Excerpt

by Roxanne Rustand
August 1999 - Harlequin Superromance

ISBN: 0-373-70857-2
(click ISBN to order directly from Amazon.com)

Buy Roxanne's books online at Barnes And Noble

 

Chapter 1

If she'd known about the snake, Claire would have thought twice about leaving New York.

Jason's two-foot albino corn snake slithered sedately across the kitchen floor and coiled itself into a neat, flesh-colored pile at the base of the refrigerator. From unwelcome experience, Claire knew Igor would bask in the warmth of its motor indefinitely--to avoid northern Minnesota's early-September chill, no doubt.

The children's dog or cat napping there would lend an altogether different--more domestic--impact on the room. But Gilbert, their elderly poodle, took off for the farthest reaches of the old Victorian house whenever Igor managed to escape his guaranteed-escape-proof reptile cage. And Sullivan, emitting Siamese yowls that rivaled any Civil Defense siren, had taken her usual refuge on top of the cupboards.

Claire had welcomed the challenge of taking in her late sister's three children. She had serious doubts about ever adjusting to their pets.

A car door slammed. Heavy footsteps marched up the cement walk. With a sigh, Claire remembered her days as Assistant Personnel Director of her father's electronics firm. Her future had been pure gold, but her rise in the company had been her father's dream. Never hers.

Still, after four weeks of strangers knocking at her door at all hours, Mount Everest piles of laundry and a phone jangling from morning til night, her old, familiar world of deferential employees and maid service was rapidly gaining appeal. Her parents' wealth had never bought happiness, but there had been some definite advantages to having money.

She'd made her choice, Claire reminded herself with a rueful smile. She could dwell on her problems or view her new career as an exciting challenge. Here at Pine Cliff Resort she could finally succeed on her own merits, away from her family's influence. And after losing their parents in a car accident, the kids needed her, not a nanny. Nothing mattered more than giving them the best possible life. She loved them too much to settle for less.

A sharp knock on the door echoed through the room. Smiling at an older woman staring at her through the screen, Claire crossed the gleaming oak parquet floor. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Mrs. Rogers," the woman announced in a two-pack-a-day baritone. A cloying odor of heavy perfume and stale cigarette smoke blew in as Claire opened the door. "I have reservations."

The decibel level of Sullivan's yowls increased.

Though built like a woman who could clear timber and slay bears before breakfast, Mrs. Rogers drew back in alarm. She leaned to one side to peer suspiciously past Claire. "Where's the manager?"

Did she think he'd been tied up and stashed in a closet? Suppressing a chuckle, Claire ushered the older woman into the small entryway and turned to the roll-top desk by the door. She ran a finger down the names in the reservation book. "I'm the manager now. Is Number Three okay?"

The woman shook her head and tapped the toe of her shoe against the floor. "When I called in June, I was promised the end cabin, as always. Check your book again."

Claire dutifully rechecked the reservation book. "That one will be open tomorrow, but Three does have a lovely view."

A heavy, disapproving silence hung in the air. "We stayed in it once. My Henry, rest his soul, said the bed didn't have enough support--" With a sharp intake of breath, Mrs. Rogers stepped backward, her eyes widening.

Apparently, she'd seen Igor. "Anything else?" Claire asked sweetly. A companion for your cabin, perhaps?

Handing the speechless woman a pen, Claire snagged a set of keys from the strip of pegboard on the wall and silently thanked Igor for cutting short a potential tirade. Until a month ago, she'd fired irritating people. Now, she had to smile at them.

It wasn't easy.

After Mrs. Rogers backed out, key in hand, Claire lifted a bag of blueberry potpourri from a shelf above the desk. She shook some of it into a pottery bowl, sniffed, then dumped in the rest of the bag. The delicate fragrance didn't have a chance against the raw scent of cologne still clouding the air. Frowning, she opened the three windows behind the oak claw-foot table, then watched the lacy white curtains dance high on a fitful breeze. The children deserved a clean, cheerful home, not one smelling like a nightclub at midnight.

She glanced over her shoulder at the clock above the stove. Two-thirty. Just enough time to finish cleaning the last cabin before meeting the school bus at the resort entrance.

Maybe this time one of the kids would give her a hug.

For just a moment, an image of smiling faces and eager chatter warmed her heart, but Claire knew there was a greater chance for an August blizzard. The twins' subdued, sad-eyed obedience and their brother's veiled hostility hadn't diminished since she'd picked them up in Minneapolis last month and brought them north. Brooke's will had given Claire the resort and custody of the children, but no legal document could guarantee an easy adjustment.

A sharp knock at the door echoed through the kitchen. Another pleasant guest, no doubt. Dealing with the public was proving a far cry from interviewing the beaming, hopeful job applicants who'd tried to impress her back in New York.

Claire gave the snake a stern glance. "Stay!"

