world was he dreaming about, to produce a smile like that?
She had to fight her stupid impulse to smooth that lock of hair off his forehead. Finally winning that battle, she suddenly lost another and picked up a hand crocheted afghan from the back of a sofa.
Stepping closer, she paused, then stared. There was no longer any doubt whatsoever about the reason for his smile, or what had nudged the magazine off his lap. Cripes! She clenched her teeth, not knowing whether she was most annoyed with herself for being impressed, or him for being in that state while he dreamed of … whom?
It sure wasn’t ghosts.
She picked up the magazine and dropped it on the table, where it landed with an audible slap. He didn’t wake up, though his smile faded and a frown creased his forehead for an instant. Still annoyed with herself, and with him, she spread the afghan over his long frame.
One of his big toes poked through between the imperfectly joined corners of four granny squares, making her smile. He murmured, smiled again, and cuddled the blanket up under his chin.
It took all Lissa’s strength to back slowly away from him instead of tucking the covering more securely around his shoulders and fixing it so his toe didn’t stick out. How could such a large toe, with a blunt-cut nail and a callus on the side, look so vulnerable? And why did it bring a catch to her throat? She sat down on the sofa next to his chair and watched him sleep.
She was still sitting there, listening to him breathe, aching to touch him, when she heard the distinctive squeak of the swinging doors from the dining room. She leapt to her feet and whirled around. There was Rosa, carrying a tray of rolls and pastries for early risers. Good grief! It was nearly five o’clock in the morning!
In one leap, Lissa started back to her post at the front desk, but she wasn’t quick enough.
“What’s this?” Rosa whispered, staring at Lissa, hovering between the lounge and the desk, and at Steve Jackson sleeping in a chair. “What’s he doing down here? I thought you told your dad you wouldn’t get involved with him.” She gave Lissa an arch grin. “I figured you’d change your mind.”
“I didn’t change my mind!”
“No, I don’t suppose you did.” Rosa set her tray on the reception desk. The mingled scents of cinnamon and yeast filled the lobby. “The mind seldom has anything to do with things like this, does it?”
Lissa was saved having to come up with a suitable reply by the arrival downstairs of George, Mark and Jamie Fredricks.
“Hey there, Lissa!” George boomed. “Have you looked outside yet? Gonna be another great day. Not a rain cloud in sight.”
He and his sons each grabbed a couple of rolls, shoved them into the white paper bags the inn provided, and stuffed them into the pockets of their fishing jackets. George turned to Rosa. “Coffee ready yet?” He added apples and oranges to his pockets.
“Comin’ right up, boys.”
The conversation woke Steve Jackson. Maria and Jacinta Allenda, also dressed for the dawn bite, came in from their cabin near the beach, equally eager to get a few hours’ fishing before breakfast.
There was nothing Lissa could do but stand there and stare as Steve sat up and stretched his arms high over his head, arching his back. He yawned, patting his open mouth with the back of one hand and then looked straight at her.
She gazed back at him as he slowly got to his feet, rising like a lithe panther from his lair. He caught the afghan as it slid toward the floor, holding its bright, orange, white and yellow zigzag pattern bunched in one fist.
She wanted to back away but she was frozen in place.
Something in his expression unleashed a wild, excited rush of blood through her veins. It weakened her knees and made her feel dizzy. Without shifting his gaze from hers, he took a step toward her, tripped over the part of the afghan caught on his toe and turned the fall into a push-up, from which he bounced to his feet. “There goes another guy, fallin’ for Lissa,” Jamie Fredricks snickered. “Won’t do you any good, Steve,” he added as Steve, appearing completely unfazed, grinned. “Lissa’s the original unapproachable woman.”
“Oh, yeah?” Steve said. He shook the afghan loose from his toe and, still staring at Lissa, carefully folded the blanket twice, then dropped it onto the sofa.
Steve watched a delicate pink flush rise up Lissa’s throat to tint her face as he came close to her. “Hey,” he said, “thanks for the cover. That was nice of you.”
Her lashes fluttered. She shrugged. “You looked … chilly.”
She looked warm. “I was dreaming about you,” he said, and she suddenly looked a lot more than warm. As an excuse to touch her, he captured a loose wisp of hair and slipped it behind her ear. Her cheek was satiny, heated, its curve enticing. She shivered.
