“All right, Dez. How much is it worth for me to get into a hot tub with you?”

The woman was trying to kill him, Dez decided. She hadn’t managed to choke him to death with coffee, so she’d opted to try stopping his heart with astonishment.

“How much is it worth to you?” Gina repeated. “Because for—say—ten thousand dollars, I’d consider it.”

“Ten thousand—” He cleared his throat and tried again. “You have an inflated idea of what an evening of your time is worth.”

He could almost hear ice cubes tinkling in her voice. “And let’s make it quite clear that my time is absolutely all I’m talking about.”

“No hanky-panky in the hot tub,” he agreed smoothly.

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The Forbidden Marriage

by Rebecca Winters (#3768)

The Billionaire Bid
Leigh Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN Gina reached the restaurant, she was relieved to see that she was a few minutes early. Not only would it be bad manners to keep a guest waiting, but in this case it would be purely stupid. She had one shot at this presentation. If she couldn’t pull it off today, the plan wouldn’t fly at all. So she’d take advantage of the extra few minutes to go over her mental notes once more.

The maître d’ looked her over doubtfully. “Would you like to wait in the bar, Ms. Haskell? Or at your table?”

“The table, I believe. My companion will be arriving within a few minutes. You do know Mrs. Garrett, don’t you? Anne Garrett?”

The man’s expression didn’t so much as flicker, but his voice was cool. “Certainly I know the publisher of the local newspaper, Ms. Haskell.” He didn’t show her to the table; he snapped his fingers and a subordinate arrived to escort her instead.

Dumb question, Gina thought philosophically. If she’d tried, she couldn’t have made it clearer that she was moving outside her normal circles. Next time, why don’t you just ask him if the fish is fresh? He couldn’t be any more insulted by that.

If there ever was a next time, of course. There weren’t many occasions for Gina to go to a really first-class restaurant.

In fact, though she’d lived in Lakemont much of her life, Gina had never been inside The Maple Tree before. As the waiter seated her, she took a quick—and, she hoped, unobtrusive—glance at her surroundings. The dining room was large, but because the tables were set far apart there weren’t as many of them as she would have expected. Though she could hear the murmur of voices from the ones nearest to hers, she couldn’t have eavesdropped even if she’d tried. Not only the distance between tables but the soft tinkle of ragtime music in the background prevented it.

The decorating scheme seemed to have been adopted from the restaurant’s name; as if to make the point, on one wall was a grouping of arty photographs of trees and individual leaves. The walls and carpet were the soft green of new leaves, while the table linens were a splash of autumn colors—red napkins against pale gold tablecloths. Unusual though it was, Gina thought the effect was stunning.

At the far end of the room sat a glossy grand piano next to a small dance floor, and along one side of the dining room was a bar. Its wood surface—no doubt it was maple to fit the theme, Gina thought—was so highly polished that it gleamed nearly as brightly as the brass that accented it.

For an upscale restaurant at lunchtime, she thought, the bar seemed strangely quiet. In fact, there was only one man sitting there, occupying the tall stool at the end nearest to Gina’s table. He thumped his index finger against his glass, and the bartender moved toward him and picked up the glass. The man turned toward the room and with no warning whatsoever looked directly into Gina’s eyes.

She felt herself turning pink. It was one of the hazards of being a redhead—though in this case it was perfectly ridiculous to feel the slightest embarrassment. It wasn’t as if she’d been watching him—it was pure coincidence that she had happened to be facing his direction when he’d turned.

No matter what he might think, he hadn’t caught her doing anything rude—which was more than she could say for him at the moment. A gentleman would have made momentary eye contact and then looked away. But this man…

He tipped his head back a fraction of an inch. His eyes narrowed. He settled an elbow on the bar as if to brace himself while he looked her over to his satisfaction.

Gina felt like walking over to him and making it absolutely clear that she hadn’t been staring at him—or indeed at anything. But to do that would only call more attention to an episode which had already gotten far bigger than it had any reason to. She’d merely been looking around the room, appreciating the ambience and the decor. It certainly wasn’t her fault he’d happened to be in the way, blocking her view.

She opened the menu the waiter had left. But the words inside looked strangely blurry, as if once she’d focused her gaze on the man at the bar she couldn’t get her eyes to adjust to a different distance. She unfolded her napkin and fussed with laying it out just right on her lap. She reminded herself that these last few minutes of quiet would be better used to review the presentation she would be making over lunch.

None of it worked. Her senses were still on high alert, because he was still watching her. Even without looking up, she knew it.

Fine, Gina told herself irritably. Two can play that game. What’s good for the goose…

She pushed the menu aside. This time she didn’t bother with a survey of the room; he’d only interpret that as coyness anyway. She put both elbows on the edge of the table, rested her chin on her fingertips, and stared back at him.

Actually, she had to admit, he wasn’t a bad addition to either the ambience or the decor. He was tall; she could tell that much from the way he was half sitting on the high stool with one foot hooked easily onto the rung and the other still planted on the floor. And he was good-looking in a hard-edged fashion, with blue-black hair, a strong jaw, and a proud nose. Of course, she’d never been much interested in the dark, predatory type.

What, she wondered, had made him bore in on her? Surely he didn’t stare at every woman who glanced at him as Gina had done—or even every woman who took a long hard second look. For one thing, if he did he’d have no time left to do anything else, because there must be plenty of women who—unlike Gina—would find that package attractive enough to inspect at length.

Without taking his gaze off Gina, the man at the bar stretched out a hand unerringly for his replenished glass and held it up, as if offering a toast to her.

Well, Haskell, that didn’t exactly turn out the way you planned. Now what?

The man shifted on the bar stool as if he was about to rise. Gina tensed. If he comes over here…

Beside her, the maître d’ cleared his throat loudly.

Startled, Gina jumped up. Her chair rocked, coming dangerously close to upsetting. Her napkin trailed off her lap onto the floor, and the edge of her suit jacket snagged on the corner of the menu and flipped it off the table. Gina felt color flood her face. The man at the bar, she thought, must be enjoying this show immensely. Fortunately, because of the way the table was angled, he couldn’t see her face now. Even better, she couldn’t see him anymore.

The maître d’, looking as if he were suffering from a sudden cramp, waved a busboy over to retrieve the menu and bring a fresh napkin while he pulled out a chair for her guest. “Mrs. Garrett,” he said, enunciating very carefully.

As if he felt it necessary to introduce us, Gina thought irritably.

Anne Garrett stretched a hand across the table. “Hello, Gina. It’s nice to see you again.” She glanced up at the maître d’ and added dryly, “Thank you, Bruce. I believe I can handle it from here.”

The maître d’ looked skeptical, but he retreated.

“Sorry,” Gina said, feeling breathless. “I’m not usually quite so clumsy.” I will not look at the bar, she told herself. Seeing amusement in those deep-set eyes would not help matters.

I wonder what color his eyes are, anyway.

