For a moment Rory couldn’t say a word.

She couldn’t believe she was actually where she had so badly wanted to be. In Erik’s arms. For some strange reason, her throat had suddenly gone raw.

She swallowed, then took a deep breath. “Erik?” she finally said. “Thank you.”

“For holding you?”

“For all of it. But, yes. For this, too.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked when she started to cry.

“Nothing. Honest,” she insisted. “For the first time in…forever there isn’t a thing wrong.”

“Then why tears?”

Because of what you let me feel, she thought. “Because I’m tired,” was easier to admit.

She felt his lips against the top of her head. “Then, go to sleep.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to miss you holding me.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll make me forget why I shouldn’t do this,” he murmured, and brushed his mouth over hers.

The Hunt For Cinderella: Seeking Prince Charming

Her Holiday

Prince Charming

Christine Flynn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHRISTINE FLYNN admits to being interested in just about everything, which is why she considers herself fortunate to have turned her interest in writing into a career. She feels that a writer gets to explore it all and, to her, exploring relationships—especially the intense, bittersweet or even lighthearted relationships between men and women—is fascinating.

For the lovely ladies

who have made the “Hunt” happen,

and everyone who believes in the fairy tale.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Excerpt

Prologue

“What’s on your Christmas list this year? No matter how big or how small, you’re sure to find what you’re looking for at Seattle’s one-stop answer to all your holiday—”

With a quick flick of the dial, Rory silenced the cheerful voice suddenly booming from her car radio. In an attempt to drown out her worries while she waited to pick up her son from kindergarten, she’d turned the music to a decibel she’d never have considered had her five-year-old been in the vehicle.

The ad had just brought to mind the one thing she’d been desperately trying not to think about.

She’d hoped to make the holiday special for her little boy this year. Not just special, but after last year’s unquestionably awful Christmas, something wonderful. Magical.

As of three days ago, however, she was no longer sure how she would keep a roof over their heads, much less put a tree under it. Due to downsizing, her telecommuting services as a legal transcriptionist for Hayes, Bleaker & Stein were no longer required. She’d needed that job to pay for little things like food and gas and to qualify for a mortgage.

Without a job, she had no hope of buying the little Cape Cod she’d thought so perfect for her and little Tyler. She had no hope of buying or renting any house at all. Since the sale of the beautiful home she’d shared with her husband closed next week, that left her four days to find an apartment and a job that would help her pay for it.

A quick tap ticked on her driver’s side window.

Through the foggy glass, a striking blonde wearing studious-looking horn-rimmed glasses and winter-white fur smiled at her. The woman didn’t look at all familiar to Rory. Thinking she must be the mom of an older student, since she knew all the moms in the kindergarten class, she lowered her window and smiled back.

Chill air rushed into the car as the woman bent at the waist to make eye contact. “You’re Aurora Jo Linfield?”

Rory hesitated. The only time she ever used her full name was on legal documents. And she rarely used Aurora at all. “I am.”

“I’m Felicity Granger.” Hiking her designer bag higher on her shoulder, she stuck her hand through the open window. The cold mist glittered around her, clung, jewel-like, to her pale, upswept hair. “But please, call me Phil. I’m an associate of Cornelia Hunt. You’ve heard of Cornelia, haven’t you?”

Rory shook the woman’s hand, watched her retract it. “I’ve heard of her,” she admitted, wondering what this woman—or the other—could possibly want with her. Nearly everyone in Seattle had heard of Mrs. Hunt, the former Cornelia Fairchild. She’d been the childhood sweetheart of computer genius Harry Hunt, the billionaire founder of software giant HuntCom. Rory recalled hearing of their marriage last summer, even though she’d been struggling within her fractured little world at the time. Media interest in their six-decade relationship had been huge.

“May I help you with something?”

“Oh, I’m here to help you,” the woman insisted. “Mr. Hunt heard of your situation—”

Harry Hunt had heard of her? “My situation?”

“About your job loss. And how that affects your ability to purchase another home.”

“How does he know that?”

“Through your real estate agent. Mr. Hunt knows the owner of the agency she works for,” she explained. “Harry bought a building through him last month for his wife so she’d have a headquarters for her new venture. When he learned why you couldn’t move forward with the purchase of the house you’d found, he remembered Mrs. Hunt’s project and thought you’d be a perfect referral. So we checked you out.” Her smile brightened. “And you are.

“Anyway,” she continued, anxious to get to her point. “Cornelia knows of a property for sale that you might want to purchase. She’s aware of your current unemployment,” she hurried to assure her, “but she said you’re not to worry about that little detail right now. Just look at the place. If you’re interested, suitable arrangements can be made for you and for the seller.

“It’s not exactly what you told your agent you want,” she cautioned, reaching into a pocket of her coat. “But it could be perfect for you and your little boy. You really do need to keep an open mind when you see it, though,” she warned. “Don’t judge it as is. Look for the possibilities.

“You’ll be met at the address on the back.” She held out a white, pearlescent business card. “The owner’s representative will be there at ten tomorrow morning. A man by the name of Erik Sullivan. He’s quite knowledgeable about the property, so feel free to ask him anything that will help you decide whether you want the place or not. You should keep an open mind about him, too.

“I have to run now. Double-parked,” she said, explaining her rush but not the warning. “If you like what you see, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

Rory took the pretty little card. Neatly hand-printed on the back was an address outside Port Orchard, a short ferry ride across the sound from Seattle.

With questions piling up like leaves in the fall, she glanced back up.

The woman was gone.

Seeing no sign of her in the Pacific Northwest mist that was closer to fog than rain, she looked back to the shimmery little card.

The past fourteen months had left her without faith in much of anything anymore. The sudden, devastating loss of her husband to an uninsured drunk driver who’d run a red light. The whispered and crushing comments about their marriage that she’d overheard at his funeral. The exodus from her life of people she’d once thought of as family and friends. Each event had been shattering in its own right. Together, they’d made her afraid to trust much of anything. Or anyone.

And that had been before she’d lost the job Harvey Bleaker had said was hers for as long as she needed it.

The lovely woman with the bookish glasses had appeared out of nowhere. As if by magic, she’d disappeared into the mist the same way, like some sort of a fairy godmother dressed in faux fur and carrying Coach.

Dead certain her sleepless nights had just caught up with her, Rory dropped the card into the open compartment on the console. Whatever had just happened had to be either too good to be true or came with a spiderweb of strings attached to it.

Probably, undoubtedly, both.

Still, she, Tyler and the for-rent section of the newspaper were going apartment hunting in the morning. Having just picked up a check for the small down payment she’d put on the house she hadn’t been able to buy, less fees, she had enough for three or four months’ rent and expenses. In the meantime, feeling a desperate need for either magic or a miracle, she figured she had nothing to lose by checking out the address on that card.

She just hoped that this Erik Sullivan would be as accepting of her circumstances as Mrs. Cornelia Hunt seemed to be.

Chapter One

“Are we lost, Mom?”

“No, honey. We’re not lost.” Parked on the dirt shoulder of a narrow rural road, Rory frowned at the building a few dozen yards away. “I’m just not sure this is the right address.”

“If we can’t find it, can we go to the Christmas place?”

“We’ll see, sweetie. We’re looking for a new place to live right now.”

“I don’t want a new one.”

“I know you don’t,” she murmured. Freckles dotted Tyler’s nose. His sandy hair, neatly combed when they’d left the house, fell over his forehead, victim of the breeze that had blown in when she’d lowered his window to get a better look at the address on the roadside mailbox.

Nudging wisps back from his forehead, she smiled. “But we need one. And I need you to help me pick it out. It’s our adventure, remember?”

“Then can we go to the Christmas place?”

They had seen a banner for a holiday festival in nearby Port Orchard when they’d driven off the ferry. Tyler had been asking about it ever since.

Everything she’d read last night on the internet made the area around the shoreline community a few miles around the bend sound nearly idyllic. The part of her that didn’t want to get her hopes up knew that could simply have been good marketing by its chamber of commerce. The part that desperately needed this not to be a wild-goose chase focused on getting them moving.

“Not today, I’m afraid.” She hated to say no, but housing had to be their first priority. “We don’t have time.”

It was nine fifty-five. They were to meet the seller’s representative at ten o’clock.

Reminding Tyler of that, and agreeing that, yes, they were still “exploring,” she pulled his hood over his head and glanced to the structure surrounded by a few winter-bare trees, dead grass and a wet patch of gravel that, apparently, served as a parking lot.

The address on the mailbox matched the one on the card. The structure, however, bore no resemblance at all to a residence. The two-story flat-roofed rectangle of a building faced a partial view of a little marina two city blocks away and backed up to a forest of pines.

A long, narrow sign above the porch read Harbor Market & Sporting Goods. Signs by the screened door read Fresh Espresso and Worms and Closed Until Spring.

