Theo sighed and rose, stretching his arms up over his head. He knew his size was intimidating, but to her credit, Emma didn’t even blink. Being married to Jimmy, whose nickname was—appropriately—“the Bear,” must have inured her to intimidation by large men. He jerked his head in the direction of the lady. “You can tell my good friend over there that I’m leaving for the day.”
“I think I’ll leave well enough alone,” Emma said without rancor as she tilted her head at him. “But I hope you don’t mind my saying that you look tired, Theo.”
He began to pack up his laptop. “Let’s just say I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in over a week.”
“Out on Val’s boat? I’d imagine not. Are you sharing a cabin with Cole?”
Theo nodded. “Yep. As if the tiny berth wasn’t uncomfortable enough, I have my big brother in there to keep me company.”
Emma touched her forefinger to her chin and looked thoughtful. “There are some nice places in town where you could stay. Why don’t you look into it?”
Pulling on his thick, lined pea coat, he nodded. “Best advice I’ve gotten in a long time.”
“Try the Inn. And Theo, perhaps you’d like to do a reading for us? I’m sure folks would love to hear T. R. Grayson read from his critically acclaimed bestseller, The Pirate’s Sextant. It’s not every day we have a famous author in our midst.”
“Sure,” Theo said, happy that Emma thought highly enough of him to ask. “Just let me know when.”
“The next spot we have available for our Evenings with an Author series is a week from today. I hope that’s not too soon, because we’ll have to get a poster of your book before you come in.”
Way to stroke his ego. “Call my agent. He’ll overnight one. I’ll even autograph it for you.”
“Thank you, Theo. That would be lovely.” She gave him a sweet smile.
Theo flipped the collar of his coat up. “Tell Jimmy I’ll catch him later this week at the Rusty Nail. ’Bye, Emma.” He stepped around her to leave, but as he walked to the front door, he couldn’t resist giving the old lady on the couch one parting shot. “See you tonight, baby,” he growled, raising one eyebrow.
Rewarded by her shocked gasp, he grinned. Yeah, he still had it. Too bad he’d never use it on anyone who counted.
#
“I shouldn’t be here.”
Avery Newbridge finally spoke the words that had been running through her head for weeks, her voice echoing off the wood-paneled walls in the foyer of the Star Harbor Inn. Ostensibly, she was in Star Harbor, Massachusetts, to mind the Inn while Aunt Kate underwent treatment for breast cancer. But Avery knew what she was really doing.
Hiding.
She couldn’t even pretend anymore. At first, it had been nice to think that she was helping out family, but Kate had finished recovering from her last round of chemo two weeks ago and had resumed most of the duties of managing the Inn. While Kate sometimes suffered from bouts of weakness, she was doing all right. Still, Avery stayed in this tight-knit little town where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s name—and their business.
Sighing loudly, Avie leaned back in her little chair behind the large, walnut-wood reception desk, trying to release some tension. It didn’t make her feel better. At this point, she didn’t know what would. Not after what she’d been through in Boston and all the weird stuff that had been happening at the Inn lately.
At least what had happened at the Back Bay Recovery Center made sense. Losing a client would be enough to make anyone feel emotional, but she worked with the most serious substance abuse cases, not all of whom had it in them to stay sober. What didn’t make sense were the odd sounds she and Kate had been hearing at night in the Inn. Sure, it was an old building—one of Star Harbor’s registered historical sites, something of which Kate was proud—but in its three hundred years of existence, no one had ever said that the Star Harbor Inn was haunted. There was simply no explanation for the strange, ice-cold drafts and the creepy thumping sounds at night. Avery herself had heard them a few times since she’d been in town, but Kate told her she’d been hearing them for months before that. And over the last week, there’d been some even stranger stuff. A few times the furniture had been shifted into slightly different locations—even though no one admitted to moving it—and some supplies had gone missing. She and Kate had taken to saying “boo” at each other whenever the Inn creaked or the wind moaned.
And Avery didn’t even want to get started on the odd guests. Such as the group of women from Australia who’d been drunk for three days. They must have spent every evening at the Rusty Nail. Or the guy last week who’d looked like some upscale mobster, complete with a slick Italian suit and a ridiculously heavy gold watch. He’d stayed all of one night, leaving behind a stack of old newspapers that was almost a foot high.
Good Lord, what was she doing here?
Avery couldn’t stop thinking about her work at the Recovery Center. Still, she didn’t feel ready to return. She needed to come to terms with what had happened, and until she did, she’d stay in Star Harbor. How long that would take, she had no idea. But as each day passed, Avery felt her future slipping farther and farther away.
As if on cue, the antique black phone on the reception desk rang.
“Star Harbor Inn, how may I help you?” she said in her best telephone voice. “All right. Let me check the reservation book for next year. Please hold on a moment.” Avery placed the phone on the counter and bent down to retrieve the leather ledger from underneath the desk. Why Aunt Kate couldn’t go digital was beyond her. Just as she bent her head, the front door to the Inn opened and snapped shut, letting in a biting gust of cold air.