“Bruce’s evil stare would make Saint Peter feel guilty,” Anne murmured. “I’ve always wondered how many of the waiters he hires last a full week without having a nervous breakdown.” She opened her menu. “I’m sorry to say I only have an hour before I have to be back at the newspaper for one of those ghastly endless meetings. So let’s order first, if you don’t mind, and then you can tell me what’s going on.”

Gina’s throat tightened as time seemed to compress around her. An hour wasn’t nearly long enough…Though, on the other hand, if she couldn’t convince Anne Garrett of the value of her plan in an hour, then she probably couldn’t do it in a week either. And if she couldn’t convince Anne Garrett…

What a cheerful thought that is.

Gina ordered a salad almost at random, sipped her iced tea, and began. “First I want to thank you for meeting with me. I appreciate being able to get your advice, since where Lakemont is concerned, you’re an expert.”

Anne paused with the cream pitcher suspended above her coffee cup. “I wouldn’t go quite that far. I’m a native, but so are you—aren’t you?”

“Not quite. And I don’t have nearly the contacts you do.”

Anne set the cream down and picked up her spoon. “So tell me what it is you want from my contacts.”

Gina wanted to choke herself. That hadn’t been very neatly done at all. “It’s the museum,” she said, and sighed. “Oh, that sounded foolish, didn’t it? Of course it’s the museum. You were gracious enough to show an interest in it when you visited a couple of weeks ago.”

“Of course I’m interested. It’s a nice little museum, full of history.”

“And that’s the point.” Gina ran a hand over the nape of her neck. It felt just a little itchy; the man at the bar must still be watching her. “Lakemont and Kerrigan County deserve more than just a nice little museum, one that’s so short of space it’s crammed full with no place to turn around. Just last week we were offered the stained-glass windows from St. Francis Church. It’s probably going to be torn down before long, you know. But we don’t have a shed big enough to store the windows in, much less a place to display them.”

The waiter returned with their salads. When he was finished arranging the table, Anne drizzled dressing over the crabmeat which topped her salad and said, “So you’re asking for a donation for…what? To remodel a room for the windows?”

“Not exactly.” Gina took a deep breath and plunged. “That would be a start, but I want to reconstruct the entire museum.”

Anne Garrett’s eyebrows climbed. “Put up a new building, you mean?”

“No—oh, no.” The thought was like a knife to Gina’s heart. “A new building for a museum of history? It would be anachronous.”

“The house you’re in now must be a hundred and fifty years old.”

Gina nodded. “And the museum has been there from its beginning. You see, there wouldn’t be a museum at all if it hadn’t been for Essie Kerrigan. She not only started the Kerrigan County Historical Society, but she kept it going almost single-handed for years. Her possessions formed the nucleus of the collection, her money filled the gaps whenever there was a shortfall in the budget, and her house has provided a roof to shelter it. She devoted her entire life to creating and nurturing it.”

“But Essie’s gone now, and you’re the director. So you can do whatever you think best.”

Gina smiled wryly. “I still wouldn’t consider a modern building. For one thing, Essie would haunt it—and if she were to be surrounded by wallboard and cheap pine moldings, she would not be a happy ghost. Besides, there’s the problem of where to put a new building. A museum of history needs to be in the historical area, not the suburbs—and that means near downtown.”

“Near the lakefront, where land is scarce and expensive.”

“Exactly.”

“So if it’s not a new building you want, what do you have in mind? My kids and I had a very pleasant afternoon at the museum, you know—so I’m having trouble seeing what could possibly need to be changed.”

“A pleasant afternoon.” Gina put down her fork and leaned forward. “I’m glad you enjoyed your visit, but would you come back again? No, don’t answer right away—that’s a serious question. In a couple of hours you saw everything we have room to display. Unless we can create more space, room for changing exhibits, there’s no reason for anyone to visit more than once. And unless we have repeat traffic—regular visitors—then the museum can’t possibly support itself. So let me ask again. Would you come back for another visit?”

Anne sighed. “Probably not anytime soon.”

“That’s precisely my point. The museum is now at the stage where it needs to grow, or else it’s going to die.” Gina stabbed a tomato chunk.

“What sort of growth are you talking about?” Anne Garrett sounded doubtful.

Gina felt herself wavering. Maybe it would be wise to pull back a bit? Sometimes people who asked for the moon ended by getting nothing at all.

No, she thought. It was true, of course, that if she aimed too high, she might miss altogether. But if she aimed too low, she’d always wonder if she could have done better. And it would be the museum that would suffer. Essie Kerrigan’s precious museum. Gina couldn’t let that happen.

“I want to renovate the entire building,” she said firmly. “It’s been years since there has been any more than make-do maintenance—for instance, we’ve patched the roof, but it really needs to be replaced. Then I want to restructure the interior to provide real galleries instead of cramped spaces that will hardly hold a display cabinet.”

“I can’t imagine Essie would like seeing you do that to her house.”

“She wouldn’t be thrilled,” Gina admitted. “But she understood the need. She said herself that it was a shame we couldn’t have more wide-open space, and better lighting. And security, of course—you have no idea how difficult it is now to keep an eye on every visitor.”

Anne smiled wryly. “I thought it was lovely to have a private tour guide showing us around. Eleanor—was that her name? I never considered that she was really a guard, making sure we didn’t walk off with anything.”

Gina winced at her own lack of tact. “We don’t like to think of our volunteers as guards. But security is a problem, because we never have enough people on hand. I’d also like to build a couple of new wings for additional gallery space.”

“Where?” Anne sounded incredulous. “You don’t have room to build on wings.”

“Well, we don’t need a backyard. Or a driveway, for that matter.” Gina moved a slice of black olive to the side of her salad. “I want to make it clear, by the way, that I’m not asking you for the money.”

“That’s a relief,” Anne murmured.

“But it’s going to take some major fund-raising, and I hoped you might have some ideas.”

“And you’d like the support of the newspaper when you start your campaign, I suppose.”

Gina admitted, “That, too.” If the Chronicle were to endorse the idea of a museum expansion, the publicity would make raising the money much easier.

Anne stirred her lettuce with an abstracted air. “And I thought perhaps you’d asked me to lunch merely to invite me to join the board,” she mused.

Gina sat still, almost afraid to breathe. Afraid to interrupt.

As the silence drew out, her neck started to feel itchy again. The sensation of being watched had never quite gone away, though she’d tried her best to suppress the feeling so she could concentrate on the museum. She’d caught herself several times running a hand over the nape of her neck, as if to brush away an insect—or a bothersome stare.

She couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to look. If he was still sitting there staring at her…

But the stool at the end of the bar was empty. He was gone. Her feeling of being watched must have been merely a shadow, an impression which had lingered on because of the intensity of his gaze.

How foolish, she told herself, to feel just a little let down. She’d wanted him to stop looking and go away. Hadn’t she?

She gave up on her unfinished salad—the lettuce seemed to have kept growing even after it was arranged on her plate—and glanced around the room while she waited for Anne to gather her thoughts. Her gaze came to rest on a pair of men at a nearby table.

He hadn’t left after all. He’d only moved.

And of course, the instant she spotted him, he turned his head and looked directly at her, as if her gaze had acted like a magnet.