Mailboxes farther up the road indicated homes tucked back in the trees. The only vehicle to be seen, however, was hers. With no sign of life in either direction, she was about to pull out her cell phone to check the address with Phil Granger when she remembered what the woman had said.

She’d warned her to keep an open mind when she saw the place. To look for possibilities.

The potential goose chase was also, apparently, a scavenger hunt.

A narrow driveway curved around the back of the building and disappeared down a slight hill. Thinking there might be a house or cottage beyond the gate blocking it, she grabbed the shoulder bag that held everything from animal crackers to a Zen meditation manual and gamely told her little boy they were going to look around while they waited for the person they were to meet to show up.

The damp breeze whipped around them, scattering leaves in their path as they left the car. With a glance toward the threatening sky, she was about to reconsider her plan when the relative quiet gave way to a squeak and the hard slam of a door.

Tyler froze.

Across twenty feet of gravel, she watched six feet two inches of broad-shouldered, purely rugged masculinity in a fisherman’s sweater and worn jeans cross the store’s porch and jog down its three steps.

“Sorry about that.” His apology came quickly, his voice as deep as the undercurrents in the distant water. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I keep forgetting to fix the spring.”

The breeze blew a little harder, rearranging the otherwise neat cut of his slightly overlong dark hair. He didn’t seem to notice the wind. Or the cold bite that came with it. All lean, athletic muscle, he strode toward them, his glance shifting between her and the child who’d smashed himself against her leg.

That glance turned questioning as he stopped six feet from where she’d rooted herself in the driveway.

“Are you Mrs. Linfield?”

Surprise colored the deep tones of his voice. Or maybe what she heard was disbelief. His pewter-gray eyes ran from the wedge of auburn hair skimming her shoulders, over the camel peacoat covering her black turtleneck and jeans and up from the toes of her low-heeled boots. His perusal was quick, little more than an impassive flick of his glance. Yet she had the unnerving feeling he’d imagined her every curve in the brief moments before she realized he was waiting for her to speak.

“I didn’t think anyone was here.” The admission came in a rush. “I didn’t see a car, so we were just going to look around—”

“I flew over. Floatplane,” he explained, hitching his head in the direction of the water. “It’s down at the marina.

“I’m Erik Sullivan.” Stepping closer, he extended his hand. His rugged features held strength, a hint of fearlessness. Or maybe it was boldness. Despite its lingering shadow, the square line of his jaw appeared recently shaved. He looked hard and handsome and when he smiled, faint though the expression was, he radiated a positively lethal combination of quiet command and casual ease. “I’m handling the sale of this property for my grandparents.”

“You’re a Realtor?”

“Actually, I build boats. I’m just taking care of this for them.”

Her hand had disappeared in his.

She could feel calluses at the base of his fingers. He worked with his hands. Built boats with them, he’d said. What kind, she had no idea. The white-gold Rolex on his thick wrist seemed to indicate he was successful at it, though. The words capable and accomplished quickly flashed in her mind, only to succumb to less definable impressions as she became aware of the heat of his palm, the strength in his grip and the deliberate way he held that strength in check.

What she felt mostly, though, was a wholly unexpected sense of connection when her eyes met his.

Everything inside her seemed to go still.

She’d experienced that sensation only once before; the first time Curt had taken her hand. It had been a fleeting thing, little more than an odd combination of awareness and ease that had come out of nowhere, but it had dictated the direction of her life from that moment on.

As if she’d just touched lightning, she jerked back, curling her fingers into her palm, and took a step away. The void left in her heart by the loss of her husband already felt huge. It seemed to widen further as she instinctively rejected the thought of any sort of connection to this man, imagined or otherwise. Because of what she’d learned since Curt’s death, it was entirely possible that what she’d thought she’d had with her husband—the closeness, the love, the very rightness of the life they’d shared—hadn’t existed at all.

Having struggled with that awful possibility for over a year, she wasn’t about to trust what she’d felt now.

Conscious of the quick pinch of Erik’s brow, totally embarrassed by her abrupt reaction, she rested her hand on her son’s shoulder. Just as she would have introduced her little guy, the big man gave the child a cautious smile and motioned her toward the building.

“The main entrance to the living quarters is around back, but we can go through the market. Come on and I’ll show you around.”

Whatever he thought of her reaction to him, he seemed gentleman enough to ignore it.

She chose to ignore it, too.

Living quarters, he’d said?

“There isn’t a separate house here?” she asked, urging Tyler forward as the sky started to leak.

“There’s plenty of room to build if that’s what a buyer wants to do. The parcel is a little over three acres. Living on premises has certain advantages, though.” He checked the length of his strides, allowing them to keep up. “Shortens the commute.”

If she smiled at that, Erik couldn’t tell, not with the fall of cinnamon hair hiding her profile as she ushered the boy ahead of her.

Mrs. Rory Linfield wasn’t at all what he had expected. But then, the new owner of the building next door to Merrick & Sullivan Yachting hadn’t given him much to go on. He wasn’t sure what the elegant and refined wife of Harry Hunt was doing with the building Harry had apparently given her as a wedding gift—other than providing Erik and his business partner an interesting diversion with her total renovation of its interior. It had been his offhand comment to Cornelia, though, about a place he’d be glad to sell if Harry was still into buying random pieces of property, that had led him to describe the property his grandparents had vacated nearly a year ago.

The conversation had prompted a call from Cornelia yesterday. That was when she’d told him she knew of a widow in immediate need of a home and a means to produce an income.

When she’d said widow, he’d immediately pictured someone far more mature. More his parents’ age. Fifty-something. Sixty, maybe. With graying hair. Or at least a few wrinkles. The decidedly polished, manicured and attractive auburn-haired woman skeptically eyeing the sign for Fresh Espresso and Worms as she crossed the wood-planked porch didn’t look at all like his idea of a widow, though. She looked more like pure temptation. Temptation with pale skin that fairly begged to be touched, a beautiful mouth glossed with something sheer pink and shiny, and who was easily a decade younger than his own thirty-nine years.

He hadn’t expected the cute little kid at all.

He opened the door, held it for them to pass, caught her soft, unexpectedly provocative scent. Following them inside, he had to admit that, mostly, he hadn’t anticipated the sucker punch to his gut when he’d looked from her very kissable mouth to the feminine caution in her big brown eyes. Or the quick caution he’d felt himself when she’d pulled back and her guarded smile had slipped into place.

What he’d seen in those dark and lovely depths had hinted heavily of response, confusion and denial.

A different sort of confusion clouded her expression now.

He’d turned on the store’s fluorescent overheads when he’d first arrived. In those bright industrial lights, he watched her look from the rows of bare, utilitarian grocery shelving to the empty dairy case near the checkout counter and fix her focus on a kayak suspended from the ceiling above a wall of flotation devices. Sporting goods still filled the back shelves. After the original offer to buy the place fully stocked had fallen through, he’d donated the grocery items to a local food bank. That had been months ago.

The little boy tugged her hand. “Why is the boat up there, Mom?”

“For display. I think,” she replied quietly, like someone talking in a museum.

“How come?”

“So people will notice it.” She pointed to a horizontal rack on the back wall that held three more. Oars and water skis stood in rows on either side. “It’s easier to see than those back there.”

With his neck craned back, his little brow pinched.

“Are we gonna live in a store?”

“No, sweetie. We’re just...” From the uncertainty in her expression, it seemed she wasn’t sure what they were doing at the moment. “Looking,” she concluded.

Her glance swung up. “You said this belongs to your grandparents?”

“They retired to San Diego,” he told her, wondering what her little boy was doing now as the child practically bent himself in half looking under a display case. There were no small children in his family. The yachting circles he worked and played in were strictly adult. Any exposure he had to little kids came with whatever family thing his business partner could talk him into attending with him. Since he managed to limit that to once every couple of years, he rarely gave kids any thought. Not anymore.

“They’d had this business for over fifty years,” he explained, his attention already back on why the property was for sale. “It was time they retired.”

The delicate arches of her eyebrows disappeared beneath her shiny bangs. “Fifty years?”

“Fifty-three, actually. They’d still be running the place if Gramps hadn’t hurt his back changing one of the light fixtures.” Erik had told him he’d change the tube himself. Just as he’d helped with other repairs they’d needed over the years. But the Irish in John Sullivan tended to make him a tad impatient at times. “He can be a little stubborn.”

“Did he fall?”

“He just twisted wrong,” he told her, conscious of the quick concern in her eyes, “but it took a couple of months for him to be able to lift anything. Grandma picked up as much slack as she could, but those two months made them decide it was time to tackle the other half of their bucket list while they could both still get around.”