“Are you sure you aren’t hiding some latent mothering instincts deep inside somewhere?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Positive. I don’t have a maternal instinct to my name.”
Her voice wobbled the faintest bit and a pulse hammered hard in her throat. He touched the tip of his finger to it. He wished it was the tip of his tongue. He wanted to return to last night’s fantasy, and this time, make it reality, hear her whispering into his ear, feel the heat of her breath, taste her skin, her lips, her mouth, drag in great gulps of the scent of her hair. He wanted—
“No?” He forced the question out through a suddenly raspy throat. “What kind of instincts do you have, Lissa?”
For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t reply as their gazes meshed.
“Strong instincts of self-preservation,” she finally said and slipped behind the front desk. Once again she darted behind the door in the back wall and closed it firmly behind her.
Aboard her boat, Lissa sat sipping coffee. She should, she knew, go below again, grab a few hours’ sleep, then get back to organizing the festival, but it was a glorious morning and she hated to waste it sleeping. The early fishermen had gone out and wouldn’t be returning anytime soon, not with the weather so lovely. Steve, she was certain, would be among them.
The sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky and the waters of Madrona Cove wore shimmering reflections of the hills and bluffs along the protective points of land that held it in their arms. She remained on deck, slowly swinging in her hammock chair, one foot propped on the rail, coffee cup propped on one knee and looked out.
“This is Lissa’s boat.” She heard the marina manager’s voice behind her.
“Boss Lady?” said a laughing voice that startled Lissa into pushing her toe against the rail, spinning her chair around so fast that most of her coffee slopped out. “Yup, it makes sense.”
Merv laughed, too. “One of a kind, she is, our Lissa. Oh!” he added in what some might have taken to be genuine astonishment, “there she is herself.”
Steve Jackson standing on the dock in broad daylight was no less attractive than he had been by lamplight. He shaded his eyes with one hand as he peered up at her into the sun.
“Mornin’, Liss,” Merv went on. “Okay if we come aboard?”
Without waiting for her reply, he stepped up onto the deck. Steve remained on the float. “You’ve met Steve Jackson?”
“Yes,” she said. “We’ve met. Planning another day’s fishing, Steve?”
“No, I wasn’t thinking of going out today.”
“Why not?”
He grinne
d. “Is it compulsory?”
“I … no. Of course not. It’s just that’s what I thought you’d come for.” Too late, she remembered the circumstances under which he’d said those words. “I mean, it’s what most of our guests come for.”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” he said.
“Really? Looked to me as if you did all right.” He’d slept longer than she had, which had been not at all.
“That was just a catnap.”
“Problems last night?” Merv asked innocently.
“Not really,” Steve said. “I was … restless, I guess. I moved down to the lounge to read, and fell asleep there. Lissa was kind enough to toss a blanket over me.”
“Good for her,” Merv said, bestowing an approving look on her. “Uh, Liss, I was telling Steve about the renovations we’ve done to your boat here. I wonder, since you’re obviously not too busy, if you wouldn’t mind giving him a tour.”
As she opened her mouth to refuse, Merv gave her a pointed look. “I promised I’d help Larry with a little job he needs to take care of for the next hour or so.”
She suppressed a sigh. All right, Merv: Message received.
“I sure hope tonight will be an improvement over last night,” Merv said to Steve, with every appearance of sincerity. “The whole Madrona Inn team likes to pull together to make every guest’s stay exactly what we all want it to be.”
What could she say? What could she do? She had to show Steve around her boat. Though she’d rather have pitched him in the drink, she conjured up a smile.
“Sure,” she said, resigning herself to the inevitable. She’d be a team player if it killed her. “Come aboard. Would you like some coffee? Sugar, milk?”
“Black,” he said, his eyes on hers as he strolled beside her on the deck of her old, converted tugboat. “And sweet.”
She couldn’t force a reply through her throat. He wore faded blue cutoffs with ragged edges. His powerful brown legs spoke of hours on tennis courts or golf courses or other playboy activities. His blue polo shirt added depth to the color of his eyes and its open neck gave her a tantalizing peek at that golden mat of hair on his chest.
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