She couldn’t stand it an instant longer. Gina said abruptly, “The man at the third table over. In front of the fireplace. Who is he?”

Anne looked puzzled. “There are two men at that table,” she pointed out. “Which one are you asking about?”

“The one who looks like an eagle.”

“Looks like a what?”

“You know,” Gina said impatiently. “Proud and stern and looking for prey.”

Anne’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, that’s not a bad description. Especially the part about prey. I thought you’d know him, since he’s some kind of cousin or nephew of Essie’s. His name’s Dez Kerrigan.”

Gina knew the name, of course. Essie had been just as devoted to genealogy as to every other sort of history, and so Gina had heard a lot about the various branches of the Kerrigans. But she’d never met him; he obviously hadn’t been as interested in the family as Essie had been, or he’d have come ’round once in a while to visit his aunt or cousin or whatever Essie was to him.

And there was something else she should remember about him—something Essie had said. The memory nagged at the back of Gina’s brain, but it wouldn’t come out in the open. She clearly remembered Essie making the comment, because it had verged on sounding catty, and that wasn’t like Essie. But she couldn’t remember for the life of her what Essie had said.

“Now that’s interesting,” Anne murmured. “Why do you want to know?”

Sanity returned just in time. You’re an idiot, Gina thought, to call attention to yourself like that. Making a journalist wonder why you’re fascinated by a particular man…

“Just wondering.” Gina tried to keep her voice casual. “And what’s so interesting? That Essie’s nephew is having lunch here?”

“No. Who he’s having lunch with.” Anne put her napkin down. “I’m sorry, Gina. I must get back to the office.”

Gina put out a hand. “I understand that you may not want to commit yourself in any way just now. But—”

“But you want to hear my instant opinion anyway. All right. For what it’s worth, I believe you’re thinking on much too small a scale.”

“Too small?” Gina asked blankly.

Anne nodded. She pulled out a business card and scrawled something on the back of it. “By the way, I’m having a cocktail party Sunday night. You can meet some of your potential donors on neutral territory and size them up before you officially start asking for money. Here’s the address. And now I really need to run—but be sure you read the newspaper in the morning.”

Before Gina could ask what tomorrow’s Lakemont Chronicle could possibly have to do with anything, she was gone.

Gina was habitually an early riser, a habit ingrained from her upbringing. But on the following morning she was awake well before dawn, waiting to hear the distinctive off-key whine of the newspaper carrier’s car engine idling down the street while he tossed bundles onto front porches.

She’d never felt anything but safe here, even though the neighborhood, once an exclusive enclave, was now hemmed in on all sides by commercial and industrial development. She’d lived in a lot of places that were worse. Still, she couldn’t blame a parent for not allowing a kid on a bike to deliver the morning newspaper.

Which brought her squarely back to the question of what was supposed to be so special about this morning’s newspaper. Or was that simply Anne Garrett’s way of saying goodbye—taking every opportunity to promote the newspaper she published? Surely not.

Gina made herself a cup of instant coffee and sat down by the window in her living room, which overlooked the front door of the brown-brick row house. Once the building had housed a single family, along with their servants, but years ago it had been split into rental units. Gina’s apartment had originally been the family’s bedrooms.

She liked being up high, even though hauling everything upstairs got to be a pain after a while. And she liked the feeling of space that the tall ceilings of an old house offered. Besides, her apartment was close to work; the Kerrigan County Historical Museum was only three blocks down the street and around a corner, so Gina didn’t need to keep a car. A good thing, too, since there was no place for her to park it except in the museum’s driveway—a driveway that, with any luck, would soon disappear under a new gallery.

You’re thinking on much too small a scale, Anne Garrett had told her. Well, that was easy for Anne to say, with the resources of the Chronicle behind her.

It was true, Gina admitted, that the long, narrow strip of concrete next to Essie Kerrigan’s house was not large enough for the spacious, airy galleries she’d like to have. But if they pushed out the back of the house as well, essentially roofing in the entire garden…

There still wouldn’t be room for things like the windows from St. Francis Church, regrettable though the loss would be. But Gina had to work with the raw material she’d been given, as sensitively as it was possible to do.

Of course, they’d leave the front facade just as it had been constructed by Essie’s grandfather Desmond Kerrigan—at least as far as they could. It would be criminal to destroy that wide, spacious open porch and corner tower. So long as the addition on the driveway side was stepped back so it didn’t overwhelm the front of the building, it would still look all right.

Desmond Kerrigan hadn’t been the first of his name to come to Lakemont, and he wasn’t the Kerrigan that the county had been named for. But he had been the first of the family to consistently turn small investments into large ones, so when he’d built his home in what was then the most exclusive section of Lakemont, he hadn’t pinched pennies. He’d built solid and strong—but even so, a century and a half had taken a toll on the house as well as on the neighborhood. The red brick had long ago been darkened by city smoke and fumes. Hailstorms through the years had left behind cracked and broken roof slates.

In the last years of her life, Essie Kerrigan had not had energy to take care of those things, and so delayed building maintenance was one of the jobs that had fallen to Gina when she’d assumed Essie’s title as head of the museum.

And as long as they would have to raise money for restoration, why not go the whole way and expand at the same time?

Essie had understood the need to expand the museum, though she had sighed over the idea of adding modern wings to her beloved old house. Gina wondered what Dez Kerrigan would think of the plan.

Not that he would have any say in what the museum board did, of course. The house had been Essie’s, and the will she had written couldn’t have made her intentions any clearer. Still, Gina supposed that the other branches of the family might have feelings about the matter. And one who had apparently been named after the distant ancestor who had built the house in the first place might have strong sentiments indeed.

Gina wondered if Dez Kerrigan had known who she was yesterday. Was that why he’d been staring—looking at her not as a woman, but as the person who had—in a manner of speaking—ended up in possession of Desmond Kerrigan’s house?

It couldn’t be any more than that, she was certain. If he’d known about her plans for expansion, he might well object—even though he had no real right to an opinion. But the fact was he couldn’t possibly know about that. The plans were still so tentative that the only people she’d discussed them with were the members of the museum’s board and Anne Garrett. They hadn’t even hired an architect yet.

On the other hand, Gina thought, his reaction yesterday probably had nothing at all to do with the museum. Her first assessment of Dez Kerrigan had probably been the correct one—the man was simply rude. He thought he’d caught her staring at him, and he’d taken it as license to stare back.

What was it about the man that she ought to remember, but couldn’t? She was certain Essie had said something about him. Not that it was important—but if she had time today when she got to work, she’d dig out Essie’s family history files. Essie had noted down every jot of information she’d dug out, every source and reference, even her every suspicion. Somewhere in there should be the clue to Dez Kerrigan.

Gina heard three distinct thumps on the front porch—her newspaper, along with those of her upstairs and downstairs neighbors. As quietly as she could, watching out for the creaky stair, Gina went down to retrieve her copy. She spread it carefully on the old trunk which doubled as a coffee table, flipped through the pages once to see if anything leaped out at her, and then refilled her coffee cup and settled down to look at each individual story.