Her uncertainty about her surroundings had yet to ease. Despite her faint smile, that hesitation marked her every step as she moved farther in, checking out the plank-board floor, the single checkout counter, the old, yellowing acoustic tiles on the ceiling. Watching her, he couldn’t help but wonder how she would do on a ladder, changing four-foot-long fluorescent tubes in a fixture fourteen feet off the floor. Or how she’d wrestle the heavy wood ladder up from the basement in the first place.

Since Cornelia had specifically asked if the business was one a woman could handle on her own, he’d also thought his prospective buyer would be a little sturdier.

Rather than indulge the temptation to reassess what he could of her frame, hidden as it was by her coat, anyway, he focused on just selling the place.

“The original building was single story,” he told her, since the structure itself appeared to have her attention. “When they decided to add sporting goods, they incorporated the living area into the store, built on in back and added the upstairs.

“The business is seasonal,” he continued when no questions were forthcoming. “Since summer and fall recreation provided most of their profit, they always opened in April and closed the first of October. That gave them the winter for vacations and time to work on their projects.”

It was a good, solid business. One that had allowed his grandparents to support their family—his dad, his aunts. He told her that, too, because he figured that would be important to a woman who apparently needed to support a child on her own. What he didn’t mention was that after the first sale fell through, the only other offers made had been too ridiculously low for his grandparents to even consider.

Because there were no other reasonable offers in sight, he wasn’t about to let them pass up Cornelia’s offer to buy it—if this particular woman was interested in owning it. He hadn’t even balked at the terms of the sale that required his agreement to help get the business back up and running.

Selling the place would rid him of the obligation to keep it up. Even more important than ending the time drain of weekly trips from Seattle to make sure nothing was leaking, broken or keeping the place from showing well was that his grandparents had been the last of his relatives in this part of the sound. Once the place was sold, he had no reason to ever come back.

Considering all the plans he’d once had for his own life there, nearly all of which had failed rather spectacularly, that suited him just fine.

His potential project had yet to ask a single question. He, however, had a few of his own.

“Have you owned a business before?”

He thought the query perfectly reasonable.

She simply seemed to find it odd.

“Never,” she replied, sounding as if she’d never considered running one, either. Still holding her little boy’s hand, she set her sights on the open door behind the L-shaped checkout counter. “Is that the way to the living area?”

He told her it was, that it led into a foyer.

Wanting a whole lot more information than she’d just given, he followed her with the child looking back at him over the shoulder of his puffy blue jacket.

The instant he met the child’s hazel eyes, the boy ducked his head and turned away.

With a mental shrug, Erik focused on the mom. She looked very much like the spa-and-Pilates type married to some of his high-end clients. Yet the car she drove was a total contrast—economical, practical. “Are you into outdoor sports?”

“We have bicycles,” came her distracted reply.

“Mountain or street?”

“Street.”

“For racing or touring?”

“Just for regular riding.”

“Do you know anything about mountain bikes?”

“Is there a difference?”

That she’d had to ask had him moving on. “What about hiking or camping?”

“Not so much.”

“Water sports? Do you windsurf, paddleboard, water ski?”

“Not really.”

He took that as a no. “Do you know anything about sporting goods?”

Clearly on a mission of her own, she answered his last query with a puzzled glance and moved past the stairs, one set leading up, the other down, and into a spacious living room.

The empty downstairs space was interrupted only by the kitchen’s long island near one end and anchored by a ceiling-high stone fireplace at the other. The bare walls all bore a pristine coat of latte-colored paint.

It was toward the kitchen that she motioned. “Mind if I look back there?”

Not at all pleased with her responses, he told her he didn’t and watched her head for the glass-faced cupboards.

Her sandy-haired son darted straight to one of the large picture windows lining the opposite wall.

“Have you ever worked retail?” he asked her.

“Never,” she replied once more.

“Wow, Mom. Look! It has a park!”

Rory’s glance cut to where her little boy pressed his nose to the wide window near the fireplace. A large meadow stretched to a forest of pines. Between the dawning potential in the place and the feel of the tall, decidedly distracting male frowning at her back, she hadn’t noticed the expansive and beautiful view until just then.

What she noticed now was her son’s grin.

That guileless smile added another plus to her escalating but decidedly cautious interest in what surrounded her. “It sure does, sweetie. But stay with me. Okay?”

Yanking his unzipped jacket back over the shoulder of his Spider-Man sweatshirt, he hurried to her, his little voice dropping as he glanced to the man who remained on the other side of the white oak island.

“Does he live here?” he asked, pointing behind him.

She curled her hand over his fingers. “It’s not polite to point,” she murmured. “And no. He lives somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“But it’s a long way, huh?”

“Why do you say that?”

“’Cause he said he came in a plane. It floated here.”

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the big man’s brow lower in confusion.

“He came by floatplane,” she clarified, easing confusion for them both. “It’s a plane that can land on water. It flies just like any other.”

“Oh.” Tyler screwed up his nose, little wheels spinning. “Why didn’t he make him a boat?”

He remembered what Erik had said he did for a living.

There wasn’t much Tyler heard that he ever forgot. She’d come to regard the ability, however, as a double-edged sword. While her bright little boy absorbed information like an industrial-strength sponge, there were things she knew he’d overheard that she truly hoped he’d forgotten by now. Things certain relatives had said that had confused him at the time, hurt him and made her even more fiercely protective of him than she’d been even before he’d lost his dad.

Since no response came from the other side of the island, she told Tyler it was possible that Mr. Sullivan did have a boat, but that it was really none of their business. Right now, they needed to look at the rest of the house.

There were certain advantages to a five-year-old’s short attention span. Already thrilled by the “park,” Tyler promptly forgot his interest in the boat their guide did or did not have and, like her, poked his head into the pantry, the mudroom and downstairs closets.

There was no denying his attraction to the cubbyhole he found in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Her own interest, however, she held in check. A person couldn’t be disappointed if she didn’t get her expectations up to begin with.

The property was nothing she would have considered even a week ago. It had none of the little neighborhood atmosphere she’d looked for. None of the coziness she’d craved for herself and her son. It felt too remote. Too foreign. Too...unexpected.

Her option was an unknown apartment in an as yet undetermined area near a job she still had to find.

Her hopes rose anyway, her mind racing as Erik led her back down from the three bedrooms and two baths that would be more than adequate for her and her son.

Phil had said to keep an open mind about this place.

Despite its drawbacks, it was, indeed, full of possibilities. But it wasn’t just Tyler’s surprisingly positive reactions or the idyllic views from some of the windows that tempered her misgivings. What Phil hadn’t mentioned was that this wouldn’t just be a place to live. It would be her source of income.

She could have her own business. Be her own boss. That meant the means to support her son would be dependent on her, not on someone else with obligations or agendas of their own. It would be up to her if she succeeded or failed. And while the thought brought as much anxiety as anticipation, mostly it brought a surprising hint of reprieve.

She could start over here. She could finally, truly move on.

By the time they’d worked their way back downstairs, Tyler knew which room he wanted to be his. He wasn’t quite so sure what to make of their tour guide, though. Every time he’d looked over his shoulder to see if Erik was still with them, he’d moved closer to her or tightened his grip on her hand.

Considering the man’s easy self-assurance, it struck her as odd that he appeared equally undecided about Tyler. Because he’d yet to say a word to her son, she wasn’t sure if he simply didn’t know how to relate to small children or if he was one of those people, like her father-in-law, who felt a child was to be seen and not heard and otherwise ignored until they became of an age to engage in meaningful conversation.

Maternal instincts on alert, the moment they reached the foyer, she asked Tyler to see if he could spot deer in the woods from the living room window. He was barely out of earshot when she felt Erik Sullivan’s disconcerting presence beside her.

“Your son seems to like the place,” he pointed out, joining her by the mahogany newel post. “What about you? You haven’t said much.”

Erik would admit to not being particularly adept at deciphering women, even when they did speak. No often meant yes. Don’t often mean go ahead. Nothing always meant something, though finding out what that something was could be akin to pulling an anchor out of dried cement. But this woman hadn’t given him so much as a hint about any conclusion she might have drawn.

“Do you have any questions?” he prompted.

“When did you say the store usually opened for business?”

“April. The first or second week.”

She lifted her chin, her thoughts apparently coming in no particular order.

“Phil Granger said you know I can’t qualify for a mortgage just now.”

“We’re aware of that,” he assured her.

“Were your grandparents planning to carry the mortgage themselves?”

“A second party will carry it. So,” he prodded, “you’re interested, then?”

She wanted to smile. He could see the expression trying to light the flecks of bronze in her deep brown eyes. She just wouldn’t let it surface.

“That depends on what they want for it. And the terms. How much are they asking?”

He should have been relieved by her interest. Would have been had she been even remotely qualified to take on the store.

“That’s...negotiable.”

