“Darcy has this crazy idea,” Jake said.

Mariabella froze at the words. Darcy. That woman who had almost recognized her. Did she know? Had she figured it out? Impossible. Wasn’t it?

“Oh…yeah?” She fiddled with the flowers.

“She thinks you might be a princess.”

Mariabella swallowed hard. She plucked out a daisy from the center and shoved it into a space on the side, then moved a rose from the right to the left. “Huh? Really?”

“Are you?”

The two words hung in her kitchen—heavy, fat with anticipation. Destructive.

Are you her?

It was over. Her life here. Her fantasy that she could be loved by a man like him as an ordinary woman. Once she told him who she was he would never look at her the same way again.

Dear Reader

If you’re reading this, chances are I’ve already got my lights and tree out at my house—and if they’re not up, they will be soon. I have a hard time waiting until after Thanksgiving before I start Christmas preparations. I’m worse than a little kid! That’s what makes writing these Christmas books so much fun for me. Every minute I spend in my characters’ Christmas world gives me another dose of the holiday, complete with the decorations, the food and the warm memories.

Someone asked me once in an interview to name my favourite element of Christmas. For me, it’s the music of the holiday. I start playing those songs as soon as they come on the radio, and I don’t turn them off until the day after Christmas. Every time I listen to a song like “Frosty the Snowman” I remember watching the Claymation movie with my kids (truth be told, they still haven’t outgrown that movie classic). Singing along with “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” or “Silent Night” reminds me what the holiday is truly about, and keeps me grounded in all the shopping madness.

I hope you have a wonderful holiday season, and a memorable Christmas this year. Please visit my website at www.shirleyjump.com, my blog at www.shirleyjump.blogspot.com, or write to me at PO Box 5126, Fort Wayne, IN 46895, USA. Merry Christmas—and may your stocking be filled with lots of books!

Best wishes

Shirley

New York Times bestselling author Shirley Jump didn’t have the will-power to diet, nor the talent to master under-eye concealer, so she bowed out of a career in television and opted instead for a career where she could be paid to eat at her desk—writing. At first, seeking revenge on her children for their grocery store tantrums, she sold embarrassing essays about them to anthologies. However, it wasn’t enough to feed her growing addiction to writing funny. So she turned to the world of romance novels, where messes are (usually) cleaned up before The End. In the worlds Shirley gets to create and control, the children listen to their parents, the husbands always remember holidays, and the housework is magically done by elves. Though she’s thrilled to see her books in stores around the world, Shirley mostly writes because it gives her an excuse to avoid cleaning the toilets and helps feed her shoe habit. To learn more, visit her website at www.shirleyjump.com

Praise for Shirley Jump:

‘Shirley Jump’s

MIRACLE ON CHRISTMAS EVE

has a solid plot and involving conflict,

and the characters are wonderful.’—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

About SWEETHEART LOST AND FOUND

‘This tale of rekindled love is right on target;

a delightful start to this uplifting,

marriage-oriented series [The Wedding Planners].’—Library Journal.com

About New York Times bestselling anthology Sugar and Spice ‘Jump’s office romance gives the collection a kick, with fiery writing.’—PublishersWeekly.com

A PRINCESS
FOR CHRISTMAS

BY

SHIRLEY JUMP

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

First to my readers—there

is no more special gift than your letters,

support and warm words.

You make writing an extra wonderful joy.

Second, to my family.

Every day with you is a treasured present.

CHAPTER ONE

THE woman in the painting whispered to Mariabella. Her deep green eyes, slightly hooded by heavy lashes, seemed to hold a quiet secret. One she kept close to her heart, one perhaps she hadn’t even shared with the man who’d held the paintbrush.

Mariabella reached out, traced the air around the painted woman’s eyes. Secrets. This woman had one.

And so, too, did Mariabella Romano.

“You like that painting, huh?”

Mariabella started, jerked out of her reverie. She turned at the sound of Carmen’s voice. More friend than employee, Carmen Edelman had worked for Mariabella ever since she’d opened the Harborside Art Gallery in the little coastal Massachusetts town almost a year ago. The quirky college graduate had walked in one day, her arms loaded with paintings, each one a gem. Ever since, Carmen had been unearthing wonderful finds, including the artist who’d painted the portrait of the mysterious woman, titled simply, She Who Knows.

Mariabella’s twenty-five-year-old assistant had an uncanny eye for quality work, and had been instrumental in helping Mariabella choose the paintings for the gallery’s upcoming Christmas show. Carmen’s bohemian personality gave the gallery—and Mariabella—a little something unexpected every day.

“I do love this piece,” Mariabella said, pointing toward the portrait of the brunette. “It has a certain depth and mystery to it. It is my favorite piece in the collection.”

“It does seem to have good karma, doesn’t it?” Carmen took a step back, propped a fist beneath her chin, sending dozens of silver and gold bracelets on a jingling race down her arm. “Such deep thoughts in each brush stroke. What do you think it’s saying?”

“Probably what she knows…and no one else does.”

Carmen turned and caught Mariabella’s eye. Her black pageboy haircut swung forward with the movement, and her red-rimmed cat’s-eye glasses slipped a little on her nose. “Oh, so perceptive! I can see that now. The way the woman has her chin tilted down just a bit, the way her hair is brushed across her eyes, like she wants to hide behind the bangs but can’t because they’re not quite long enough. Hmm…though that could just be a bad haircut. And then there’s the way her hand is coming up to cover her mouth. It’s like she has…”

“Secrets,” Mariabella finished, then wanted to catch the word and bring it back. But really, Carmen—like everyone else in town—didn’t know anything about the true identity of Mariabella “Romano.”

Who wasn’t a Romano at all.

Money and privilege provided the opportunity to buy anything—including a new identity and a temporary escape from a life that had chafed at Mariabella like a too-tight yoke.

Carmen’s scarlet lips spread in a wide smile. “This is why I love working for you. You’re, like, totally psychic about art. You have such a gift.”

The genuine compliment washed over Mariabella. She’d lived her life surrounded by people who had dropped compliments on her like confetti at a parade—with the words having about as much depth and meaning. She’d found herself feeling as vacant as those words, and needing something…more.

So a little more than a year ago, she’d left that insular, empty world behind, shedding her true name and her heritage to come here, searching for—

Reality. Peace. Independence.

Here, in Carmen’s words, her gaze, and also in the friends who filled the shops lining Harborside’s boardwalk, Mariabella had exactly that. People who saw her, not for her lineage, but for herself.

“Speaking of gifts, when are you going to share your gifts with the world?” Carmen drifted over to the store’s Christmas tree and hoisted one of the faux presents that sat below the tabletop display. “And I’m not talking about these empty boxes.”

Sometimes—like when they were dealing with a difficult artist—Mariabella considered her employee’s persistence a blessing. And other times when she called it more of a curse.

Like now.

“A gallery is not meant to be used as the owner’s ego trip.”

“Mar, you’re not even on the baggage carousel.”

“Baggage…what?”

Carmen waved a hand. “American translation, you’re not taking any risks. At all. And for your information, it’s not a big deal to hang a few of your pieces here. People want to get a peek into who you are, and what’s going on in your noggin.” Carmen tapped her head.