Million-dollar verdict in civil suit—but it was unlikely the winner was the type to donate money to a historical museum. City councilman challenges mayor—nothing unusual about that. Tyler-Royale expected to close downtown store—five hundred jobs at stake—formal announcement expected today…That kind of blow to the community’s economy wouldn’t make raising money for a museum expansion any easier.

Gina turned the page, then turned it back and sat staring at the picture of the Tyler-Royale department store building. There were two pictures, in fact—one of a group of clerks beside an old-fashioned cash register, taken when the store was brand new nearly a century before, and a shot from just yesterday of shoppers at the front entrance.

You’re thinking too small, Anne Garrett had said. And then Be sure you read the newspaper.

Had she…could she have been…thinking about the Tyler-Royale building as a home for the historical museum? It seemed the only explanation of that cryptic comment. But why hadn’t she just come straight out and said it?

Because if the announcement wasn’t going to be made until today, not just everybody had known about the store closing—and the last thing the publisher of the Chronicle would do would be to take a chance of the local television station beating her newspaper to the story.

Gina closed her eyes and tried to picture the department store. It had been a while since she’d shopped there, but if her memory was accurate, the space could hardly be better suited to house a museum. Areas which had been designed for the display of merchandise would be just as good for showing off exhibits, and a soaring atrium in the center of the building brought natural but indirect light to the interior of every floor. The store was big enough to house not only every exhibit the museum currently displayed but every item currently in storage as well. The stained-glass windows from St. Francis Church would be no problem; they could have a gallery to themselves.

In addition, the building sat squarely in the middle of the downtown area—an even better location for a museum than Essie Kerrigan’s house was. There was even a parking ramp right next door.

But best of all, in Gina’s opinion, was the fact that nobody in their right minds would pay good money for that building. If Tyler-Royale couldn’t run a profitable store in the center of downtown Lakemont, then it was dead certain nobody else could. No, Tyler-Royale couldn’t sell it—but they could donate it to a good cause and save themselves a wad in taxes.

And why shouldn’t that good cause be the Kerrigan County Historical Society?

The newspaper said that the CEO of Tyler-Royale had come up from Chicago to make the announcement at a press conference scheduled for ten o’clock that morning. Since she didn’t know how long Ross Clayton would be in town, Gina figured that would be her best opportunity to talk to him. All she needed, after all, was a few minutes of his time.

Not that she expected the man to make a spur-of-the-moment decision. This was hardly like making a contribution to the United Way; he couldn’t donate company property without the approval of his board of directors. And even if he was in the mood to give away a building at the drop of a hat, Gina couldn’t exactly take it. She didn’t even want to think about the fuss it would create if she were to call a meeting of the museum’s board of directors and announce that—without permission or consultation with any of them—she’d gone and acquired a new building.

But a few minutes with the CEO would be enough to set the process in motion. To give the man something to think about. And to give her a hint about whether he might act on the suggestion.

Her path toward downtown took her past Essie Kerrigan’s house. Gina paused on the sidewalk in front of the museum and looked up at the three-story red brick Victorian. The building looked almost abandoned, its facade oddly blank because most of the windows had been covered from the inside to provide more room for displays.

Gina had spent the best hours of her life inside that house. As a teenager, she had visited Essie Kerrigan and listened to the old woman’s tales of early life in Kerrigan County. As a college student, she’d spent weeks in the museum library doing research. As a new graduate, her first job had been as Essie’s assistant—and then, eventually, her successor.

In a way, she felt like a traitor—to the house and to Essie—even to consider moving the museum away from its first and only home. The building was a part of the museum; it always had been.

But in her heart, she knew Anne Garrett had been right. She had been thinking too small. She simply hadn’t wanted to let herself look too closely at the whole problem, because she had thought there was no viable alternative.

Putting a roof over the garden and the driveway would be a temporary solution for the cramped conditions, but if the plan was successful and the museum grew, in a few years they would find themselves stuck once more in exactly the same dilemma. And then they’d have nowhere to go, because the building was already landlocked, hemmed in by houses and commercial buildings.

If the museum was ever going to move, now was the time. Before they had invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in new construction. Before they tore up Essie Kerrigan’s house. The house was salvageable now—a restorer would have no trouble reversing the few changes which had been made to accommodate the museum. But as soon as the work started, knocking out walls and adding a couple of wings, the house would be even more of a white elephant than the Tyler-Royale store was.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, as if the house were listening. “It’ll be better this way. You won’t be carved up after all, because a family will buy you and make you truly beautiful again.”

Why the CEO had chosen to hold his press conference at the city’s premiere hotel instead of in the store was beyond Gina’s understanding, until she walked into the main ballroom and saw the final preparations under way. Cables and power cords snaked underfoot; lights and cameras formed a semicircle around the lectern set on a low stage at one side of the room, and people were milling everywhere. No wonder he’d wanted to keep this circus out of the store. Even though it would be closing soon, there was no sense in driving the last customers away with all the noise and confusion.

It was not exactly the place for a confidential chat, of course. But she didn’t have much choice about the place or the time, so she edged into the crowd, watching intently.

Almost beside Gina, a reporter from one of the Lakemont television stations was tapping her foot as she waited for her cameraman to finish setting up. “Will you hurry up? He’ll be coming in the door to the left of the podium—make sure you get that shot. And don’t forget to check the microphone feed.”

Gina, hoping the woman knew what she was talking about, edged toward the left side of the podium. She was standing next to the door when it opened, and she took a deep breath and stepped forward, business card in hand, to confront the man who came out onto the little stage. “Sir, I realize this is neither the time nor the place,” she said, “but I’m with the Kerrigan County Historical Society, and when you have a minute I’d like to talk to you about your building. I think it would make a wonderful museum.”

The man looked at her business card and shook his head. “If you mean the Tyler-Royale store, you’ve got the wrong man, I’m afraid.”

“But you—aren’t you Ross Clayton? Your picture was in the Chronicle this morning.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I don’t exactly own the building anymore.”

Gina felt her jaw go slack with shock. “You’ve sold it? Already?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Gina looked more closely at him and felt a trickle of apprehension run through her as she recognized him. The photo of him in this morning’s paper hadn’t been a particularly good one, and she only now made the connection. This was the man who’d been having lunch with Dez Kerrigan yesterday at The Maple Tree.

At that instant a tape recorder seemed to switch on inside her brain, and Gina heard in her memory what Essie had said about Dez Kerrigan.

He has no sense of history, Essie had said with a dismissive wave of her hand. In fact, the older the building is, the better he likes knocking it down so he can replace it with some glass and steel monster.

Dez Kerrigan was a property developer—that was what Gina should have remembered as soon as she heard his name.

A familiar and uncomfortable prickle ran up the side of her neck, and she turned her head to see exactly what she was expecting to see. Dez Kerrigan had followed Tyler-Royale’s CEO onto the little stage.

“I own the building,” Dez said. “Or, to be perfectly precise, what I own is the option to buy it. But I’m always ready to listen to an offer. Your place or mine?”