“But they must have a price in mind.”

“Do you have any business experience?”

It was as clear to Rory as the doubt carved in his handsome face that he had serious concerns about her ability to make a go of the store his grandparents were selling. Unflattering as his obvious skepticism was, she couldn’t fault him for it. They had run the business for decades. They’d probably poured their hearts and souls into the place that had defined them for years. This man hadn’t had to tell her for her to know how much the store and their home had meant to them. The shelving in the spare room upstairs—his grandma’s sewing room, he’d said—had been built by his dad. The beautiful, lacquered banister beside them had been lathed by his grandfather.

He’d casually mentioned those things in passing. With his big hand splayed over the grapefruit-size mahogany ball atop the newel post, his thumb absently rubbing its shiny finish, she realized this place mattered to him, too.

Her only concern now was that he trust her with it.

She took a step closer, lowering her voice so Tyler couldn’t overhear.

“It’s not that I’ve never had a job,” she informed him quietly. “I was a file clerk while I worked on an associate’s degree. After that, I spent four years as a legal secretary before Tyler came along. I went back to work transcribing documents at another law firm ten months ago. I’d still be doing that if they hadn’t let me go because the firm merged and they cut my job.”

Skipping over the five-year gap in her résumé, she aimed for the heart of his concern. “I’ve just never owned a business. Or sold anything other than whatever the PTA was selling to raise money for school projects.

“I’ll admit that when I got here,” she hurried on, hoping he’d overlook that last part, “the last thing I expected was a store. But you said it’s a good, solid business. If your grandparents didn’t usually open it until April, that would give me four months to figure out what needs to be done and how to do it.” All she had to do was get past the daunting little fact that she had no idea where to start.

“Look,” she murmured, too tired after too many sleepless nights to care how much of herself she exposed. “I’ll admit I don’t know a...a...”

“A bivy sack from a bobber?” he suggested.

“Exactly. And until now,” she said, muscling on, “I’d honestly never thought about owning anything like this. The only sports I know anything about are tennis and golf.” And that was only because her husband had wanted her to fit in at the club. She was so not the rugged, outdoors type. “But I’ll do whatever I have to do to provide for my son.

“This could be a good place to raise him. He could help me in the store. I think he’d love that. He’d even have his own park,” she pointed out, thinking of how badly she wanted them gone from the exclusive community that had come to feel like a prison. She’d hoped for a normal neighborhood, but breathing room would be a good thing, too.

“I’ll never be able to replace the security he had before his dad died, but it’s up to me to give him as much stability as I can.” Her voice fell with her final admission. “I think I can do that here.”

Her last words were as soft as the utter conviction in her eyes. Erik saw a plea there, too. Quiet. A little raw. And a lot uncomfortable for him to witness in the moments before he glanced to where her son seemed to be counting something at the window.

He’d been about that age—five or so, if he had to guess—when his grandfather had put him to work stacking canned goods on shelves. After that, he’d practically begged to come over so he could help.

He’d once thought this would be a good place to raise a child, too.

“There’s one other thing,” she admitted, her voice still quiet. “Tyler has never lived anywhere other than in the house we’re leaving. We have to be out in three days. Until the job thing happened, I’d thought we’d be settled in our new house well before Christmas. He didn’t have a very good one last year and it would be really nice to find a place that I don’t have to move him from again.” Practicality, or maybe it was weariness, kept her tone utterly matter-of-fact. “So how much is it?” she asked. “And how do I make this happen?”

He didn’t know which struck him more just then: her absolute determination to do whatever she had to do to care for her child or the naked vulnerability lurking in the depths of her eyes.

As if she knew what he saw, her glance hit the floor.

Her determination to hide that vulnerability pulled at something unfamiliar deep in his chest, even as he steeled himself against it.

He hadn’t been told how she’d been widowed. Or how long she and her child had been on their own. He had no idea if her marriage had been as good as his parents’, as much a failure as his own had been or some form of tolerable in-between. He knew only from what she’d said about her child’s loss that it was entirely possible she still grieved the man she’d lost, too.

He wasn’t a particularly sensitive or sympathetic man. Or so he’d been informed by his ex-wife and certain of the arm candy who trolled the circles he moved in. But he wasn’t at all comfortable being privy to something so personal. It disturbed him even more to find himself wondering what it would be like to mean that much to a woman.

Equally unsettling was the fact that an hour ago, she hadn’t even known the store existed. “I can’t give you the terms.”

She hadn’t a clue what she was getting into.

He knew for a fact that he was no longer comfortable with what he’d agreed to do himself.

“My agreement with Cornelia...Mrs. Hunt,” he corrected, “is that she or her assistant will discuss those details with you.”

Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he extracted one of the same pearlescent cards Phil had given her yesterday. “Did you take the ferry or do the loop through Tacoma?”

“Ferry.”

“Which one?”

“Southworth. It lands at Fauntleroy.”

By land or water, either way it would take her a while to get back to Seattle.

“Then I’ll give you directions to their office from the dock. I have another meeting in Seattle at noon.” Card in hand, he pulled his cell phone from another pocket and keyed in a number.

With the instrument to his ear, he turned away, started to pace.

Rory glanced at her watch. It was already after eleven o’clock.

She was about to mention that when she remembered his mode of transport was infinitely faster than hers. He was already into his conversation with Phil, anyway. She couldn’t hear what he said, though. She knew only that he looked oddly resigned when he turned a minute later to inform her that Phil wanted to talk to her.

By the time the woman who had appeared out of nowhere yesterday told her everything was ready to proceed with the sale and confirmed their meeting that afternoon, Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing could possibly be as simple as Phil had made it sound—and that Erik Sullivan had more of a role in the sale than anyone was letting on.

Chapter Two

The directions Rory had been given led her to the Ballard neighborhood in northwestern Seattle and a weathered, two-story redbrick building much like the others along an old business section of the waterfront. What distinguished the structure was the trail of plaster dust and debris leading from the open front door to the Wolf Construction Dumpster at the curb.

Inside, sheets of milky construction plastic masked two stories of interior scaffolding and what appeared to be something grand under construction. The filmy barriers did little to deaden the occasional clatter and boom of interior demolition. The noise was muffled considerably, however, behind the closed door of the only completed space—an unexpectedly feminine and elegant ground floor corner conference room in shades of ivory and pale taupe with a view of a marina, Shilsole Bay and snowcapped Hurricane Ridge beyond.

The long banks of ivory-draped windows caught Tyler’s attention the moment they’d walked in. Rory had thought the boats in the inlet had drawn him. Until she noticed Erik.

A walkway ran behind the buildings. She could see him outside, pacing past the rows of windows, bare-masted sailboats bobbing in the background. Apparently oblivious to the chill, he had one hand in a front pocket of his jeans, his head down against the breeze as he talked on his cell phone.

He did not look happy.

Logic told her he could be talking about anything. But the unease joining her curiosity and uncertainty over this meeting made her fairly certain his scowl had something to do with her.

“We’re so glad you liked the place,” said Phil, leading her across the floor, the click of her heels on polished oak suddenly hushed by the pale blue Aubusson rug. “With everything so unsettled for you, we didn’t know if you’d see the advantages of taking on a business right now. Especially one that you might not ordinarily have considered.”

Wearing a cream blouse and slacks slung with a thin gold belt, the woman Rory met yesterday took her and Tyler’s coats and motioned to one of the Queen Anne chairs at the circular conference table. The light from the ornate crystal chandelier above it made the mahogany surface gleam like glass. “Cornelia did feel you’d consider it, though,” she added, “given your circumstances.”

“Which are very close to what mine were at one time,” came a voice from a small alcove.

A statuesque, elegantly mature lady in pale lavender cashmere emerged from the washroom, carrying roses she’d just freshened. Her silver-blond hair was coiled in a chic chignon at her nape. Diamonds glinted from her ears. The rock on her left hand, a huge pink diamond surrounded by a dozen of brilliant white, flashed in its platinum setting as she set the vase on a marble credenza with a quiet clink.

“Please pardon the mess out there, Rory. We’re a work in progress at the moment. I’m Cornelia Hunt,” she said, intent on putting her guest at ease as she held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Feeling a distinct connection to Alice after she’d slipped down the rabbit hole, Rory clasped the woman’s hand. She had dressed that morning in a casual black turtleneck and skinny denims to look at properties and apartments, not to meet well-dressed ladies in what could have passed for a drawing room in a palace.

“The pleasure’s mine,” she returned, fighting the urge to curtsy.

“You only met briefly, so I’ll officially introduce you to Felicity Granger. Phil is my assistant. She’s also an academic counselor at the university. She’s really rather brilliant at helping others with their life decisions, so I brought her in to help me with my work.” Her green eyes seemed to twinkle as she smiled. “What have you been told about the arrangements so far?”