“Carmen, we go through this argument every week—”

“For good reason—”

“And the answer is always the same.”

“Doesn’t make it the right answer.” Carmen arched a thinly penciled brow.

“My paintings are hardly ready.” The lie slipped easily from Mariabella’s tongue. She’d been to art school, received her master’s degree. She knew when a painting had fulfilled its potential on the canvas. Even though she wouldn’t call her art ready for the Louvre, by any stretch, the pieces she’d created could hang proudly on these walls.

If she dared to put her soul on display.

There was something inherently intimate about hanging art on a gallery wall, something that allowed, as Carmen had said, the world a peek inside the artist’s true self. And Mariabella knew that as long as she was living a lie, she couldn’t permit even a single glimpse.

“In addition,” Mariabella went on, when she saw Carmen readying another objection, “we have a number of artists scheduled to exhibit, enough to carry us through next year. Our walls are full, Carmen.” Mariabella returned to the front desk of the gallery, and started reviewing the proofs of the catalog for next Tuesday’s show. The holiday tourist season was in full swing, and as the calendar flipped closer to Christmas, more and more people flocked to the seaside community looking for unique, locally made gifts. Harborside decorated its boardwalk, revved up its restaurants, brewed up special seasonal lattes, and after a post-summer slumber, came back to life in a new and festive way.

It hadn’t been that way in years’ past. Before Mariabella came to town, Harborside used to lock its shutters and close its doors for the winter, all the residents and business owners hibernating like bears. Mariabella had joined the Community Development Committee, seeing a potential for more in the little town. That enthusiasm had gotten her elected to committee chair, and also spurred the town into action. This year would be the second that Harborside used the holiday season to bring in much-needed winter revenue through a series of events. The boost in tourism dollars—albeit not a large amount yet, but one that was growing—seemed to have everyone humming Christmas carols.

Carmen’s hand blocked Mariabella’s view. The bangle bracelets reprised their jingle song. “An excuse is still an excuse, even if you wrap it up with a pretty bow. Or in your case, a European accent.”

Mariabella laughed. “Are you ever going to give up?”

“Not until I see a Mariabella masterpiece—” Carmen framed her fingers together and squinted through the square at the wall “—right there. That space would be perfectamundo.”

“Uh-huh. And getting this catalog to the printer’s before the end of the day would also be…” Mariabella paused. “How do you say?”

“Perfectamundo.” Carmen grinned.

“Perfectamunda, yes?”

“Close enough. Eventually I’ll have you talking all slang, all the time.”

Mariabella shook her head and got back to work. Slang—coming from her cultured tongue. She could just imagine her father’s reaction to that. His stony face, rigid posture. But worst of all, the silence. She’d hated the judgment in that quiet.

She’d never measured up, not to his standards, voiced or not. She’d never sat still enough, smiled at enough people, acted as he’d expected.

Acted as a princess should.

If he could see her now, her hair loose and flowing, dressed in jeans and spiky heels, paint beneath her fingernails from a frenzied creative streak this morning—

Well, he couldn’t see her, and that was the best part about Harborside being located on the other side of the world. That freedom, to be herself, was a large part of what Mariabella loved about being here. And even talking slang. She smiled to herself.

“Hey.” Carmen nudged Mariabella. “Did you see that?”

“What?”

“Eye candy, two o’clock.”

“Eye…what?”

“Cute guy, walking past the gallery.” She nudged Mariabella’s shoulder a second time.

“Mmm…okay.” Mariabella kept working on the catalog’s corrections.

Carmen let out a frustrated gust. “You should go talk to him.”

That got Mariabella’s attention. “Go talk to him? Why?”

“Because he’s alone, and you’re alone, and it’s about time you took number one, a few hours for yourself, and number two, a step out of that comfort zone you’re so determined to stay glued to.”

Mariabella wanted to tell Carmen she had already taken a giant step out of her comfort zone, something beyond opening the gallery. A step that had brought her all the way across the world, from a tiny little country outside of Italy to here, an even tinier town in Massachusetts.

To a new life. A life without kings and queens.

Without expectations.

Carmen did have a point about the dating, though. In all the time Mariabella had been in Harborside, she hadn’t dated anyone, hadn’t gotten close to a man. She’d made friends, yes, but not true relationships, nothing deep. Part of that was because she’d had no time, as Carmen mentioned, but a bigger part was self-preservation.

She thought again of the woman in the painting. Had that woman dared to open her heart?

If so, was the price she’d had to pay as high as Mariabella’s?

“Let’s focus on catalogs and canapés, instead of my love life,” Mariabella said to her assistant. “I think the artist will be upset if I tell him I spent my time pursuing a hot date instead of concentrating on his show.”

Carmen turned to Mariabella and opened her mouth, as if she wanted to argue the point, then shut it again. “Okay. I can see when the stars are out of alignment for this topic. I’ll zip down to Make it Memorable and check on the appetizers for Tuesday’s opening.”

Mariabella sent up a wave, while she kept on checking the page proofs. “Thank you. I’ll hold down the tent.”

Carmen laughed. “Fort, Mariabella. Fort.”

Heat filled Mariabella’s cheeks. Her accented English was flawless, but she’d yet to master all those odd little idioms. “I meant fort.”

“Hey, a horse is still a horse, even if you call it a pony.” Carmen toodled a wave, then left the gallery, with the hurried step that marked her every movement.

Soft, jazzy Christmas music flowing from the gallery’s sound system provided companion noise for Mariabella as she got back to work. She settled onto a chair behind the counter, content to be alone, surrounded by the art she loved. All her life, she’d craved this kind of shop, this exact kind of cozy gallery. There were many days when she couldn’t believe she actually owned this place, and had seen this dream come true. It made up for all those arguments with her father, all the tears she’d shed.

She paused a moment and cast a glance out the bay window behind her, drawing in the view of the ocean that lay down the dock from the gallery. Through the window, the sun-drenched day could have passed for summer, if the calendar didn’t read a few days before Christmas. No snow lay on the ground yet, though the temperature outside was all winter. The ocean curled gently in and out, while seagulls dipped down to the beach for a late morning meal. Bright sunshine cast sparkles of light over the water. How different Harborside was from where Mariabella had grown up, yet how similar, too. She’d lived on the coast then, too, but that coast had been full of rocky cliffs, houses nestled among the stone paths and lush landscape. Here, the land was less hilly, more populated and didn’t have hundreds of years of history carved into the side of every building. But Harborside offered something else Mariabella couldn’t have in her old home. Something precious.

Anonymity.

A sense of peace draped over Mariabella like a cozy blanket. She loved this town, loved the haven she had found here. She thought of the letter in her purse, and wondered what answer she could possibly give. How she could ever explain she had found something in Harborside that she could never imagine leaving.

But soon, duty demanded her return. As always.

The bell over the door jingled and Mariabella jerked to attention. The man she and Carmen had seen earlier stood in the doorway, his tall figure cutting an imposing stance.

“May I help you?” Mariabella said, moving away from the front desk.

“Just looking, thank you.” He stepped inside, giving Mariabella a better view of him.