CHAPTER TWO

GINA couldn’t believe the sheer arrogance of his question. Your place or mine? The very suggestion was an insult. Even if she actually had been staring at him yesterday at The Maple Tree—which of course she hadn’t—she wouldn’t have been inviting that sort of treatment. If he went around like this, propositioning every woman who happened to look in his direction…

The CEO said under his breath, “Dez, I think you’re on thin ice.”

Dez Kerrigan didn’t seem to hear him. He glanced at his watch and then back at Gina. “I’m a little busy just now, but after the press conference we can meet at your office, or at mine. Which would you prefer?”

Gina gulped. “Office?”

“Of course.” There was a speculative gleam in his eyes. “What did you think I was doing—inviting you to climb into my hot tub for a chat?” He shook his head. “Sorry, but I’d have to know you a lot better before I did that.”

Gina felt as if she was scrambling across a mud puddle, trying desperately to keep her feet from sliding out from under her. She needed to do something—and fast—to get her balance back. “I, on the other hand,” she said sweetly, “am quite certain that getting better acquainted wouldn’t make any difference at all in how I feel about you.”

His eyes, she had noticed, were not quite hazel and not quite green, but a shade that fell in between. Unless he was amused—then they looked almost like emeralds. And there was no question at the moment that he was amused.

“I suppose I should be flattered,” he murmured. “Lust at first sight is a well-recognized phenomenon, of course, but—”

Even though Gina knew quite well that he was laughing at her, she still couldn’t stop herself. “That is not what I meant. I was trying to say that I can’t imagine any circumstance whatever that would get me into a hot tub with you.”

“Good,” Dez said crisply. “Now we both know where we stand. Do you want to talk about the building, or not?”

Gina could have hit herself in the head. How could she have gotten so distracted? “Since you’ve only just cut a deal to buy it, I don’t see why you’d be interested in talking about selling it.”

“Don’t know much about the real estate market, do you? Just because there’s been one deal negotiated doesn’t mean there couldn’t be another. Let me know if you change your mind.” He stepped off to the side of the platform as Ross Clayton tapped the central microphone in the bank set up on the lectern.

Gina, fuming, headed for the exit. What was the point in sticking around? She had real work to do.

The television reporter who had been standing next to her earlier intercepted her near the door. “What was that little face-off all about?”

“Nothing at all,” Gina said firmly and kept walking.

She was halfway back to the museum before she could see the faintest glimmer of humor in the whole situation. And she found herself feeling a hint of relief as well. Of course, she was still disappointed at losing the chance to acquire an ideal building, but at least she hadn’t made a fool of herself by going public with her crazy plan before she’d checked it out. It would have been almighty embarrassing to have gotten the museum board excited over the possibilities and then had to go back to them and admit that her brainstorm hadn’t worked.

Tyler-Royale’s CEO was a pro with the press, Dez thought as he listened to the smooth voice explaining that no, the five hundred employees of the downtown store would not lose their jobs but would be absorbed into the chain’s other area stores. The reporters were circling like sharks in the water, snatching bites now and then, but Ross remained perfectly calm and polite. As the questions grew more inane, Dez let his attention wander to more interesting matters.

Like the little redhead who had been lying in wait for them. Now she was something worth thinking about. First she’d turned up at The Maple Tree yesterday, having lunch with the press. He’d thought that perhaps she was a reporter too. That would account for the inspection she’d given him. She’d looked him over like a cynical searchlight—not exactly the sort of feminine once-over he was used to.

Apparently his guess had been wrong, however. I’m with the Kerrigan County Historical Society, she’d told Ross. And she wanted the building. I think it would make a wonderful museum.

Dez snorted. The trouble with the history-loving types was that they were completely impractical. The woman was totally out of touch with reality or she wouldn’t have suggested anything so patently ridiculous as turning the Tyler-Royale store into a museum.

His aunt Essie would have done the same sort of thing, of course. Dez remembered visiting Essie when he was a kid, and being creeped out and fascinated all at the same time. In Essie’s house, there was no telling what you might run into at the next turn. He’d found a full human skeleton in a bedroom closet once; Essie had calmly told him it was left over from the personal effects of the first doctor who’d set up practice in Kerrigan County.

And that had been well before Essie’s house had formally become a museum. Though he hadn’t been inside the place in at least a decade, he had no trouble imagining how much more stuff she’d collected over the years. He’d been frankly amazed, when Essie died, that they hadn’t had to tear the house down in order to extricate her body from all the junk she’d collected.

At least this young woman appeared to have a little more sense than Essie had—she didn’t seem to want to live in her museum. Other than that, she might as well be Essie’s clone.

Apart from looks, of course. Essie had been tall and thin, seemingly all angular bone and flyaway gray hair, while this young woman was small and delicately built and rounded in all the right places. She had the big, wide-set, dark brown eyes of a street urchin—an unusual color for a redhead. Odd, how her hair had seemed sprinkled with gold under the myriad lights in the ballroom…

“Dez?” the CEO said. “I’ll let you address that question.”

Dez pulled himself back to the press conference, to a sea of expectant faces. What the hell was the question?

“The Chronicle reporter asked about your plans for the building,” Ross Clayton pointed out.

I owe you one, buddy, Dez thought gratefully. At least it was an easy question—a slow pitch low and outside, easy to hit out of the park. He stepped up to the microphone. “That won’t take long to explain,” he said, “because I don’t have any yet.”

A ripple of disbelief passed over the crowd. The reporter from the newspaper waved a hand again. “You expect us to believe you bought that building without any idea what you’re going to do with it?”

“I haven’t bought the building,” Dez pointed out. “I’ve bought an option to buy the building.”

“What’s the difference?” the reporter scoffed. “You wouldn’t put out money for the fun of it. So what are you planning to do with the building?”

Another reporter, the one from the television station, waved a hand but didn’t wait for a cue before she said, “Are you going to tear it down?”

“I don’t know yet, Carla. I told you, I haven’t made any plans at all.”

“You don’t know, or you just won’t say?” she challenged. “Maybe the truth is you simply don’t want to talk about what will happen to the building until it’s too late for anyone to do anything to save it.”

“Give me a break here,” he said. “The announcement that the store was closing came as a surprise to me, too.”

“But you leaped right in with cash in hand.” It was the Chronicle man again.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve bought something without knowing what I’d end up doing with it.”

The television reporter bored in. “Isn’t it true in those cases that you’ve always torn the buildings down?”

“I suppose so.” Dez ran over the last few years, the last dozen projects. “Yes, I think that’s true. But that doesn’t mean…” What had happened to the easy question, he thought irritably, the slow, low, outside pitch that should have been so simple? He felt like someone had tossed a cherry bomb at him instead. “Look, folks, I’ll tell you the same thing I told the young lady from the historical society. Just because there’s already been one deal doesn’t mean there couldn’t be another one.”

“Then you’d resell the property?”

“I’d consider it. I’m a businessman—I’ll consider any reasonable option that’s presented to me.”

“Including preserving the building?” It was the television reporter again.