“Hardly anything. The man who showed us around...Erik,” she identified, still aware of him pacing, “wouldn’t even give me the price.”

“I don’t doubt that you have questions,” Cornelia conceded. “I’ll have Phil start answering yours and explain the details while I get us some coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”

Rory told her coffee was fine, thank you. And that yes, cocoa for Tyler would be nice. Even as she spoke, she wasn’t at all sure what struck her as more incongruous just then: that Cornelia Fairchild Hunt, the very pleasant wife of a reportedly eccentric computer-genius billionaire, was getting her coffee. Or the mound of dingy canvas mail sacks piled beside a delicate French provincial writing desk.

On the desk’s surface, dozens of what appeared to be opened letters teetered in stacks.

Phil took the chair next to Rory. Seeing what had her attention, she adjusted her overlarge glasses and leaned toward her.

“There was an article in the Seattle Washtub recently about how Cornelia helped a young entrepreneur get the break she needed with her business. Ever since then, requests have poured in by email and snail mail for her in care of the newspaper and the offices of HuntCom asking for her help from other young women. And for them. Like you,” she explained. “The reporter who wrote the article said she’s bringing another sackful over this afternoon.”

“A reporter is part of this?”

“Don’t worry,” Phil hastily assured. “Cornelia wants to stay under the radar with her project and she trusts Shea Weatherby to help her with that. As for anyone else we might need to talk with, we only identify our clients to those directly involved in her situation.”

The assertion was hugely reassuring to Rory. She’d already supplied enough fodder for gossip in certain social circles to last a lifetime. Nearly every member of those circles would have sold their summer homes to mingle with a Hunt, too. But all that mattered to her just then was that this meeting was confidential. Her relationship with her in-laws was strained enough without word getting out and embarrassing them because their son’s widow apparently needed to be bailed out by strangers. For Tyler’s sake, she needed to make as few waves with them as possible.

Thinking about her in-laws reminded her that she needed to call them about Christmas.

“The volume of requests Cornelia is receiving,” Phil continued, mercifully sidetracking her from the stomach-knotting thought, “is why she needed to hire help. I just love what she’s doing.”

“I really am at a loss here,” Rory admitted. “What is she doing?”

“She’s being what the first woman she helped called her,” her assistant replied. “A fairy godmother.”

She had a fairy godmother?

“On to the details.” Phil pushed a pale blue folder toward her, the snowflake polish on her nails glittering. “If these terms are agreeable to you, Cornelia will purchase the property you saw from the owners and you will purchase it from her for the amount stated on line one. To keep everything legal and as simple as possible, your down payment will be one dollar. Your balance will be interest-free with the first payment due September first. You’ll have had five months of cash flow by then.”

Disbelief held Rory’s tone to nearly a whisper. The number couldn’t possibly be right. “The property has to be worth three times this.”

“Oh, it is. And that’s what Cornelia will pay the owners for it. But that’s your price. Of course, there is more to the sale.”

Ah, yes, Rory thought, unable to understand why Cornelia would take such a loss for her. The strings.

“Cornelia has added a few perks,” Phil chose to call them. “She believes the best route to success is to have a good adviser. Since it’s understandable that you’d know little about this particular business and since the Sullivan’s grandson is reasonably acquainted with it, she arranged for Erik to be your mentor for the next six months. He’ll help you with your inventory, suppliers, getting part-time help and whatever else it will take to get your new venture up and running.

“The two of you can determine how often you need to meet, but there will be a status meeting here once a month. Of course, I’m available to both of you together or individually at any time. At the end of the six months, if you’re on track with your business plan, Erik will have fulfilled his mentor agreement, and you’ll be on your own. All we ask,” she concluded, as if she’d rather expected the stunned silence coming from beside her, “is for your discretion in discussing the work we do here.”

Phil sat back, smiling.

Rory couldn’t seem to move.

Poof. Just like that. The property her little boy had fallen in love with that morning—and the business that came with it—could be hers.

The reality of it didn’t want to sink in. Yet even in her disbelief what registered most was that her new life included a man who she strongly suspected didn’t want to work with her at all.

“This Erik,” she said, caution competing with amazement as Cornelia joined them with a tray of tall porcelain mugs. “May I ask the terms of his agreement with you?”

Taking the chair on the opposite side of her, Cornelia passed mugs to her and Phil. “It’s nothing complicated. I just requested that he help you with the business if I buy the property for the Sullivans’ asking price.”

“But why did he agree to that?”

“Because he wants a decent price for his grandparents and I offered him one. He’s been taking care of the property for them, so I also imagine he’d like to be free of that responsibility. I don’t think he begrudges his grandparents his time. He sounds quite fond of them,” she offered, approval in the soft lines of her face. “But he’s a busy man.”

Rory remembered his strong, workingman’s hands, the calluses she’d felt brush her palm. Right behind the thought came the disquieting memory of what his touch had elicited. “He said he builds boats.”

“Oh, they’re more than boats. He and his business partner build world-class sailing sloops. Their boatworks is down past the marina, but their sales and rental office is next door. J.T., one of my stepsons,” she said, identifying Harry’s second oldest, “commissioned one from him years back. He said Erik is the only man he’d ever do business with on a handshake. If you knew my stepson, you’d know that respect for someone’s character doesn’t get any greater than that.”

Her carefully penciled eyebrows arched as she offered cream and sugar. “Did you find him disagreeable?”

Disturbing, yes. Disagreeable? She couldn’t honestly say they’d disagreed about anything. “No.”

“Are you not wanting help?”

Rory shook her head. She’d be a fool to turn it down. “I’m sure he has far more information about how the market is run than anything I can even begin to find on my own.”

The unguarded admission brought Cornelia’s smile back. “Then it’s a win-win for everyone.”

Baffled by the woman, more uncertain than she wanted to admit about her mentor, Rory touched the handle of her mug. “Please don’t think I’m not beyond grateful, Mrs. Hunt—”

“It’s Cornelia,” the woman said graciously.

“Cornelia,” Rory corrected. “But I’m having a hard time making sense of all this. I understand from Phil that you helped someone else when she needed it. But why do you want to help me like this?”

“Because I can,” she said simply. “My Harry gave me a ridiculously large amount of money for a wedding gift. Since I have the means, I decided to make it my mission to offer deserving young women a hand up when the going gets rough for them, or when they just need the right break.

“In your case,” she admitted, “I know all too well what it’s like to be financially strapped and the only parent. My first husband was a dear, but he left me in a real financial bind when he died. I had to sell my home, just as you’ve had to do. And I had to work hard to raise my girls.”

She gave Rory’s hand a pat, drew back her own. “From what we learned about you from your real estate agent—and other resources,” she admitted, making it clear she thoroughly vetted the recipients of her largesse, “I don’t doubt that you’ll do what you must to make it work. Erik has proven himself to be an excellent businessman,” she assured, as the opening door let in the back-up beep of a truck. “I’m sure you can trust him to help you succeed.

“Can’t she, Erik?” she asked the man himself as he walked in.

Seeming oblivious to the way his presence suddenly filled the space, much less to the faint tension leaking from him in waves, Cornelia raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“Can’t she what?” he replied.

“Trust your business judgment.”

“It hasn’t let me down so far.”

The disarming smile he gave Cornelia and Phil seemed to come easily. The wattage, however, lowered considerably when it settled on her. Having met her eyes long enough to make her heart jerk, Rory watched him lower his glance to the older woman’s coffee.

“Mind if I get some of that?”

“Not at all. The pot is fresh.”

His heavy footsteps muffled by the carpet, Erik headed for the coffeemaker in the alcove. Behind him he could hear the elegant matron and the bookish blonde he’d met last week explaining that the paperwork for Rory’s mortgage would be handled at a title company Monday afternoon. Since he had power of attorney for the sale for his grandparents, he and Cornelia had already agreed to take care of their business there that morning.

The Hunt name tended to eliminate delays.

He could hear the low, soft tones of Rory’s responses, but he had no idea what she said. He was too busy telling himself that the next six months wouldn’t be as bad as he’d feared.

They’d probably be worse.

He didn’t question the sincerity of the rather shell-shocked-looking young woman reading the papers in front of her. Her determination to do what she had to do for her child had been nearly tangible to him. But her impulsiveness had raised about a dozen red flags.

Women spent more time making up their mind about buying a pair of shoes than she had about taking on something that would require a nearly 24/7 commitment. Especially at first. He knew. He ate, slept and breathed his own business. And that business was something he’d wanted since he was a kid. She’d only wanted the store since she’d learned about it that morning. She’d even admitted to knowing nothing about what she’d agreed to get herself into—which meant she’d take far more time than he’d planned on devoting to the care and feeding of her education.