Dark hair, dark eyes. What appeared to be an athletic build beneath the navy pinstriped suit, clearly tailored to fit his frame. She recognized his shoes as designer, his briefcase as fine leather. No ordinary tourist, that was clear. Most people who came to Harborside wore jeans in winter or shorts in the summer—dressed to relax and make the most of the boating, swimming and fishing the coastal town had to offer.

This man looked ready to steer a corporation, not a catamaran.

He stood about six feet tall, maybe six-two, and when he moved about the open space of the gallery, he had the stride of a man who knew his place in the world.

A zing of attraction ran through Mariabella. No wonder Carmen had called him eye candy. He had more to offer than a ten-pound chocolate bar.

“Our main gallery houses the artist in residence,” she said, falling into step a few feet away from him, “who has some mixed media pieces in his collection as well as a number of portraits. In the west room, you will find our sculptures and art deco pieces, and the east room, which overlooks the ocean, features our landscapes, if you’re looking for a picture of Harborside to take home or back to your office.”

“I’m not looking for something for my home. Or office.”

He barely glanced at her as he said the words, but more, he hadn’t looked at a single painting. His gaze went, not to the landscapes, portraits and fresco panels, but to the—

Walls. The ceiling. The floors.

Then to her.

A chill chased up her spine.

Had they found her? Was her time here over? No, no, it couldn’t be. She had two more months. That was the agreement.

It was too soon, she wasn’t ready to leave. She loved her home, loved her gallery, and she didn’t want to go back. Not yet.

Mariabella hung back, watching the stranger. He paused to look out the window, the one that provided a view of the entire boardwalk. He took a few steps, as if assessing all of Harborside, then returned to his perusal of the main room of Harborside Art Gallery.

Perhaps he hadn’t come here after her. Perhaps he was only sizing up the gallery. Maybe he owned a place in a nearby town and he’d come here to check out the competition.

Except…

Doubt nagged at Mariabella. A whisper of more here, a hidden agenda. But what?

He entered the east room of the gallery, Mariabella’s favorite space because of its location facing the harbor. Most of her sales, at least to outsiders, happened in that room. Tourists often selected a painting that captured a moment from their vacation, an image of a sunset, a burst of a sunrise over the ocean. Mariabella often commissioned works based solely on tourists’ comments, filling the walls with works that held their visions and happy memories of Harborside.

But this man didn’t stop to notice the view of the ocean outside the window facing the Atlantic. He didn’t glance at a single oil or watercolor. He merely strode the perimeter of the room, then exited, and headed into the third room. Again, not a flicker of his gaze toward the exquisite sculptures, nor a blink of the eye when he passed the multicolored art deco pieces.

His silence frayed at the edges of Mariabella’s nerves. She paced the small area behind the front desk in the main gallery, unable to concentrate on the catalog. On anything but why he was here.

She needed to find a way to ask his intentions, without seeming to be asking. When he reentered the main room, she crossed to him. “May I offer you a cup of coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee. Black.”

Again, barely a flicker of attention toward her. His mind seemed on something else. She let out a breath of relief as she crossed to the small table holding a carafe of fresh coffee, filled a cup, then loaded a small plate with raspberry thumbprint cookies. She turned—

And found him right behind her.

“Here is…here is your coffee. And these cookies—” Mariabella forced herself to breathe, not to betray the nervousness churning in her gut “—were baked by a local chef.”

His attention perked at that. “Chef? Does he have a restaurant?”

“She, and no, Savannah Dawson is the owner of Make it Memorable, the catering company in town.”

He nodded, taking that in, but otherwise not responding to the information. Damn, he made her nervous. Nor did he accept a cookie. Instead, he merely sipped at the coffee, watching her. “And who are you?”

He didn’t know her name. That meant he wasn’t here for her.

Unless the question had been a ruse. No, she doubted that. He didn’t look like a reporter, and didn’t have the accent that said he’d been sent by her parents.

She’d worried for nothing. He was simply another tourist, albeit, not the most friendly one.

“Mariabella Romano,” she said, putting out her hand, and with it, a smile, “gallery—”

“Thank you. That’s all I needed.” Then he turned and began to walk toward the door. That was it? No return of his name? No explanation why he had come here?

On any other day, she would have let this go. Not everyone who walked through the doors of Harborside Art Gallery walked back out with a piece of art. But this man—

This man had an agenda; she could feel it in her bones. And somewhere on his list, was her gallery.

A surge of fierce protectiveness rose in Mariabella’s chest, overriding decorum and tact. “Who are you?”

He paused at the door, his hand on the brass handle, and turned back to face her. A shadow had dropped over his face, from the awning outside, but more, it seemed, from something inside him that he didn’t want to tell her. “I’m…an investor.”

“Well, sir, if you are thinking you are going to buy this shop, think again.” She took a step closer to him, emphasizing her point. Like a terrier guarding her territory. “The owner loves this place. She will never sell.”

A smile took over his face, but it held no trace of friendliness, not a hint of niceness. “Oh, I don’t want this shop.”

Relief flooded Mariabella. She’d read him wrong, he wanted nothing to do with her precious Harborside Art Gallery. Or her. Thank God. “Good.”

That smile widened, and dread sunk in Mariabella’s gut. And then she knew—she’d gotten it all wrong. She hadn’t read him right at all.

“I want the entire block,” he said. “By the end of the week would be convenient.”

CHAPTER TWO

JAKE LATTIMORE peered down the boardwalk of Harborside, Massachusetts, and knew he didn’t see the same thing the other people did. The brightly waving flags on the masts of the few covered boats wintered in the marina didn’t beckon to him. The shop windows hawking T-shirts and sunglasses didn’t attract his attention. The cafes and coffee shops, their doors swinging open and shut as people drifted in and out, sending tantalizing scented snippets of their menus into the air didn’t call to his appetite.

No, what Jake saw wasn’t even there. Yet.

Condos. A hotel. Maybe even an amusement park, and down the beach, Jet Ski rentals, parasailing stations.

By this summer, if at all possible, so profits could start rolling in immediately.

In other words, a vacation mecca, one that would expand his—and that of his financial backers—portfolio, and take this sleepy little town up several notches.

He glanced again at the boardwalk, at the festive holiday decorations. The notes of a Christmas song carried on the air as someone walked out of the stained-glass shop across the street. The melody struck a memory in Jake’s heart, followed by a sharp pang.

A long time ago, this kind of place, this kind of setting, would have had him rushing in to buy a gift. Humming along with the song. Thinking—

Well, he didn’t think that anymore.

He got back to business. That was the only place heartache couldn’t take root. Jake returned his attention to the facts and figures in his head, dismissing the sentimental images around him.

He’d done his research, ran his numbers, and knew without a doubt, Harborside was the perfect location for the next Lattimore Resort. Located along the Eastern seaboard, beneath Boston and above New York, away from the already congested areas of Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard, the tiny town had been tucked away all this time, hardly noticed by tourists, just waiting for someone like him to come along and see its potential.

This was his specialty—find hidden treasures and turn them into profit machines.

This town would be no different. He’d find each shop owner’s price, and pay it. Everyone, Jake had found, had a price.