“Including that.” Irritation bubbled through Dez. Damn reporters; they were making it sound like he carried a sledgehammer around with him just in case he got a chance to knock something down. “As long as we’re talking about preservation, though, let me give the do-gooders just one word of warning. Don’t go telling me what I should do with the building unless you have the money to back up your ideas. I’m not going to take kindly to anyone nosing into my business and telling me what I should do with my property if it’s my money you plan to spend on the project. I think that’s all.”

The reporters obviously realized that they’d pushed as far as was safe, and they began to trickle out of the room. A crew moved in to tear down lights and roll up cables.

In the anteroom behind the stage, Ross Clayton paused and eyed Dez with a grin. “Thanks for snatching the headlines away from the question of what’s going to happen to all my employees,” he said. “After the challenge you issued, that pack of wolves will be too busy ripping into you to check out anything I said.”

That afternoon Gina dug out the blueprints of Essie Kerrigan’s house from the attic closet where they’d been stored, and when she finished work for the day she took them home with her. Not that she was any kind of expert; expanding the museum would take not only a good architect but an engineer. Still, she might get some ideas. She might even have missed something obvious.

But when she unrolled the papers on her tiny kitchen table, she had to smother a dispirited sigh. For a little while today, it looked as if she’d found the perfect solution. It was so ideal. So sensible.

But then Dez Kerrigan had gotten in the way, and she was back at square one. Only now, as she looked at the floor plans, she was finding it difficult to focus on the possibilities. All she could see at the moment were the obstacles—the challenges which stood in the way of turning an old house into a proper museum. She had done too good a job of convincing herself that the Tyler-Royale building was the answer.

She unfolded the age-yellowed site map. Originally the house had stood alone on a full city block. Desmond Kerrigan had centered his house along one edge of his property, to leave the maximum space behind it for an elaborate garden, and he had built it facing east so it could look proudly out over the business district to the lakefront. But through the years his descendants had sold off bits and pieces of the land. The garden had been plowed up and broken into lots long ago. Later the area to each side of the house had been split off and smaller homes built there, and the street in front had been widened. The result was that the Kerrigan mansion was surrounded, hemmed in, with just a handkerchief-size lawn left in front and only a remnant of the once-grand garden behind.

It wasn’t enough, Gina thought. Still, it was all they had to work with.

She weighed down the corners of the blueprints with the day’s mail so she could keep looking at the drawings while she fixed herself a chicken stir-fry. Perhaps some radically new idea would leap out at her and solve the problem…For instance, what if instead of simply building over the garden, they were to excavate and add a lower level as well?

Nice idea, she concluded, but one to run past an engineer. Would it even be possible to get heavy equipment into that small space? And how risky would it be to dig directly next to a foundation that was well over a century old?

Finally, Gina rolled up the plans and turned on the minuscule television set beside the stove. Even the news would be less depressing than her reflections at the moment.

But when the picture blinked on, the screen was filled with a shot of the Tyler-Royale store.

On the other hand, maybe it won’t be less depressing.

“…and a final-close-out sale will begin next week,” the female reporter—the one who had been standing next to Gina at the press conference—announced.

The anchorman shook his head sadly. “What a shame. Is there any word of what will happen to the building, Carla?”

“That question was asked at the press conference, Jason, but Mr. Kerrigan would only say that he had made no plans.” She smiled coyly. “However, we did get a hint that he’s negotiating a deal of some sort with the Kerrigan County Historical Society museum.”

Gina’s wooden spoon slipped and hot oil and vegetables surged over the edge of the pan onto her index finger. Automatically she stuck the burned tip in her mouth.

The reporter went on, “The museum’s curator, Gina Haskell, was at the press conference but refused to comment—”

Gina stared unbelieving at the reporter. “I didn’t refuse to comment,” she protested. “I told you there was nothing going on!”

“—and when I talked to the president of the historical society just now, he would only say that it would be a crime for such a landmark building to be destroyed.”

Gina put her elbows on the edge of the counter and dropped her head into her hands. They’d actually called her boss for a comment. The boss she hadn’t bothered to tell about the events of the day, because her harebrained notion had come to nothing.

“Indeed it would be a crime,” the anchor broke in.

The reported nodded. “However, an arrangement like that would be a first for Dez Kerrigan. He admitted today that in his entire career in property development he’s never preserved a building.”

“Hard to believe,” the anchor said. “Keep us posted on the historical society’s preservation efforts, Carla.”

“What preservation efforts?” Gina groaned.

The phone rang. She stared at it warily, but she knew that putting off answering wasn’t going to make the president of the historical society any easier to deal with. The trouble was that she didn’t blame him for being furious with her. At least he hadn’t told the reporter that the whole thing was news to him.

But the caller wasn’t her boss. The voice on the other end of the phone was one she’d heard just once before, but she recognized it instantly. It was rich, warm—and arrogant.

“You have quite a grip on the media, don’t you?” Dez accused. “Yesterday it was the newspaper, and today the TV station. What’s next—rallying your troops by satellite?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Gina protested, but she found herself talking to a dead line.

Though she wasn’t inclined to be sympathetic, she could understand why Dez Kerrigan was annoyed at being made to sound like a criminal. He’d asked for it, of course. More than ten years in the business of buying and selling property, of building and developing real estate, and he’d never saved a building? Still, she didn’t exactly blame him for being exasperated. She was sure he had his reasons for knocking down every building that passed through his hands—inadequate though the justification might sound to ordinary people. People like her.

Being made to sound like a criminal…

Now that, she mused, might just offer some real possibilities.

It was ten in the morning, exactly twenty-four hours since their encounter in the hotel ballroom, when Gina walked into Dez Kerrigan’s office.

It hadn’t been easy to find him. There was no Kerrigan listed in the telephone book—not that she’d expected his home number to be published. What she had expected to find was a Kerrigan Corporation or a Kerrigan Partners or a Kerrigan-something-else. But there was nothing like that either.

Of course, she reflected, the mere fact that a man hadn’t named his business after himself didn’t necessarily mean the business wasn’t a monument to his ego. Maybe he just liked being able to deny responsibility once in a while—and that would be harder to do with his name actually blazoned on every site he touched. Or perhaps he thought that the name had lost its impact, since it was now associated with everything from Kerrigan County itself to Kerrigan Hall over at the university, and a whole lot of stuff in between.

Eventually she located his business. He’d named it Lakemont Development, as if to say it was the only company in town that mattered. While she didn’t doubt that if Dez Kerrigan had his way, his fingerprints would be all over any significant building which took place in the city, Gina thought it was hardly a less egotistical choice than naming it after himself.

Even after she’d found his business, however, she still had a fair journey before finding Dez Kerrigan himself. Lakemont Development had offices spread all over the city, and she’d called each of them in turn, starting with the shiniest glass-and-steel tower in Lakemont and working her way down until finally a receptionist admitted, cautiously, that Mr. Kerrigan did indeed have an office in that particular building and that he was on the premises today.