It was that last part that he’d explained to his business partner when he’d called a while ago to tell him he’d still be tied up for a while. Pax had said not to worry about what he’d committed himself to. He’d cover for him if he needed time during the day to work with the store’s new owner.

Though they’d never talked about the reasons for it, Pax knew how badly Erik wanted to be out from under that property. And why. They’d grown up together. Pax had been his best man. He’d also gone through the ugliness of his divorce with him by letting him take on however many projects it took to keep him too exhausted to think about anything else.

It had been seven years since the demise of his eight-year marriage, and Erik had long since recovered from what he had no intention of ever repeating again, but he already felt guilt about the time he’d be taking away from work. Especially with an April delivery date on their present work under construction, another client waiting for his final blueprints and two others hovering in the wings to get on their list.

Then there were their evening commitments with past and future clients. The holiday party season had just started—and Merrick & Sullivan Yachting never missed a business or philanthropic commitment.

With the women still talking, and feeling the tension creep up his back, he took his filled mug to the nearest window and rubbed at his neck. He’d do what he had to do where the woman behind him was concerned, and hope she wasn’t the sort who required a lot of hand-holding to come up to speed. Heaven knew he wasn’t a coddling sort of guy.

Erik took a sip of the coffee that was infinitely better than the sludge he and his partner had been brewing since their secretary had gone on maternity leave. It didn’t help the situation that Mrs. Rory Linfield had a son. He’d made it a point over the past several years to avoid women with children. They tended to want more of a commitment than he was interested in. But that deliberate lack of exposure left him feeling less than capable when it came to anyone under four feet tall.

With his pretty little project deep in conversation, he looked out over the blue-tarped sailboats yawing in their slips. He and Pax had pulled their rental fleet out of the water last month, but farther up the shoreline, he could see the point that anchored the rest of their operation: the boatyard where they stored their boats over winter and the boatworks where they built their custom sailing yachts, one sloop at a time.

“How come that boat has a Santa on it?”

The little boy had walked over from two windows down. Now, with his chin barely clearing the windowsill, the sandy-haired child pointed to a row of decorated sloops in the marina. Several had colored lights anchored fore and aft from the mainsail mast. One had a blow-up Santa at the helm.

Erik gave a shrug. “Some people just like to decorate their boats this time of year.”

“How come?”

“Because they entertain on them,” he said, thinking of the cocktail parties he and his partner had hosted on their respective sloops for their clients over the years. They had one scheduled next week. “Or maybe they’re going to be in one of the boat parades.” The floating parades were legend around the sound during the holidays.

The little boy’s brow furrowed. Digesting what he’d been told, he said nothing else. For about five seconds, anyway.

“Do you have a boat?”

“I do.”

“Do you decorate it?”

“I have.”

“Do you put a Santa on it?”

“No.”

“Oh,” the child said.

He took another sip of coffee, waited for another question. When none was forthcoming, Erik tried to focus on the conversation behind him.

The small voice immediately cut in.

“I’m glad your house has a fireplace. So Santa can come down,” Tyler explained, still looking out the window. “Mom said he can visit without one, but it’s easier when he has a chimney.”

It took a moment for the boy’s conversational leap to make sense. Apparently since Santa was on his mind, any context was fair game.

“I’ve heard that about chimneys, too,” he assured him. “And the house you saw isn’t mine. It’s my grandparents’.”

The distinction apparently didn’t matter.

“We have a fireplace in our house. But we didn’t have a tree last time for him to put presents under.” The small voice sounded utterly matter-of-fact. “Mom said this year won’t be sad. We get a tree no matter what.”

His mom had mentioned that he hadn’t had a very good Christmas last year. Sad, the child had just called it. Yet Erik didn’t let himself consider why that had been. Telling himself that her personal business was none of his, he murmured a distracted, “That’s good,” to her son and focused on the only business of hers he needed to be interested in. The store.

Cornelia had asked for his presence in case Rory had questions for him. He figured now was as good a time as any to see what those concerns might be.

The three females at the table glanced up as he approached.

It was Rory’s dark eyes that he met.

“Is there anything you want to ask me about the property?”

Her shell-shocked look had yet to fade. With her ringless hand at the base of her throat, she slowly shook her head. “I don’t even know where to start right now.”

“Make a list as things occur to you,” he told her. “I’ll come by the market next week and we can go over it.

“The sale is being expedited,” he told her, knowing now that part of the appeal of his grandparents’ home, for her son, anyway, had been the fireplace his own family had gathered around at Christmas. “You can move in whenever you’re ready. I’ll check my schedule and Phil can set us up with a day and time next week to go over inventory.”

He set his coffee on the table with a decisive clink and pulled his business card from his pocket. Walking around the table to give it to her, he watched her rise. As she did, his glance slid over what her coat had hidden earlier. The long black turtleneck she wore skimmed her feminine curves, molded the sweet shape of her hips.

She had the body of a dancer. Long, lithe and sexy as hell.

Masking his misgivings about having to deal with her, feeling them mount by the minute, he ignored the vague tightening in his gut. “Do you need help moving in?”

“No. I’m... No,” Rory repeated, hating how flustered she felt. “But thank you.” The last thing she wanted was to impose on this man. Considering what he’d been asked to do for her, she’d be obligated enough to him as it was. “I’d planned to be out Monday, so I’ve already arranged for movers.”

She pushed back her bangs, revealing the pinch of her brow. “You really don’t mind if I take things over before the sale closes?”

“You said you want to be settled before Christmas.” He assumed now that that desire had something to do with putting up a tree. “The earlier you start, the sooner you can be.”

Rory swallowed. Hard.

“Thank you.”

He held out his card. “My office and cell numbers are on here. Call me if something comes up. I’ll leave a key under the rock by the back porch. You’ll get a full set at closing.” His fingers brushed hers. Her skin felt cool to him, soft, and though he was trying not to notice anything in particular about her, he could have sworn he felt her trembling.

Without looking up, she palmed his card and clasped both hands in front of her.

“You’re sure you’re covered on the move?” he asked

“I’m positive. I arranged everything a couple of weeks ago.”

Standing as close as he was, he caught the tremor in her breath as she eased it out. He didn’t doubt she felt overwhelmed with all that was happening for her. Yet she managed to maintain the composure that had her graciously assuring Cornelia that she truly needed nothing else as far as help was concerned. Something about that composure seemed practiced to him, though. It was as if she’d found herself in overwhelming or uncertain situations before and wasn’t about to let anyone see how unsettled she really was.

She wouldn’t look at him again. She seemed to know what he’d seen, and felt totally embarrassed being so exposed. A huge burden was being lifted from her slender shoulders, but she wasn’t letting herself feel the relief of that weight. It appeared that admitting the scope of that relief would be admitting how truly desperate she’d begun to feel. So she just kept it all in, as if that was what she’d become accustomed to doing anyway, and turned to the women.

With a choked little laugh, she said she had no idea how to thank them.

Leaving her to figure it out, he looked to the matriarch running the show, thanked her for the coffee and headed for more familiar territory.

He’d given his word that he’d help. And he would. He never promised anything he didn’t intend to deliver. But when he showed up for the meeting Phil arranged for him with Rory the following Wednesday, he discovered something about his charge that he hadn’t anticipated.

The young widow with the sweet, sharp little boy might have looked as fragile as sea foam, but she had a stubborn streak as wide as Puget Sound.

Chapter Three

Erik hesitated at the store’s front door. For years he’d simply walked in when the business had been open. After his grandparents had moved, he’d let himself in with his key. Since the sale had closed two days ago, he no longer had the right to come and go as he pleased from a place that had been part of his life for as long as he could remember.

The odd sense of having been displaced lingered as he rapped his knuckles on the frame of the screen door, and promptly disappeared the instant the inside door swung open. Even with her pretty features schooled into a smile of greeting, the unease in Rory’s guarded expression made him suspect she was already having second thoughts about what she’d taken on.

Or so he was thinking when she let him in and his glance cut from the black hoodie and yoga pants molding her curves to the furniture behind her.

It looked as if every possession she owned sat piled in the interior of the market. Bedroom sets, tables, chairs, boxes.

“You said you didn’t need any help moving in.”

Good morning to you, too, Rory thought. “I didn’t think I did,” she said, stepping back for him to pass.

Deliberately overlooking the accusation shadowing his rugged features, she crossed her arms over her hoodie and the teal turtleneck and thermal undershirt layered beneath it. She wanted to believe her shiver had more to do with the chill in the large space than with the big man in the waffle-weave pullover and charcoal cargo pants. After all, the thermometer by the dairy case did read forty-nine degrees.

The man should wear a coat, she insisted to herself. It was easily ten degrees colder outside.