“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she said as she continued to fumble for the heavy reservation book. “Ah, got it.” She pulled it out from under the desk and plopped it onto the wood. Unfortunately, the book hit the pen she was about to use and it began to roll toward the edge of the desk. Standing on her toes, she leaned over to grab it, catching it just before it fell off the side. Then she looked up.
Directly at the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life.
He was huge, easily six-four, and he filled the small foyer so completely that all the air seemed to be sucked out from her lungs. Despite the thick coat he wore, she could tell he was in impeccable shape from the way the cloth was stretched over his broad shoulders and how his jeans hugged his long legs. And his boots? Enormous.
Embarrassed that she was even considering the size of his feet, she jerked her gaze up, cheeks beginning to flush. It was a mistake.
Because now she was staring at his face. Hair as black as a raven’s wing swung over his forehead, tousled by the winter wind. Prominent cheekbones and full, lush lips made him look both angular and alluring. But his eyes were what really got her. A curious mix of green and amber, they seemed to glow behind the glasses he wore. He was sinfully beautiful. Could you call a man beautiful? This one was, despite the hard line of his jaw and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. It was the imperfection that made him gorgeous. So gorgeous it was scary.
And as she appraised him, he was surely returning the favor, those oddly colored eyes sweeping over what he could see of her behind the desk. His mouth dropped open a little—was he about to say something?—and his gaze sharpened. And then it happened. The thing that robbed her of any ability to function. His lips curled up on one side, displaying straight white teeth, and he smiled. Directly at her.
The small quaver in her belly told Avery one thing: this man was trouble with a capital “T.” And for her, a woman who attempted never to take anything at face value, who tried to look impartially at every issue before making a decision, the fact that her body wasn’t listening to her brain was bad. Really, really bad.
A moment passed. Or maybe it was two.
“Hello? Hello?” the woman on the end of the line squawked.
“I think you’d better get that,” the man rumbled bemu
sedly in a low, deep voice that warmed her from within.
She blinked and scrambled off the desk before snatching up the ancient phone and flipping the huge book open. “Yes, I’m here,” she said. “March twentieth? Yes, we have availability that week. When would you like to come? Okay, to reserve that I’ll need a credit card number.” She took down the woman’s information, giving her the cancellation information in turn. “Wonderful. See you next March.” She hung up the phone and for a moment, tried to gather her thoughts. Then she returned her attention to the fallen angel before her.
“You must be a Grayson,” she said coolly, trying her best to sound dispassionate.
“I see that my reputation precedes me,” the man said smoothly. “You look familiar, too, but I know we’ve never met.”
“Emma Newbridge—now Emma Bishop—is my sister.”
“You look like her, except for the hair.”
“Oh,” she said, self-consciously sweeping the mass of it over her shoulders, hiding the length from him. “Yes, a lot of people say that.”
Orange. There was no delicate way to put it. Her hair was bright orange. Always had been. While Emma had been gifted with deep, auburn hair that shone like mahogany in the sun, she’d been cursed with hair the color of a ripe pumpkin. Most of the time she wore it in a long braid down her back or up in a twist so people wouldn’t gape so much. And when she met with her clients it was always in a tight bun. Not anticipating any guests at the Inn today, she’d worn it down. From the way this man was staring, she wished she hadn’t.
“So how may I help you?” Despite her jitteriness, she met his gaze evenly.
Without breaking eye contact, he stepped closer to the desk and leaned one large forearm against it. “I need a room.”
With difficulty, she swallowed. He was making it impossible to be rational. “Why don’t you stay with one of your brothers? I’m sure they’d be happy to have you.”
“I’ve been staying with Val on that damned houseboat of his. It’s no good for writing, sleeping … or anything else.”
Blinking, she tried to focus. “So, ah, how long will you be staying?”
“Indefinitely.” He was still staring at her with great interest.
“We don’t really do that here—”
“Theo,” he supplied.
“This isn’t really a long-term kind of place. For one thing, it’s very expensive.” For another, having you stay here would be dangerous. She knew her aunt would tell her that turning away customers during the low season, especially when the Inn was empty, was bad for business, but she tried to convince herself she was simply looking out for his best interests.
“You don’t think I can afford it?”
“No,” she said quickly. “What I meant to say was that if you’re going to be staying in town for a while, you might want to consider renting an apartment instead. It would be more cost-effective.”
“Cost isn’t an issue.”
“Even so, sir, I think that—”
“Theo,” he insisted.
“Theo, I think that you should find someplace else.” Somewhere far away from the Inn where she wouldn’t be distracted by him. She needed to figure out her long-term game plan for getting back on track with her career. The last thing she needed was to be tempted into some short-term affair that could only go nowhere.
“Clearly, you don’t have a background in sales,” he said wryly.
The redness suffusing her cheeks was answer enough.
“Look, do you have any available rooms or don’t you?” he asked softly. But there was hard steel behind his voice.
“We do, but—”
“Then I’ll take one.” He reached into his pocket, pulled a credit card from his wallet, and handed it to her.
Avery frowned as she looked down at his enormous hand. She reached for the card, but as she grabbed it, her fingertips brushed his. Before she could even think, an electric jolt raced from the place they’d touched and zapped up her arm. It wasn’t static electricity—it was something different entirely. Now she was tingling. All over. She snatched her shaking hand away and glanced up at him.