He wouldn’t let a little thing like dollars and cents get in the way of adding this resort to the Lattimore Properties empire. Not with so much on the line.

If he didn’t land this deal, and went back to New York empty-handed, he knew what would happen. The whispers would start again. People saying he’d only been promoted to CEO because he was the Lattimore heir. Not because he had the chops to handle a project of this scope.

His father had handed him a challenge, sent him to prove he could achieve the goal on his own, and Jake had no intentions of doing anything but exactly that. He’d worked side by side with Lawrence Lattimore for five years, learning the business from the ground up. In the last year or two, though, his father had begun to lose his magic touch. Lawrence’s decision making had become less sound, and the Lattimore Properties balance sheet showed the signs of his uneven hand.

The board began talking forced retirement, so his father had put Jake in charge and given him one directive:

Pull off a miracle.

When Jake returned to NewYork triumphant, with the Harborside jewel in his back pocket, no one could say the junior Lattimore wasn’t up to the task of helming the multimillion dollar corporation. Lattimore Properties would once again be on the way to being the powerful company it had once been, and the downward slide that had begun under the last two years of Lawrence’s tenure would be reversed.

“Who are you?”

He turned around and found the brunette from the art gallery standing behind him, fists propped on her hips, green eyes ablaze. She had a fiery demeanor about her, one that spoke of passion, in everything she did.

And that intrigued Jake. Very much.

“I told you. I’m an investor,” he said. “In towns like this one.”

Her lips pursed. “Let me save you some trouble. No one here is looking to sell their shops.”

He arched a brow. “And you know this because…?”

“Because I live here. And I’m the chair of the Community Development Committee. It is my job to know.”

He smirked. “And that makes you an expert on every resident?”

“It certainly gives me more insight than you.”

He loved her accent. Lilting, lyrical. Even when she argued with him, it sounded like a song.

“You think so?” he said, taking a step closer to her. When he did, he caught a whiff of the floral notes of her perfume. Sweet, light. Tantalizing. “I’ve seen hundreds of towns like Harborside. And met dozens of people like you, people who have this romanticized vision of their town.”

“How dare—”

“What they don’t realize is that underneath all that coziness,” he went on, “is a struggling seaport town that depends on one season of the year, maybe two, for all its financial needs. How much money do you think the people here make off the tourists who visit between the three months of summer and few weeks of Christmas? Enough to sustain every business and every resident for the other eight months of the year?”

She didn’t answer.

“You and I both know it isn’t.” He gestured toward the town, from one end of the boardwalk to the other. This town—and this woman—didn’t even realize what a boon a Lattimore resort would be. How it could bring twelve months of financial return. Every resident could benefit from a hotel like this, if they’d just imagine something different. “This place is quaint. Off the beaten path. And that’s half the problem. Without something to draw visitors in, and really keep them here year-round, you might as well hang up the Going Out of Business signs now.”

She glared at him. “We are doing fine.”

He arched a brow. He’d read the statistics on Harborside. Talked to several of the business owners. He knew the tax base, the annual business revenue of each of the cottage industries lining the boardwalk.

They needed a bigger draw for tourists to sustain them—they knew it, he knew it. The only one not facing reality was Mariabella Romano.

“We do not need you,” she insisted. “Or your coldhearted analysis of our town. Go find someplace else to expand your control of the world.”

“Sorry. I’m here to stay.”

The fist went back to her hip. She drew herself up, facing him down. Frustration colored her face. “Do not bother to unpack because you will not find anyone who will sell to you here. We all love Harborside just the way it is.”

This woman didn’t have any idea what she was up against. This was going to be fun. A challenge. Something Jake hadn’t had in a long time.

His pulse raced, and he found himself looking forward to the days ahead. To interacting with her especially. “I can be pretty persuasive, Miss Romano. We’ll see how you feel about holding onto that little gallery after you hear my arguments for selling.”

“And I can be terribly stubborn.” She flashed him a smile of her own, one that held a hundred watts of power, but not a trace of neighborly greeting. “And you will never persuade me to sell so much as a coloring page to you.”

Mariabella stood in her gallery and seethed. To think she’d found that man attractive!

No longer. He clearly had some kind of plans for Harborside and for that, she wouldn’t give him so much as a single line in her social notebook. Christmas was only a few days away, surely the man would have somewhere to go—some fool who wanted to spend time with him over the holiday—and he could leave, taking his “investment” ideas with him.

Her cell phone rang, the vibrations sending the slim device dancing across the countertop. Mariabella grabbed the phone, just before it waltzed itself right off the edge. “Hello?”

“Mia bella! How are you?” her mother asked in their native language, one that was close to the Italian spoken in the country bordering their own country of Uccelli. Their small little monarchy, almost forgotten in Europe, had its own flavor, a mix of the heritages surrounding it.

“Mama!” Immediately, Mariabella also slipped into her home language, the musical syllables falling from her tongue with ease. Mariabella settled onto the seat behind her and held the phone close, wishing she could do the same with her mother. “I’m fine. And you? Papa?”

“Ah, we are about the same as always. Some of us are getting older and more stubborn.”

Mariabella sighed. That meant nothing had changed at home. After all this time, Mariabella had hoped maybe her father had softened. Maybe he might begin to see his daughter’s need for independence, for a life away from the castle.

He never had. He’d predestined his firstborn’s path from the moment she’d been conceived, and never considered another option.

“But…” Her mother paused. “Your father is…”

The hesitation caused an alarm to ring in Mariabella’s heart. Her mother, a strong, tall, confident woman never hesitated. Never paused a moment for anything. She had sat steadfast by her husband’s side for forty years as he led Uccelli, weathering the roller coaster of changes that came with a monarchy. She’d done it without complaint. Without a moment of wavering from her commitment.

“Papa is what?”

“Having a little heart trouble. Nothing to worry about. We have the best doctors here, cara. You know that.”

The letter in her back pocket seemed to weigh ten times more than it had this morning. Her father’s demand that she return home immediately and take her rightful place in the family. She’d brushed it off when it had arrived, but maybe he’d sent the missive because his illness was worse than her mother was saying. Mariabella sent up a silent prayer for her father’s health. He’d always been so hearty, so indestructible. And now—

“Is he going to be all right?”

“He’ll be fine. Allegra has been wonderful about stepping in for him.”

Her middle sister. The one who had always enjoyed palace life. Of the three Santaro girls, Allegra was the one who loved the state dinners, the conversations with dignitaries, the museum openings and policy discussions. She had sat by their father’s side for more state business than any of the Santaro women—and for naught, because as the second-born, she was not first in line for the throne.

“I’m glad she’s there,” Mariabella said.

“I am, too. Your father misses you, of course, but he is happy to have Allegra with him. For now.” Unspoken words hung in her mother’s sentence.

Mariabella’s father had made it clear he expected his eldest to return and take her place as the heir to the throne. Allegra was merely a placeholder.

Her father had voiced his displeasure several times about Mariabella’s choice to leave the castle and pursue her dream of painting. At first, he’d talked of disowning her, until her mother had intervened. He’d relented, and given her a deadline. She’d been given a little over a year and a half—the time between college graduation and her twenty-fifth birthday, in February—and then she had to return.