She turned on her heel to lead him inside where it was warmer. “The college kids I hired were only available long enough to drive the U-Haul over and unload it into the market,” she explained, heading between the packing boxes that formed an aisle to the interior door. “It wasn’t until we got here that they told me they wouldn’t have time to carry everything to the rooms. They did take one of the beds upstairs, though.” The thud of heavy hiking boots echoed behind her. In running shoes, her footsteps barely made a squeak. “A mattress, anyway,” she qualified. “And a box of bedding.” That had been huge.

Spending the past couple of nights on a hard floor would have guaranteed even less sleep than she usually managed. Even with a reasonably comfortable place to rest, she’d spent most of both nights trying not to disturb Tyler and listening to the building’s unfamiliar creaks and groans while hoping to heaven she could make this store work.

“They’ll come back to finish sometime next week,” she continued, “so I’ve been taking in what I can by myself. Tyler’s helping.” Boxes too heavy to carry she’d emptied one armload at a time. The method wasn’t the most efficient, but she now had one bathroom in order and the kitchen organized, except for the table and chairs. The old refectory table weighed a ton. She knew—she’d tried to move it last night.

She chafed her arms along her sleeves, winced a little when she rubbed a spot above the elbow that now sported the bruise she’d earned in the attempt. She had a matching one on the back of her shoulder. No longer hearing Erik’s footfalls, she glanced around to see that he had stopped.

Across ten feet of worn plank flooring, she saw his dark eyebrows merge. “Isn’t the furnace working?”

“It’s working just fine.”

“Then why is it so cold in here?”

“Because I’m not heating this big space until I have to. Fuel’s expensive. By the way,” she added, gratitude slipping into her voice, “thank you for having the tank filled. You saved me from running out of oil.” She’d always had electric heat before. Not accustomed to an oil furnace, she hadn’t realized the need for fuel until the man who’d performed the building inspection Sunday had showed her the tank and pointed out the gauge.

“The driver of the truck wouldn’t leave an invoice,” she told him. “So if you’ll tell me what I owe you, I’ll give you a check.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No,” he insisted, “you don’t. Just think of it as a move-in present.”

He obviously considered the matter settled. There seemed no doubt of that as he turned away to ponder the height and breadth of the obstacles blocking his view of the back of the store.

As appreciative as she was for his thoughtfulness, she couldn’t accept his gift.

“Look.” Hugging her arms a little tighter, she stepped in front of him. “I’m already not sure how I’ll repay you for helping me get to know the store. I know you agreed to do it to help your grandparents sell this place,” she conceded, which meant his benevolence definitely wasn’t personal, “but I’d rather not be any more obligated to you than I already am. Or will be,” she qualified, because other than make her acutely aware of his reluctant and very male presence, he hadn’t done anything yet. “Okay?”

For a moment, he said nothing. He just let his deceptively easy glance slip over the quiet determination in her eyes before he headed to the checkout counter.

“Then don’t accept it as a gift. Accept it because I’d rather work out here with heat.”

Confusion preempted further defense. “I thought we were going to go over the inventory.”

“That’s the plan.”

He carried a briefcase. A rather hefty one of scarred butterscotch leather and straps with buckles that had far more character than the sleek, unscuffed ones carried by other men she knew. As he set it on the scratched counter, she could see his burnished initials, worn shiny in places, above the equally worn lock. A section of stitching on the side looked new, as if it had recently been repaired. The case was old, she thought. It had history. And part of that history seemed to say that he’d rather keep and care for what he had than replace it.

Not appreciating how he’d dismissed her attempt to establish an understanding, she didn’t bother to wonder why she found that so appealing.

“I thought we’d work where it’s already warm. Inside,” she pointed out, ever so reasonably. “We can sit at the island and go over the books in there.”

“I meant the physical inventory. The stuff that’s on the shelves and in the bins back there.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “I have a printout of what came with the sale, but those items have been sitting around for a year. You’ll want to discount some of what you have and replace it with new merchandise. Things like sinkers, bobbers and leaders are fine, but creels and some of the stock that isn’t packaged looks shopworn.”

Rory hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

“Fishing gear,” he explained, apparently sensing that.

Undaunted, she picked up a couple of the boxes from the cracked surface. She’d already decided the old laminate needed to go. “Then we’ll work here at the counter.”

The boxes had been emptied, Erik realized when she easily lifted two marked Dishes from where his grandfather had once kept displays of bug repellent and sunglasses. She removed two more, adding them to the only space available without blocking either doorway: the tops of three tall stacks of red-and-green bins marked Christmas.

She had to stretch to get them there. Jerking his glance from the enticing curve of her backside, he reached past her.

“Let me get that.”

“Already have it,” she insisted, and having placed the boxes, turned right into him.

Rock had more give to it.

The thought occurred vaguely as she bumped into his chest. Promptly bouncing back, she gasped a breath when his quick grip tightened on her upper arms. Her heart had barely slammed against her ribs when he pulled her forward to keep her from hitting the bins behind her and bringing the empty boxes down on their heads.

The freshness of soap and sea air clung to him. With her pulse scrambling, his grip tight on her bruise, she had no idea why the scents even registered. Her hand shot up, covering the back of his where it curved over the tender spot on her arm.

The pressure of his fingers eased.

With their bodies inches apart, she went as still as stone. Or maybe he froze first. She just knew that one moment she’d been intent on doing whatever she needed to do to make it clear that she wouldn’t waste his time, and the next, the tension in his body and the warmth of his hands had seeped through to her skin, making her conscious of little more than...him.

Erik’s eyes narrowed on hers an instant before she ducked her head. Slacking his grip, he dropped his hands. There’d been no mistaking the way she’d winced when he’d grabbed her.

Without thinking, he reached toward her again, touched the back of her hand where it now covered where his had been.

He hadn’t thought he’d grabbed her that hard.

“Are you okay?”

At the concern in his voice, the caution in his touch, her head came back up. “I’m fine.” Wanting to convince them both, she smiled. “Really.”

His brow pinched as he drew his hand away once more.

Rory’s breath slithered out. That small contact had been far too brief to elicit the loss she felt when he stepped back. Yet that sense of loss existed, sinking deeper into her chest with every heartbeat—unexpected, unwanted and feeling far too threatening under his quiet scrutiny.

A certain numbness had protected her since she’d lost what had felt like the other half of herself. Yet, as with the first time this man had touched her, something about him scraped at the edges of that barrier, made her conscious of things she truly didn’t want to consider.

Out of nowhere, the need to be held sprang to mind. It was such a simple thing, so basic that she’d never truly considered it until it had been found and suddenly lost—that need for security, comfort, a sense of oneness. But she knew how rare it was to find that sense of belonging, and the need didn’t feel simple at all. Not when she realized she was actually wondering what it would feel like to be folded against Erik’s broad, undeniably solid chest. A woman would feel sheltered there. Safe from what troubled her. And for a few moments, anyway, free of the need to stand alone.

Shaken by her thoughts, by him, she started to move back, as much from the need behind the unexpected admissions as from the man who’d prompted them. The stacks behind her allowed her no escape at all.

His scrutiny narrowed. “If you’re okay, why are you still holding your arm?”

She was holding in his touch. Realizing that, hoping he didn’t, she promptly dropped her hand.

“It’s nothing.” Rattled, trying not to be, she shrugged. “It’s just a little sore.”

“Why?”

“Because I landed against the corner of a dresser.” She was just tired. Tired and apparently in need of some downtime with her yoga mat. If she could find it. Or, even better, some fudge. The one thing she did not need was to think about this man’s chest, his arms or the way he was scowling at her. “I was trying to move a table and lost my grip.

“So,” she said, fully prepared to move on so he’d move himself.

He didn’t budge. “Which table?”

Trapped between the counter, bins and boxes, she leaned sideways and pointed toward the eight-foot-long, solid oak-and-iron refectory table jammed between a bedroom set and the dairy case. “That one.”

His scowl deepened as it swung back to her. “You tried to move that yourself?”

“It wasn’t going to go inside on its own.”

Forbearance entered his tone. “You said you were going to wait for the kids who moved you here to help with the heavy stuff.”

“What I said,” she reminded him, just as patiently, “is that they’d be back next week.”

“When next week?”

“When they can fit it in.”

“Meaning this could all be here a week from now,” he said flatly. “Or the week after that.”

She didn’t particularly appreciate the cynical certainty in his tone. Especially since she was trying not to dwell on that discouraging suspicion herself.

“What about your friends?” he asked, clearly prepared to pursue other possibilities. “Have you asked any of them to help you?”

“I’m sure everyone’s busy.”

“Do you know that for certain?”

She could omit and evade. No way could she lie. Thinking of the few people she still thought of as friends, she muttered, “Not exactly.”

“Then ask.”

She started to say that she didn’t want to. Fearing she’d sound like a five-year-old, not liking how he prodded at her defenses, she ignored the command entirely.