A mistake. Again.
This time he gave her a full smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. This man was dangerous, no doubt about it. She quickly swiped the card, all too aware that he was watching her every move.
“So,” she said when the card cleared, “would you like me to show you to your room?”
“That would be nice.”
“Follow me, then.” Immediately missing the sanctuary of the desk, she walked as briskly as possible through the foyer. When she reached the staircase, she stopped and turned. He was right there behind her, and though she knew it was unwise, she met his gaze, praying he couldn’t tell how nervous she was. “After you,” she said, gesturing for him to go up first.
“Oh, no,” he said, looking at her intently. “After you.” Since he was now a paying guest, she couldn’t exactly insist, so she headed up the stairs to the second floor, stepping precisely on each stair, acutely aware of his gaze.
“So you’re back in town for a visit?” she asked, trying to choose a neutral subject. “You live out West somewhere, right?”
“San Francisco. I’m just visiting for a couple of months. I needed some inspiration for my writing, and Star Harbor seemed like a good place to start.” His voice was low.
Heading up the next flight of stairs—the ones that led to the two rooms on the third floor—she placed her hand on the banister as she made the turn. “I could use some inspiration myself,” she muttered.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” she said curtly. There was no way she was getting into that with him. Not now. Not ever. “Here’s your room—Smuggler’s Cove. I put you in the top corner room with a nice view of the water. It should be quiet up here, especially since we don’t have that many guests at this time of year. Tea is served in the parlor at two-thirty every afternoon. Do you have any luggage you’d like brought up?”
“Not right now.” He paused, and she knew he was staring at her. “May I?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” she said, holding out the room key for him to take. He moved closer until he was standing directly in front of her. She forced herself to look at him. When her eyes met his intense gaze, her breath caught in her throat. Instead of reaching for the key, as she’d anticipated, he raised his hand to her head. Without warning, he lightly ran his fingers through her hair from her scalp to the ends of the strands, staring at them with wonder as they fell from his hand. Her body’s entire nervous system went into overdrive, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
Even as she shivered from the contact, he swept the key from her hand, unlocked the door, stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him.
Right in her face.
Avery stood there for a few seconds, frankly shocked. Finally, she came to her senses, releasing the breath that she’d unconsciously been holding. More disturbed at her reaction to his touch than she was by his obnoxious manners, she turned and slowly descended the stairs, fervently hoping—no, praying—that as long as Theo Grayson was at the Star Harbor Inn, he would stay in his room and out of her way.
Read on for an excerpt from Samantha Kane’s
The Devil’s Thief
London, June 5, 1817
Chapter One
The faint, metallic screech sounded as loud as thunder in the oppressive silence of the dark bedroom. Julianna froze, silhouetted by the moonlight against the back wall, the sudden noise stealing her breath away.
“Unless you care to be shot this evening, I wouldn’t move from where you’re standing.” The deep voice was quiet but firm and it came from the shadows of the big bed.
Julianna remained still as a statue, her mind awhirl. For a moment all was silent, but then she heard the bedsheets rustle and the mattress groan. She cast her eyes toward the bed, afraid to move even an inch. She could see from the man�
�s outline that he was now leaning against the headboard. His arm appeared to be resting on his upraised knee, but it was too dark to tell whether or not he was actually holding a gun.
“You’re probably wondering if I do indeed have a gun,” he said nonchalantly, and Julianna had to suppress a gasp. How did he know? She closed her eyes and pursed her lips in annoyance at herself. Of course he knew. It’s what any halfway intelligent person would be thinking if they were discovered in her position.
“Let me reassure you that the answer is yes.”
His reassurance was hardly necessary, since she had already concluded that to be the case. In her experience, gentlemen were alarmingly odd, at least in most respects, so it was no surprise that this one apparently slept with a gun. Given his wild and reckless reputation, it would perhaps be more surprising if he did not.
He snorted inelegantly from the bed, which amused Julianna in spite of the dangerous situation she was in. In that moment he didn’t sound at all like the Honorable Mr. Alasdair Sharp to whom she’d recently been introduced, but very much like an annoyed schoolmaster.
“Stand up, for God’s sake,” Mr. Sharp ordered from the bed. “You look like a caricature of a thief, hunched over and creeping along the wall.”
Julianna started to straighten and she heard another rustle from the bed.
“Slowly,” Mr. Sharp admonished, and she froze again for a moment before straightening very, very slowly.
“And now you must tell me what you found so irresistible in my bedroom in the middle of the night.”
Julianna heard the amusement in his voice and it irritated her. So he found her amusing, did he?
The slight weight in the secret pocket of her shirt burned into her side like a brand as she faced him. “Let me reassure you that it was the Stewart Pearl I found irresistible,” she retorted, “and nothing else.”
As soon as she spoke she could have bitten off her tongue. Why, oh why did she always open her mouth before thinking things through? Surely he would recognize her now.
“You’re a woman,” Mr. Sharp exclaimed in shock.
Until There Was You (Coming Home, #2) Page 23