Or—

Abdicate the crown and give up her family forever.

That was what her father had written. Choose the throne or be disowned. Mariabella hadn’t told her mother, and suspected neither had her father.

“Don’t worry,” her mother said. “It will all be fine.”

Easier said than done. She thought of her mother, and how worried Bianca Santaro must be about her husband. The miles between mother and daughter seemed to multiply. “I should come home. Be there for Christmas.”

“I wish you could, cara. I would like nothing more than to have my daughter with me for Christmas.” Her mother sighed, and Mariabella swore she could hear her mother begin to cry.

Half a world away, Mariabella’s heart broke, too. Christmas. Her favorite holiday, and Mama’s, too. The castle would already be decorated top to bottom with pine garlands and red bows. Christmas trees in every bedroom, set before every fireplace. None of them would top the giant tree, though, the twenty-five-foot beauty the palace’s landscaper searched far and wide to find, then set in the center hall.

Every year, her mother personally oversaw the decorating of that tree, draping it in gold ribbons and white angel ornaments. And every year, it had been Mariabella’s job to hang the last ornament on that tree. To be the one to pronounce it finished, and then to turn on the lights, washing the entire hall in a soft golden glow, sending a chorus of appreciation through the audience of onlookers brought in from the city.

But not this year. Or last year.

No, she had been here, instead. Leaving her mother to handle Christmas with her sisters. Who had lit the tree? Who had hung that last decoration?

“We will miss you,” her mother said softly, “but if you come back, you know what will happen.”

Mariabella let out a sigh. “Yes.”

She would be expected to step back into her role. To go back to being groomed and primped for a crown she neither wanted nor asked to be given.

Because her father would not be convinced to let her go a second time. She knew that, as well as she knew her own name.

“Stay where you are,” her mother said, as if reading her daughter’s mind. “I know what this time, as limited as it is, means to you.” Her mother’s gentle orders were firm.

“Mama—”

“Don’t argue with me, Bella. I sent you there. I know your father isn’t happy, but I will deal with him. You deserve a life outside of this…birdcage.”

That was, indeed, how Mariabella had come to think of life back home. A cage, a gilded one she could look out of, but not escape. People could stare inside, see her and judge her, but never really know her.

Then she’d come to Harborside and felt free, like a real person for the first time in her life.

“I’ll call you if anything changes,” her mother said, “but I have to say goodbye now. I’m late for a state dinner.” She sighed. “You know how the prime minister gets. He hates to sit next to the visiting dignitaries from other countries and make small talk. The man has no social graces.”

Mariabella laughed. She certainly didn’t miss that part of palace life at all. The stuffy meals, the endless dinner parties. “Have a good time. If you can.”

“Oh, I will. I seated the prime minister beside Carlita.” Her mother let out a little giggle.

“Mama!”

“Your little sister will talk his ear off about horses and dressage. The man may just fall asleep before the soup arrives.”

Mariabella laughed. Oh, how she missed some of those moments. The little fun they’d have behind the scenes, the laughter with her sisters, her mother. “I love you, Mama.”

Her mother paused, and Mariabella could hear the catch in her voice when Bianca Santaro spoke again. “I love you too, cara.”

They ended the call, and Mariabella closed her phone, but held tight to the cell for a long time, as if she could hold her parents in the small electronic device. For a moment, she was back there, in her mother’s bedroom, sitting on the chaise lounge, watching her mother get ready for a party. She saw Bianca brushing her hair, heard her humming a tune. Then she’d always turn and open her arms, welcoming her eldest daughter into her embrace. With Mama, there had always been time for a hug, a kiss, one more story before bed.

How she missed those days.

Even if she returned to Uccelli, those moments were gone forever. When her father stepped down, Mariabella was expected to fill the king’s shoes. Which meant every day of her life in the palace had been spent grooming her for the throne.

If she returned, she’d be stepping right back into the middle of the very expectations she’d run from.

Her role as future queen.

Mariabella sighed. As much as she missed her parents and her homeland, she couldn’t go back. Returning came at too steep a price.

Freedom.

Carmen came bursting through the door. Mariabella slipped her phone into her purse and with that movement, brought her mind back into work mode. She would dwell on the events across the world when she was alone.

“You will never believe what just happened when I was in Savannah’s shop.” Carmen slammed her hand on the counter in emphasis.

“An incredibly rude man offered to buy her place, yes?”

Carmen’s jaw dropped. “How’d you know?”

“He was here, a few minutes ago. And wanted my gallery, too.”

“The gallery, too?”

Mariabella nodded. “He wants the whole block. For some kind of ‘investment.’” She put air quotes and a hint of sarcasm around the last word.

“In Harborside.” Carmen said it as a statement, not a question. “That same cute guy we saw earlier.”

Mariabella nodded again. “He is not so cute close-up, you know. Not when he is trying to turn our town into some kind of circus for tourists.”

“Savannah tried to ask him questions, to find out what his plans are, but he didn’t tell her more than boo.” Carmen moved to the back of the counter and stuffed her purse underneath. “He’s a big mystery man. I still think he’s kind of cute, even if his plans might be diabolical. Or, maybe perfectly harmless. We’d have to find out more to know for sure.”

“Well, cuteness will not win me over. Or convince me to sell.”

Carmen shot her a grin. “You’d be surprised, Mariabella. Stronger women than you have been done in by blue eyes and a nice smile.”

Mariabella glanced out the window again at the town she had come to love, to think of as her home. “Not me. And if this man thinks I will fall apart that easily, he can think again.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then returned her attention to the catalog. “Because he has no idea who he is dealing with.”

Truly, he had no idea. And neither did anyone in this town.

When the door of the limo shut, the sights and sounds of Harborside dropped away, leaving Jake alone with his thoughts.

Never a place he wanted to be.

He pulled out his PDA and started reading e-mails, at the same time powering up his laptop and scrolling through the reports he’d downloaded earlier about the town. The back of his limo had been his mobile office for as long as he could remember. The automobile had a satellite connection, to give him a link to the Web whenever he needed it, and a small desk installed between the seats for his laptop. Some days, it seemed as if he spent more time in this car than he did at home. If one could call his apartment in New York a home at all.

The passenger’s side door opened and another man slid in. “Do you ever stop?”

Jake didn’t look up. “I thought you went to lunch.”

“I did. I’m done. Unlike you, I took a break from my job. I even made some friends.”

Jake stopped working to stare at William Mason, his best friend and chauffeur, who had loosened his tie, and looked as relaxed as an out-of-town uncle at Thanksgiving dinner. Today, Will was sporting a red tie featuring reindeer leaping across the front, a glaring contrast to the white dress shirt with green pinstripes.

No one would call Will conventional. More than once, people had asked Jake why he didn’t insist his chauffeur wear a more traditional dark suit and muted tie. Jake told them that if he wanted a conventional chauffeur, he would have hired one out of the phone book.

With Will, he’d gotten something no one else would have brought to the job—

Honesty. Loyalty. Friendship.

Three things Jake didn’t seem to have in abundance, not in the vicious world of Lattimore Properties.