Since he had yet to move, she ducked around him. “I’ll go turn on the heat.”

She would do her best to cooperate with him for his help with the store. She could cut corners somewhere else to keep expenses down.

“I only took two bar stools inside, so there are a couple more back there we can bring up to sit on. I’m going to tell Tyler I’ll be out here. He’s watching a DVD on my laptop.”

Erik watched her slip behind the counter, his focus on the resolute set of her shoulders as she disappeared inside. Her son was undoubtedly watching her laptop because her television was buried somewhere in the stacks beyond him. He also gave the guys she’d hired about a fifty-fifty chance of returning to finish their job.

He didn’t care what she said. She did need help here. She just didn’t want to ask for it.

Considering that she hadn’t wanted to accept his little housewarming present, either, he couldn’t help but wonder if the woman was always unreasonable, impractical and stubborn, or if some less obvious trait compelled her to refuse assistance when she clearly needed it.

What she needed now was some serious muscle.

Judging from the size of the decidedly upscale sofa and armchairs, sections of wall units, tables and a huge mirror sitting between the rows of shelving, there had been significant space in the house she’d left behind. The larger of two armoires was the size of a king-size mattress. He had no idea where she was going to put that. It might have fit in the largest of the bedrooms upstairs, but it would never make the bend at the top of the staircase.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, checked the time before scrolling through his contact list.

He’d just ended his call when she hurried back through the door.

“I have a friend on the way to help with the heavy stuff,” he announced. “You and I can take care of the rest of it.” Pushing up his sleeves, he motioned to an overstuffed, roll-armed, oatmeal-colored chair blocking a bedroom set. “Where does that go?”

Beneath a dusting of dark hair, his forearms were roped with sinew and muscle. They looked every bit as strong as she imagined them to be, but it was his left arm that had her staring. A silvery scar, hook shaped and wide, slashed from wrist to elbow.

“Just part of a collection. Caught a jib line when it snapped,” he said, seeing what had her attention. “It couldn’t be helped.” His glance slid pointedly to the sore spot on her arm. “Unlike banging yourself up trying to move something you had to know was too heavy for you.

“So where do you want it?” he asked. “The living room?”

His presumption made her let the table reference go.

“You don’t need to do this.” Part of a collection, he’d said. He had more injuries like that? “And you definitely didn’t need to call your friend.”

Unease over what he’d done had collided with a hint of concern for the scar. Or maybe what he saw was embarrassment warring with interest. Whichever it was, he could practically see her struggling to decide which should take precedence as she moved with him toward the chair. The process, he thought, was rather fascinating.

“Yeah,” he muttered, undeterred. At least she now had some color in her cheeks. “I did. I can’t get those dressers up the stairs by myself.”

“I meant, you didn’t need to impose on him at all. I can’t ask you to do this,” she stressed, only to have him hand her the chair’s seat cushion.

“You didn’t ask,” he pointed out.

“You know what I mean,” she muttered back, arms wrapped around the awkward bulk.

“What I know is that there’s no way to go over the inventory when we can’t even get to it. So, yeah. I do need to do this.” Challenge lit the chips of silver in his steel-gray eyes as he pulled one of her arms free and handed her the wide back cushion, as well. His glance slid to her biceps. “You’re skinny, but you have more muscle than I’d thought. This’ll go faster if you help.”

Over the tops of the pillows, Rory could have sworn she saw challenge shift to a smile. Too disconcerted by him and what he’d done to stand there and make certain of it, she turned with the cushions and headed for the door.

She’d admit to having lost a couple of pounds in the past year or so, but no one had called her skinny since sixth grade.

“Which room do you want the twin bed in?” she heard him call.

“The one next to the master,” she called back.

She had no intention of arguing with him. Not just because she didn’t want to appear difficult. Or because he had a valid point about not being able to get to the inventory. As unsettled as her life felt—would always feel, she feared—getting the visible chaos under control would be huge. Tyler having his own bed that night would be nice, too.

Focusing on her son distracted her from the man carrying up her little boy’s bed. For all of five minutes. The moment Tyler saw his bookshelf going up the stairs, he wanted to help. Wanting to keep him out of Erik’s way, since she was trying to stay out of it herself, she waited until the piece was in place, then put him to work filling the shelves with his toys. While Erik moved on to tackle the living room furniture, she carried in lamps, pictures and, now that she could get to it, her box of potted herbs for the kitchen windowsill.

They didn’t work together so much as they worked around each other. Erik clearly just wanted to get the job done so he could get on with the job he was there to do. Hating how she’d inconvenienced him, she just wanted to get it done, too.

* * *

An hour later, she’d returned to the base of the stairs for the rolled-up dinosaur posters she’d left there when muffled male voices drifted from inside the store.

“No way is this thing going up the stairs,” she heard Erik insist. “Not without a saw.”

“She might take exception to that,” came the sensible reply. “How about through the bedroom window? Aren’t there picture windows on that side of the house?”

“We’d have to take the window out and bring over a crane, but it might be doable. The boys could load the EZ-Rig on a trailer and one of them can drive it over.”

“That would do it.” The unfamiliar voice paused. “There just isn’t enough time to do it today. Not if you want the rest of this cleared out. That party starts at six.”

Not totally sure what had the men talking about bringing in heavy equipment, equally concerned by mention of a prior obligation, Rory left the posters and poked her head inside the store. In the bright overhead lights, she saw Erik facing the large cherry armoire that blocked one of the grocery aisles. He stood in profile to her, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his wide brow furrowed.

He seemed totally occupied with logistics. She just couldn’t see whom he was talking with. Whoever it was remained hidden by the sizable piece of furniture.

Needing to remove the apparent complication, she scooted past the checkout counter. “If it can’t be carried up, just leave it. Or move it out of the way if you need to. I’ll figure out what to do with it later.”

Erik’s glance caught hers as an athletic-looking male in worn denims and a plaid flannel shirt stepped from behind the armoire. The man had a scant inch on her mentor in height, which put him in the range of six-three or so, and the same imposing, broad-shouldered, leanly muscular build that spoke of intimate familiarity with hard physical work. Or a gym.

Beneath his wavy, wood-brown hair, his eyes narrowed an instant before he smiled. That smile seemed as easygoing as the man himself when Erik introduced him to her as Pax Merrick.

“My business partner,” Erik added.

Pax reached out. “And partner in crime.”

Shaking her hand, he gave her a quick once-over, the kind men who enjoy women often do, along with a rakish wink. “We go back a long way. You’re Rory,” he said, sparing his partner the introduction, along with whatever he could have added about their apparently extensive history.

Her glance bounced between the two unquestionably attractive, undoubtedly successful, probably rather fearless males. With the sense that their history might be rather intriguing, she offered Pax an apologetic smile of her own. “I’m really sorry to cut into your day like this.”

“Not a problem. He’d do the same for me,” he admitted, eyeing her with no small amount of curiosity. “You’re really taking over this place?”

Something in the man’s tone gave her pause.

“I am,” she replied. “Why?”

“It’ll seem really different, is all. I used to hang out here with Erik when we were kids. We built our first boat in Gramps’s garage down there. And this store... It was just the Sullivans here all those years. They had sort of a mom-and-pop thing going,” he explained, looking her over as if to verify some preconceived impression. “Down-to-earth. Comfortable, you know? I never thought about it being run by someone...”

Like you, she was sure he’d been about to say, only to be cut off by the quick-but-subtle slicing motion Erik made across his own throat.

“...else,” he hastily concluded. “But if Erik’s going to teach you the ropes,” he hurried to add, “I’m sure you don’t have a thing to worry about. The guy’s got the patience of Job.”

Meaning he thought she was going to require...what? she wondered, swinging her glance to Erik. Patience of biblical proportions?

Erik pointedly ignored her. “Are you going to help me move this, Merrick?”

“Absolutely. I’m on it.”

As if wanting to muffle his partner, Erik motioned to the furniture the large piece blocked. “As soon as we get this out of the way, we’ll take up your son’s dresser,” he told her. “Where do you want those bookcases?”

“In the spare room across from Tyler’s.” Please, she might have added, but his friend’s insinuation still stung.

“Is there a bed that goes in there?”

“I don’t have a spare bed anymore.” She nodded toward the headboard and nightstands an aisle over with the same carving as the armoire. “That’s a set we had in a guest room. I’ll use it for my room now.”

She’d sold the bed she’d slept in with Curt for so many years. Its new owner had picked up all the master bedroom furnishings the morning her movers had come. She’d sold the bulk of her other possessions to an estate broker she’d met at the country club to which she no longer belonged. Had it not been for Tyler, she’d have sold everything and bought only what she’d need to start over. But too much had changed for him already for her to indulge the need she felt to shed all the reminders of a life that no longer was.