Gina didn’t leave her name—she just went straight over. It was only a few blocks from the museum, but she’d never noticed the building before. And no wonder it hadn’t caught her eye, she thought as she approached. It looked like a converted school building—one that had been abandoned when the city’s population had shifted to the suburbs. Hardly the kind of place where she’d expect to find the headquarters of somebody who played with skyscraper towers as if they were building blocks.

Inside, the building was quietly bustling. She found her way down a long corridor to Dez Kerrigan’s office.

His secretary fingered Gina’s business card and looked at her doubtfully. Gina wasn’t surprised; the words “historical society” must be something of a red flag with any of Dez Kerrigan’s employees.

“I don’t have an appointment,” she admitted to the secretary. “But I imagine he’s been expecting me to drop in. You may have seen on the news last night that we’re negotiating a deal on the Tyler-Royale building.”

The secretary’s eyes widened, but she didn’t comment. She picked up the telephone, and Gina sat down in the nearest chair. She hoped she was making the point, as quietly and clearly as possible, that she wasn’t going to move until she’d seen the boss.

A few minutes later the door of Dez Kerrigan’s office opened. “Well, if it isn’t the media magnet in the flesh,” he said. “Come in.”

Gina put aside her magazine and took her time crossing the small waiting room to the inner office. He stepped back and gestured her inside with elaborate politeness.

He really was as tall as she’d thought, that day in The Maple Tree. At the press conference, she’d been too preoccupied to notice much, but now she remembered how far she’d had to look up into those odd hazel-green eyes. They didn’t look like emeralds today, she noted. That was all right—she wasn’t here to amuse him.

She paused just inside the door and looked around thoughtfully. “This isn’t anything like I expected.” The room was large—obviously it had once been a classroom—and the wall of windows and the neutral color scheme made it look larger yet. Nearly everything was various shades of gray—walls, carpet, sofa, window blinds. The desk looked like ebony. Only the art—mostly watercolors of buildings—added color. She waved a hand at a stylized drawing of a skyscraper. She recognized it—Lakemont Tower, one of the city’s newest and grandest. “That’s one of your projects, of course.”

He nodded.

“As towers go, it’s not bad. At least it has some class. But I expected you’d have your office there, with a gorgeous view over Lake Michigan.”

Dez shrugged. “This office was good enough for me when I started the company, and it’s still good enough. Besides, offices at the top of Lakemont Tower command a very high price. Why tie up the space myself when I can rent it out for good money?”

“Oh, yes,” Gina mused. “I remember now. You told the reporters yesterday that you’re the practical type.”

He frowned a little. “I didn’t realize you stayed around for the whole press conference.”

“I didn’t. But I watched the report on the late news, too. They had more footage from the press conference then, and there you were, big as life. ‘I’m a businessman,’” she quoted. “‘I’ll consider any reasonable option that’s presented to me.’”

“What about it? It’s not like I’m admitting to a secret vice. Look, it’s charming that you stopped by—it would have been even more charming if you’d brought a nice hazelnut coffee, but I won’t hold that against you this time. However, as much as I’d like to chat, I do have things to do today.”

Gina sat down on one end of the couch. “Of course you do. So I’ll come to the point. I have a reasonable option for you to consider.”

“Reasonable is a relative term. Unless you have the cash to buy me out—”

“No. I don’t.”

“Then please don’t waste my time lecturing me about why I should preserve the Tyler-Royale building. Obviously you didn’t hear the entire press conference or you’d know better than to try.”

“I don’t intend to do anything of the sort.” She crossed her legs just so, put her elbow on the arm of the couch, propped her chin against her hand, and smiled. “I’m here this morning to give you the chance to be a hero.”

Dez looked at her in disbelief. She was going to offer him a chance to be a hero? The woman had lost her mind. If she ever had one to begin with. “Ms. Haskell—” he began.

“Oh, call me Gina—please. I don’t blame you for being upset last night,” she went on with a sympathetic tone that was so palpably false that it made the air feel sticky.

“Upset?” he snorted. “I don’t get upset.”

“Really? Then why did you call me up and yell at me?”

Dez was honestly taken aback. “I didn’t yell at you.”

“Oh? I suppose that’s what you call calmly expressing an opinion?”

“It sure as hell is. I wasn’t yelling. I admit I was annoyed at the way that pack of jackals twisted my words, especially when I thought you might have fanned the flames, but—”

She nodded. “That’s what I said. You were…” It was obvious that she saw the expression on his face, for she broke off abruptly. “The news reports made you sound like King Kong, stomping around the city knocking down every building in sight. Of course you were put out by such unfair reporting.”

“Lady, if I got upset every time a bunch of reporters took after me, I’d be living on antacids.” He threw himself down on the opposite end of the couch from her. “Now what’s this about you making me a hero?”

“It won’t be my doing, really. I’m just here to show you the way.”

She shifted around to face him, and her skirt slid up an inch, showing off a silky, slim knee. The maneuver didn’t look practiced, but that only demonstrated how smooth an operator she was. “You’ve got about two minutes before I throw you out,” Dez warned.

“Very well.” With an unhurried air, she consulted her wristwatch, then settled herself more comfortably on the couch. “The media seems to have decided that you’re public enemy number one. And you must admit that you’ve played right into their hands. Really—after all these years, and after all the projects you’ve been involved in, you’ve never yet found yourself owning a building that was worth saving?” She shook her head in apparent disbelief.

“Only this one.”

She looked around the room. “And it’s starting to get some age on it. Be careful, or one of these days you’ll find yourself preserving a historic structure in spite of yourself.”

“There’s nothing historic about this building, and I’ll keep it for exactly as long as it suits my purpose. Look, sweetheart, if you think I’m going to let the opinions of a few reporters keep me awake nights, you’re wrong. They’ll forget about saving the Tyler-Royale store just as soon as another story catches their interest. This will pass—it always does.”

She kept smiling. “Sure about that, are you?”

The fact that her voice was practically dripping honey didn’t lessen the threat that lay underneath the words. The antacids were starting to sound like a good idea after all.

“But why make it hard on yourself?” she went on. “You already own eight square blocks of downtown Lakemont. Or maybe it’s even more than that—those were just the properties I found listed in a quick search at the county assessor’s office this morning.”

He had to hand it to her; she’d done her homework.

“To a tycoon, what’s one block more or less?” she went on. “The media have adopted the Tyler-Royale building as their darling. If you save it, you’ll be—”

“Lakemont’s own superhero,” he mused. “If you asked me, I’d say you’ve been reading too many comic books. Just for the sake of argument, exactly what kind of plan do you have in mind for saving the building? I suppose you want me to just hand it over to you?”

“Well, not to me personally, of course. But just think how marvelous you’d look if you gave it to the Kerrigan County Historical Society.”

“Well, if all the goodwill in the world was resting on it, I couldn’t do that. Remember? I don’t own the building. I suppose I could give you the option to buy it, if I happened to be in the mood to donate something that cost me a couple of hundred thousand dollars, but what good would that do? You told me a few minutes ago you don’t have any money. An option to buy is worthless if you don’t have the cash to exercise it.”