Will grinned at Jake, waiting for an answer. His sandy brown hair had been mussed by the wind, his cheeks reddened. He looked like he’d had…fun.

“How could you make friends?” Jake asked. “We’ve been in this town less than an hour.”

“It doesn’t take days to say, ‘Hey, I’m Will, who are you?’”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” He shrugged. “Well, maybe something close to that. It would do you good to do the same.”

Jake snorted. He could just see himself going into the local diner and introducing himself to a perfect stranger. Will had the affable personality to pull that off. He always had. Jake…well, Jake didn’t. “Why would I? I’m here to complete a business deal, not win a popularity contest.”

Will leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Have you ever found it odd that your best friend is a chauffeur? That you spend the last few days before Christmas working obsessively, instead of cuddling by a fire with some hot woman? Which is where I would be, I might add, at home, with my wife, if you weren’t keeping me on the road, working more than Santa does. My wife, by the way, has learned to curse your name in three different languages because of the hours I work.”

“I pay you well enough.”

“Sometimes it’s about time, not money, Jake.” Will put his hands up before Jake could voice another objection. “I’m just saying, you might want to try the whole staying-home-with-a-girlfriend thing sometime.”

“One—” Jake put out a finger “—my best friend is my chauffeur because you have been my best friend since we were kids, and I wanted to hire someone I trusted to drive me around. Especially since I’m going to spend half the day with you. Two—” he put out another finger “—I don’t need more friends—”

“One friend is just so many you thought you might lose count after that?”

“And three—” Jake went on, putting out a third finger “—I’m not at home in front of a fire with a hot woman because I’m not dating anyone.”

“Exactly the problem. You’re going to be thirty this year, Jake. Don’t you ever wonder what life would be like if you had one?”

“Had one what?”

“A life. Outside of that.” Will waved at the PDA and laptop. “Inanimate objects aren’t the most affectionate beings on the planet, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Jake scowled and ignored Will. He’d had what Will was talking about once before—had even expected by this age to be going home to a wife, just as his best friend did at the end of the day.

But fate had another future in mind. And Jake wasn’t about to risk that kind of pain again. Once was enough.

“All I’m saying,” Will persisted, “is that it’s Christmas and it might be nice if you gave yourself a present this year.”

“No one buys themselves gifts on Christmas. Or at least they’re not supposed to.”

“I meant a present. A life outside of work. Someone to wake up to.” Will leaned forward and waited until Jake’s gaze met his. “You had that once. And it sure would be nice to see you that happy again. Real nice.” Will got out of the car and shut the door.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jake muttered to the closed door. “That kind of happiness doesn’t happen twice.” And he went back to where he found peace.

In those inanimate objects that didn’t leave him. And didn’t die.

CHAPTER THREE

“HE’S back,” Carmen said, tugging on Mariabella’s sleeve.

Mariabella turned away from the customer she was talking to, and saw the stranger from earlier cross by her front windows. Not him again.

She’d hoped she’d made her feelings clear this morning. Between that, and Savannah’s refusal to sell, the man should have let by now, realizing his “investments” weren’t welcome in Harborside.

Apparently, he was a slow learner.

“Carmen, can you help this lady find a painting for over her sofa?” Mariabella said, gesturing to the middle-aged woman beside her, who had entered the gallery just a few minutes earlier. “She is looking for something with tones of rose and cream.”

“Certainly. Right this way,” Carmen said, pointing toward the second room of the gallery. “We have some singularly cool sunsets that I think will be perfect for what you want.”

“Wonderful!” the customer exclaimed. “I have this huge blank wall in the great room just crying out for something spectacular.”

Carmen grinned. “If you want spectacular, you’ve come to the right place.”

The woman followed Carmen into the next room, the two of them chatting about the exquisite sunsets each had seen in Harborside, while Mariabella headed out of the gallery and in the direction she’d seen the stranger go earlier.

She didn’t see him. But she did see a long, black limousine parked across the street, in the public parking lot.

His, she was sure.

The driver sat behind the wheel, sedate and patient. Probably bored out of his mind, waiting on Mr. Investment to finish his fruitless quest for real estate.

“Mariabella!”

She turned at the sound of the familiar voice. “Miss Louisa. How are things with you?”

The older lady hurried over to Mariabella, her portly dachshund tottering at her feet, his four legs struggling to walk underneath the thick red Santa coat Louisa Brant had buckled around the long, short-haired dog. “Have you heard the latest? About that man trying to buy up our property?”

“I have. And I am not selling.”

“I was thinking about it. You know how I hate the winters here. It sure would be nice to retire in Florida. Take me and my little George here down to a sunny little place for the rest of our days.” She let out a long sigh, and clasped her thick wool coat tighter, as if just the thought had her feeling winter’s chill a little more.

“If you do, who would head the women’s tea every New Year?”

Louisa patted Mariabella’s hand. “Now, dear, you know that’s hardly my doing at all. You’re the one who takes care of all of us in this town. Why you’re practically a one-woman organizing dynamo. I don’t know how little Harborside existed before you came along. You’ve got us holding dances, and teas, and summer regattas and all kinds of things. This place has become a regular hotbed of activity.” Louisa laughed. “Or maybe a hot water bottle, considering how tiny we are.”

Mariabella smiled. “I am not doing this alone. I have a lot of help.”

“Every spear has a point, you know.” Louisa’s dog gave a tug on the leash, straining toward the park on the other side of the street. “Well, I must be going.”

“Miss Louisa—”

The older woman turned back. “Yes, dear?”

“Promise me you’ll talk to me before you consider selling to that man. We businesses in Harborside have to stick together. Surely, as a group, we’ll be fine.”

Louisa smiled, but her smile shook a little. “Of course, dear.”

Then she was gone, the dachshund’s tail wagging happily. He seemed to be the only one pleased with the way the conversation had ended.

Mariabella redoubled her determination to rid Harborside of this interloper. As long as he was here, people would continue to be upset and worried about their futures. Louisa loved her shop and had never mentioned retiring before today. Once this stranger was gone, everyone would calm down again and business would return to normal. She returned her attention to his limo, and to the license plate.

Okay, so now she knew two things. He was wealthy. And he was from out of town, but not so far that the distance couldn’t be driven. She hurried down the sidewalk and peered around a telephone pole at the limo’s license plates.

New York. She started memorizing the numbers, intending to call Reynaldo and have him—

“Checking me out?”

Mariabella jumped at the sound of his voice, and pivoted back. The man stood a mere two feet behind her, close enough that she could see the shades of cobalt flecked with gold in his eyes. See the sharp angle of his jaw, catch the woodsy scent of his cologne. Notice him three times more than she had earlier today.

But not be affected one iota. At all.

“Yes.” Damn. She hated having to admit that to him. He’d startled her and she couldn’t come up with another excuse.

“I’m no criminal, I assure you, and I have only the best intentions.”

“Depends on who you ask, and how you interpret your intentions.”

A smirk raised one side of his lips. “Touché.”

She glanced back over her shoulder at the limo, trying again to memorize the numbers on the license plate. If this man wasn’t going to tell her who he was or why he was here, she would find out for herself.

“Planning on playing detective?” he asked, reading her mind.

“No.” Mariabella was not much better at lying than she was with idioms, and a flush filled her cheeks.

“I’ll save you the trouble of bothering the local police chief. Not that he seems to have much to do in a town this size.” The man reached into his suit jacket, withdrew a slim silver case and produced a business card. “Jacob Lattimore, CEO of Lattimore Properties.”

She took the embossed white linen card. It was simple and clean, giving only a New York address and an office telephone number. Nothing that told her who he was, or why he had picked her town—and she had come to think of Harborside as hers, ever since the little community had welcomed her, without reservation—and what he intended to do here. “What kind of properties?”

“Resorts. Vacation properties. Condos, hotels.”

Mariabella’s jaw dropped. “Harborside is not that kind of town.”

Another smile, the kind she was beginning to hate. “It can be, once the owners of the shops along this boardwalk see how a Lattimore resort can transform this place into a money machine for everyone.” He waved a hand down the length of the boardwalk, as if he were a magician, making all of it disappear, and in its place, creating a gargantuan eyesore of a hotel.

Thus turning Harborside into a cartoon version of what it was right now, something he’d stamp on some silly brochure and market to travelers, as a “destination.”

Panic gripped Mariabella. He couldn’t be serious. If he did this, he would destroy the very refuge she had found. Ruin the small little town that had wrapped around her, safe and secure, like the cottage she’d been renting. Turning Harborside into a resort town would not only change the very fabric of the community, but worse, it would attract the very people she had tried so hard to avoid all these years—

Her peers. Her family. And worst of all, the media.

If any of the above came to Harborside, her biggest nightmare would come to life.

And her secrets would be exposed.

Her world here would be ripped apart, and she would be forced to return to the one she had left. Forced to step up and take her rightful place beside her mother and father. And eventually, on the throne.

No. She wasn’t ready, not yet. She had more time, not much, but a little, and she needed it desperately to have this…

Normalcy. Peace. Anonymity.

And then, maybe, yes, she could go back to the birdcage. But on her terms, not Jacob Lattimore’s.

She had to stop this man. Had to convince the other business owners on the Community Development Committee to hold firm, and refuse to sell. Surely, as a group, they would have the strength necessary to fend off his offers, no matter how tempting he made his financial proposals. Harborside would be preserved, just as it was, and Mariabella could be sure her town would never change.

“I understand you see this town as some kind of—” he waved vaguely “—step back in time. A little bit of nostalgia. But nostalgia, unfortunately, doesn’t always make money. You have to face reality, Miss Romano, you and the other business owners. Travelers want more on their vacations than a pretty view.”

She stared at him and fumed. “There are some people who want a quiet place to stay, not a zoo.”

“But not enough people. Your town is struggling, and the sooner you face the fact that you need a property like mine to shake things up, the better off everyone will be.” He glanced around at the garland draped between the streetlights and the crimson bows hanging on the storefronts. “No amount of Christmas spirit—” the last two words slipped off his tongue with a taste of sarcasm “—will mask the scent of desperation.”

“No one here is desperate.”

He arched a brow. A silent disagreement.

Mariabella wanted to throw a thousand arguments in his face. Except, there were a few businesses along the boardwalk that had struggled in recent months, a fact she could not overlook, no matter how hard she tried. A few who would jump at the chance to retire, or find a buyer for buildings that housed inventory that hadn’t sold in months. Harborside, like many seaside towns, struggled to compete for tourist dollars, and the members of the Community Development Committee had been brainstorming for months ways to increase traffic flow to the tiny town.

Jake Lattimore would not be the answer, no matter what. The town was not that desperate. To get rid of him, however, meant Mariabella needed to do whatever it took to protect what she loved.

Whatever it took.

Jake watched Mariabella Romano hurry down the sidewalk—in the opposite direction of her gallery—and had to admit he was intrigued.

She hated him.

And he liked that.

Clearly, he needed therapy, or a drink.

He opted for the drink. Faster, cheaper and easier. And in the opposite direction of the limo, where William had undoubtedly witnessed the entire exchange, and was waiting to offer his two cents about fireplaces and Christmas “presents.”

Jake didn’t need to hear that. Didn’t need any more advice from well-meaning people who told him to move on with his life. He’d spent five years moving on—by working.

He gave Mariabella one last glance—she was beautiful, a tall woman with curves in all the right places—before ducking into the Clamshell Tavern. Blues music greeted him, along with a nautical décor. White painted pine walls, navy blue vinyl seats and life rings hanging on the walls printed with the restaurant’s name.

All kitsch, all the time. Jake tried hard not to roll his eyes.

“Table for…one?” the hostess asked, peering around him, as if she thought he had a friend hiding in his pocket.

“I’ll just sit at the bar. Thanks.” He pushed through the glass doors and into the lounge area, which featured more of the same décor.

Good thing he rarely got seasick.

“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender, a rotund man in a red-and-white striped shirt, something that was probably supposed to be pirate style, but came off looking more like barber shop clown.

“Your best vodka. Dry. Two olives.”

The bartender nodded, then turned and mixed the drink. A minute later, he slid the glass in front of Jake and headed down to the opposite side of the bar.

An unappetizing mix of nuts and something resembling pretzels sat in a bowl to Jake’s left. He pushed it away. What he wouldn’t give for a tray with a good aged gouda, accompanied by a pear and cinnamon relish. Maybe a salad with grilled endive, apples and glazed fennel. Some real food, not this stuff that came out of a bag thrown together in a factory.

If he were back in New York, he’d have any gourmet food he wanted at his beck and call. He’d attended dinners, parties, openings, dining on the best the local chefs had to offer.

Lately, though, those platters had been leaving him with a feeling of emptiness, as if he could eat and eat and never have his fill. Or, as if every meal had too much fluff, and not enough substance.

Restlessness had invaded his sleep, his thought patterns—and at the worst possible time. He needed to be focused, aware, in order to execute this deal and prove himself to the company, while also boosting the bottom line.

Once the Harborside project was underway, surely that hole in his gut would fill.

It would.

“Well, you sure know how to rile people up around here, don’t you?” A man slid onto the stool beside Jake. He had a shock of white hair, and wore a long flannel shirt over a pair of thick khakis. He looked about sixty-five, maybe seventy, and sat at the bar with the ease of someone who had been there a time or twenty. “The usual, Tony.”

The bartender nodded, reached in the cooler and popped the top on a beer. He slid the dark beer down the bar to the older man, with a friendly hello, then went back to washing glasses.

“So, why are you doing it?” he said.

Jake pivoted toward the other man. “Are you talking to me?”

“Do you see someone else in this bar who’s got the whole town in a tizzy?” The older man arched a brow, then put out his hand. “Name’s Zeke Carson, short for Ezekiel, though no one calls me that and gets an answer. I’m the newspaper editor for this town, except our paper’s more like a newsletter.” He chuckled. “Small-town living. You gotta love it.”

Jake shook with Zeke. Will would have been proud to see Jake making a friend, of sorts. An acquaintance, really, but at least he could go back to the limo and reassure Will he hadn’t remained a hermit.