“I’m sure you could help me encourage your friend the CEO to donate the building. It’s not as if he wouldn’t be getting anything out of the deal, after all—”

“Now you’re onto something,” Dez pointed out. “He’d still have my two hundred grand, so he’d be happy. You’d have the building, so you’d be happy. And I’d be left holding the bag. Unfortunately for your argument, that doesn’t make me look heroic. It makes me look stupid.”

“Generous,” she corrected gently. “Of course, you’d also be getting a nice tax deduction.”

He couldn’t help but be impressed. There weren’t many people who could be on the receiving end as he demolished their line of reasoning and still keep smiling like that. He wasn’t sure if it was naiveté or chutzpah she was displaying, but she hadn’t wilted, and that was saying something.

“And,” she went on smoothly, “you really shouldn’t underestimate the value of improving your reputation.”

“By all means, I won’t underestimate it. Doing something like that would land me on the hit list of every fund-raiser and con artist in this corner of the state. You know, it would serve you right if I did hand over the option and convince Ross to sell you the building for a dollar or two. Have you actually looked at that store?”

For the first time, uncertainty flickered in her face, though she tried to mask it quickly. “Not lately,” she admitted.

“Well, you are in for a treat.” He jumped up and pulled open the office door. “Sarah, if anybody comes looking for me, just tell them that I took Ms. Haskell for a walk.”

It was only a few blocks from Dez’s office to the Tyler-Royale store, and his long legs ate up the distance. “Taking me for a run is more like it,” Gina said, sounding breathless.

He looked disparagingly down at the strappy sandals she wore. “If you’d choose some sensible shoes, you wouldn’t have so much trouble keeping up.”

“And if you weren’t so tall…” She stopped dead on the sidewalk in front of the main doors, looking up, and a large woman who was carrying a stack of boxes and half a dozen loaded shopping bags almost mowed her down.

Dez pulled her out of the line of traffic just in time and followed her gaze as she surveyed the front facade of the building. “What’s the matter, Gina?” he hazarded. “Is it a little larger than you remembered?”

“I was just thinking it looks too busy for a store that should be closing.”

Sure she was. He’d seen the way her eyes had widened as she’d taken in the sheer size of the place. But he’d play along—for a while—and let her save face.

Besides, she was right about the store being busy. People were streaming into and out of every entrance. Dez shrugged. “That happens all the time. People only realize what they have when they’re told it’s going to disappear. There will be a last burst of interest, and then everybody will forget about it and move on to the next store. By this time next year, if you stand on this corner and ask people what used to be here, only about half of them would even be able to tell you.”

“Especially if what’s here in a year is only an empty hole.”

He shot a suspicious look at her, but she returned it blandly.

“Come on,” Dez said. He gave the revolving door a push for her.

Just inside, a woman in a dark suit was offering samples of perfume. Gina paused and held out her wrist. Dez suspected she did it more to annoy him than because she wanted to try the scent. “The shoe department’s just over there if you want to take a look,” he suggested.

She sniffed delicately at the perfumed pulse point. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t dream of taking up your valuable time with shoes. Or perhaps I should say I wouldn’t follow your advice anyway, so I’d rather not have to listen to it.”

He ushered her between the makeup counters, past fine jewelry and antique silver, to the atrium lobby. The floor was tiled in a brilliantly-colored mosaic, spirals and scallops swooping in an intricate pattern. At the center the tiny tiles formed a stylized red rose, the symbol of the department store chain. Dez led her to the heart of the rose. “Stand right here,” he said.

“What’s the big deal? Everybody in Lakemont has done this a million times. ‘Meet me on the rose’ is part of the vernacular.”

“I know, I know. My mother made me report here, too. But that’s not why I brought you. Look up.”

For an instant he caught an odd expression in her eyes, something that looked almost like pain. What had he said to cause that reaction? Then she followed instructions, raising her eyes to the stained-glass dome seven stories above their heads.

If that didn’t make her see the light, Dez thought, nothing would. He’d almost forgotten himself how immense the building was, how the rows of white-painted iron balconies seemed to go on forever, up seven floors and out for what seemed miles.

She turned back to Dez. “And the point you’re trying to make is…?”

The nonchalant tone didn’t fool him. “The point is that even if you got this building for free, you couldn’t handle it. You couldn’t afford to keep the lights on, much less heat and cool it.”

“It’s a little bigger than what we have now, of course,” Gina conceded.

Dez stared at her for a minute, and then he started to laugh. “Oh, that’s rich! It’s like saying that Lake Michigan is a little bigger than the puddle you stepped over at the curb on our way inside.”

“And it’s a well-known phenomenon that when a museum expands, not only the number of visitors increases but donations do as well.”

“In your dreams.” He extended an index finger upward and drew an imaginary circle that took in the whole building. “Get real, Gina. Give it up. Maybe there’s another building somewhere that would actually be practical.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand, do you? Another building might be more practical, but this is the one that’s captured people’s hearts. This is the one that has aroused their feelings.”

Foreboding trickled through his veins.

“I’d be a fool to give up on this,” she said, as if she savored the words.

Not as much of a fool as if you hang on to it, he wanted to say.

“It’s a cause, you see—almost a crusade. It’s already building momentum.” She had the nerve to smile at him, as she added sweetly, “And all I have to do is feed it a little.”

CHAPTER THREE

DEZ stared at her for so long that Gina thought perhaps he’d gone into a catatonic state. But even when he finally blinked and shook his head as if he was trying to clear it, he didn’t say anything to her. Instead, he pulled his cell phone off his belt and without looking at it punched two keys. “Sarah, cancel my lunch meeting.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on. Let’s find a place where we can sit down and talk sense for a change.”

Gina shook her head. “No, really,” she said. She tried very hard not to let irony seep into her voice, and she almost succeeded. “You mustn’t put yourself out for my sake. It’s quite useless to try to convince me.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. If you were the only one who’d be affected by this idiotic idea, I’d stand by and watch while you walked out in front of the freight train.”

Well, that was brutally frank, Gina thought. “Thank you.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“Confirming my suspicions that you’re not nearly as unconcerned about your public image as you pretend to be.”

“You think this is about my image?” He made a sound that could charitably have been called a snort. “The tearoom on the sixth floor is probably the quietest place in the building at this hour.”

“And I seem to recall they have hazelnut coffee,” Gina murmured.

“Hey, you can’t blame me for wanting to get something pleasant out of this. Though if you’d rather, we could stop on the fifth floor instead.”

“What’s there?” Gina asked warily.

“Hot tubs. They usually keep at least one full of water as a demonstration model.”

“On second thought, coffee sounds like a great idea.” She paused beside the Art Deco elevator and with the tip of her index finger traced the pattern overlaid on the cool gray metal. “Elevators. Already installed. And such nice ones, too.”

“They’re the originals,” Dez countered.

“I know. They’ll be like an exhibit themselves.”

“You can look at them and romanticize their history if you want, but all I see is old machinery that needs an expensive overhaul—if it isn’t obsolete altogether.” He punched at the sixth-floor button with his fist.

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