“Jake Lattimore.” No sense keeping his name a secret any longer. Mariabella Romano had undoubtedly set Zeke on him, another guard dog to chase him out of town. If she hadn’t already nailed up WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE posters around town with his name and face on them, Jake figured it was only a matter of time.

Instead of annoying him, as something like that might on any other day, with any other project, it had him even more intrigued.

Charged up. Ready to rise to whatever challenge Mariabella threw his way.

He hadn’t felt that way in a while. It had to be the Harborside project, not the woman, that had him feeling so challenged—because that was where his energies lay right now, and where they should lay.

Despite what Will had said, Jake had no intentions of entangling himself in another relationship. Especially not at this time of year.

He stared down into his drink, the frosted clear liquid a mirror to his heart. Five years ago this month.

Five years. Some days, it felt like five minutes.

Zeke took a sip of his beer. “I know who you are. Knew before you got here.”

Jake arched a brow, pushing the other thoughts aside. “You did?”

“I may edit a small-town paper, Mr. Lattimore, but that doesn’t make me stupid. I read the financial pages. I know all about your company, and I knew you were looking for some coastal properties to add to your portfolio.” Zeke grinned. “Read it in an issue last month.”

Jake nodded. “I’m impressed.”

Zeke tipped his beer in Jake’s direction. “I am, too. You’re one of those wunderkinds. Rocketship to the top and all that.”

Jake shrugged. He hated that label. Maybe he should color his hair gray. That might stop people from commenting on his status at the top of the company before he’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday.

“Must make your dad proud.”

“Something like that,” Jake said. He tugged his PDA out of his jacket pocket and began thumbing through his e-mails, hoping Zeke would get the hint and stop talking.

He didn’t.

“’Cept your dad’s had some troubles lately, I read. Company’s struggling a little.”

“It’s fine,” Jake said.

“And you…wasn’t there something that happened a few years back…?” Zeke rubbed at his chin. “Can’t remember what it was. Some accident and—”

“I’m not here to discuss my personal life, Mr. Carson.” The words clipped off Jake’s tongue. Harsher than he’d intended.

“Zeke, please.”

“Zeke.”

The other man didn’t say anything for a minute. Jake hoped he’d given up on the conversation. Zeke drank his beer, watched the game on television. Then he shifted in his seat toward Jake again. “So, why Harborside?”

Jake thought of cutting off the conversation, then reconsidered. Perhaps talking to the local newspaper editor would be a good idea. Could garner some good press for Lattimore Properties. “You read the financial pages. You tell me, Zeke.”

Zeke thought a second, clearly pleased to have his own brain picked. “It’s undiscovered. Centrally located. Has just enough beach for one of your fancy-shmancy hotels, but not so much sand that the place’ll get crowded with big bucks homeowners and their McMansions.”

“So far, so good.” Jake pushed the PDA aside, and reached for his drink, but didn’t sip it.

“Let’s see…” Zeke leaned forward, his gaze meeting Jake’s. “You like a challenge, and Harborside is one. We’re New Englanders. Stubborn, set in our ways. Not much for change of any kind. Hence, the big challenge. Why pick an unpopulated area, with no one to push around and bully when you corporate giants can go after this place and have a little fun while you’re at it?”

Was that how people saw him and the company? As a bully? “I offer a fair price for the land. The buildings. There are no strong-arm tactics at work.”

“Maybe that’s how you see it.” Zeke raised his beer, took a sip, then put it down again. “You oughta read the paper more often. Sometimes it gives you the side of the story you’re not seeing.”

Jake had little use for the media. He found most reporters intrusive, annoying and hardly interested in anything other than a sensationalized headline to splash across their pages. He called them when he needed press for a new launch, tried to stay under their radar the rest of the time. “I’m only concerned about the business section, Mr. Carson,” he said.

“Zeke, please. Mr. Carson makes me sound like my father, and he’s old.”

Jake laughed. Despite everything, he found he liked Zeke. “Zeke it is.”

Zeke finished his beer, then slid off the stool. He placed a firm hand on Jake’s shoulder and met his gaze, with light blue eyes that had seen and experienced a lot of life. “I’m not here to tell you if your plans for this town are good or bad. There are arguments on both sides of the fence for that, and enough people to battle it out to start World War Three. But take some advice from a young-at-heart newspaperman.” He glanced around the bar, not to see if anyone was listening, but as if he was trying to include the Clamshell Tavern in his case. “There are people whose whole lives are Harborside, and what you’re proposing will turn their lives upsidedown. I’ve seen and read about the kinds of hotels your company builds, and they may not be the right ones for here. Change isn’t always a good thing, and you have to think about what’s going to happen after you build this thing and head back to your big glass office in New York.”

“What do you mean?”

Zeke pointed out the window, at a ship cutting through the cold ocean. “See that boat? It’s plowing forward, on to its destination. It doesn’t think about what happens in its wake. What the propeller is doing to the fish, the seaweed, all the flora and fauna living in the dark water underneath. That’s why those channel markers are out there, to keep the boats in line. Keep them from destroying nature.”

“And I’m the big bad boat, ripping up the seaweed in my wake, is that it?”

“You can choose to be, or you can choose to be a sailboat, leaving the ocean more or less as you found it.” Zeke gave Jake’s shoulder one last pat. “Think about it.”

The old man left, and Jake turned back to his drink. Well, he’d been given a warning and a philosophy lesson, all at once. Seemed this town didn’t want him around. Jake didn’t care. He saw a business opportunity here, one he needed, on a professional and a personal level, and he had no intentions of walking away from it.

Outside the window, he saw Mariabella Romano striding up the boardwalk toward the Clamshell Tavern. As he watched her, he realized something he hadn’t noticed before.

She had a way about her that didn’t seem to fit this town. Heck, this world. It was more than the accent, the exotic beauty. She carried herself straight and tall, spine absolutely in line, as if she were balancing a book on her head and her stride—well, that could almost be called…

Regal. Yeah, that was the word for it.

Maybe she’d gone to one of those finishing schools or grown up in a wealthy home. Either way, she didn’t fit his image of a small-town art gallery owner.

She entered the tavern, then the bar, her fiery gaze lighting on him as if he were the devil incarnate. A grin slid across his face. “Miss Romano. Just the person I wanted to talk to. I have an offer for you.”

“And I have one for you.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I would like to pay you to leave Harborside, and find another town for your hotel. Name your price, Mr. Lattimore, and I will pay it.”

Just when Jake had thought things couldn’t get more interesting—

They did.

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS an incredible risk, and Mariabella knew it.

But if money was what it would take to rid Harborside of Jake Lattimore, then she would take that chance. She had resources she could dip into—not an endless pool, of course, but probably more than enough to get this man to change his course. “So,” she said, “what is your price?”

He chuckled. “You couldn’t pay it. Not unless you have a few masterpieces in the back of your gallery that I don’t know about.”

“I have the resources I need to make this offer,” she said, leaving the issue of where the money was coming from out of the discussion.

He leaned an elbow on the bar and studied her, clearly amused. She shifted under his scrutiny. How long had it been since a man stared at her like that, with such clear interest?

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