Motionless, with approximately the same dimensions and personality as a small pile of men's underwear, Igor stared back at her. He looked unimpressed.

Summoning her best inn-keeper's smile, she lifted her chin and turned toward the door. A tall, broad-shouldered man in faded jeans and an ancient Nike T-shirt stood outside. His buff-colored jacket emanated the lush scent of fine leather. Backlit by bright afternoon sun, his features were cast in shadow, but she had an eerie feeling she had met him before, and that he was someone she'd rather not meet again. A shiver raced down her spine.

"Yes?" She moved a half-step closer and looked up into the stranger's face.

Only he was no stranger.

Her heart stopped. Her breath caught raggedly in her throat. Michael. The past fourteen years had hardened the youthful beauty of his features, adding breadth and power to his elegant body. His hair had darkened to deep, sun-streaked caramel, but there was no mistaking those seductive eyes, or the aura of aristocratic grace that belied his true background. Her pulse raced. Her knees wobbled. He was everything she'd remembered, only much, much more.

But this man was as safe as a plateful of nightshade or a midnight stroll in Central Park. He'd been the object of her first adolescent crush, then became the creature of her youthful nightmares.

He had nearly destroyed her sister's life.

Suddenly aware she was staring, Claire lowered her eyelashes. She felt momentarily unable to speak. Passage from childhood to maturity gave her the experience, the confidence, to tell this man of the damage he'd done, the pain he had caused. But what did one say to the devil himself? And why on earth was he here?

The silence lengthened, grew awkward. After taking a steadying breath, she lifted her gaze and caught his expression of supreme frustration. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so." The boyish charm and humor of years past were gone, leaving a man who could glare the snarl off a Rottweiler. "All I need is information. Can I come for a minute?"

Claire considered the options of firmly dismissing him, or slamming the door in his face. The latter would be infinitely more satisfying, but--

Taking advantage of her brief hesitation, he reached out, opened the screen door, and strode into the kitchen. Faint scents of leather and sandalwood drifted in his wake.

Claire pulled herself together--fast--and snatched the receiver from the phone on the desk. Her finger punched the first number of 911 before she had the receiver halfway to her ear.

Michael reached out, but she slid away and punched the second number. "Back off," she snapped.

He looked at her in surprise and held out his hands, palms up. "I was going to shake hands and introduce myself. Are you always this edgy, lady?" He managed a damn good expression of innocence.

"Of course not. People don't barge into my house every day."

"Believe me, I'm no threat." His voice was calm and low, with the quiet reassurance one might use with a frightened child. Of course, he was a manipulative man trying to buy time.

Claire's finger hovered over the last number. "Make one more move and I finish this call. The sheriff will respond whether I say a word or not."

"No need." He stepped back and slowly turned. The tension in his body seemed to dissipate as he studied the antiques and small paintings adorning the lace-curtained room. "Someone has been busy," he said with a trace of bitterness. "Brooke was never one for the warm-and-welcoming look. I'm Michael Vail, her first husband. All I need the address and phone number of her executor."

Claire stared at him. He doesn't recognize me. Of course, fourteen years ago she'd been a child in pigtails and cut-offs, and the effects of her passion for French fries and hot fudge had been all too obvious. "Why do you want to know?"

"I've had remarkably bad luck trying to contact members of her family in New York and Minneapolis." Michael ran a gentle hand over the surface of the old oak cupboards, as if reliving a memory. "My lawyer's calls haven't been returned and my letters came back unopened. Not twenty minutes ago, her mother's housekeeper hung up on me for the third time."

"Must have been your gracious manner," Claire muttered under her breath, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that Brooke's children were the product of her second marriage. Once Claire got Vail out of her kitchen, she would never have to see him again. "Surely you can't think you were mentioned in the will."

He gave her a look of complete disgust. "Of course not. But Brooke died owning something that belongs in my family." He looked away and hesitated, as if considering how much to say. "She won this half of Pine Cliff in our divorce settlement. She'd always hated the place, yet she refused to sell her half back to me at any price."

Claire lowered the phone to her side, feeling continued reassurance in its cool surface under her fingertips. "There must be other properties you could buy that are in much better condition."

He moved across the room to the trio of windows overlooking Lake Superior. Bracing one arm high on a window frame, he silently stared out at the waves. Bright sunlight gilded the angles of his face and shadowed its lean planes. He had the face of an angel, but Claire knew his heart and soul belonged a lot farther south.

"I inherited this place from my grandmother years ago," he said at last. "I just want a chance to buy it back."

The faint note of underlying pain could not have come from a man like this one. Not unless he'd decided to gain her sympathy. She remembered Brooke's tearful stories of how deceptive he'd been, how callous. But Claire was not the breezy, naive girl her sister had been. If he thought he could manipulate Claire Worth, he was dead wrong. She marshaled her coldest, most business-like tone. "I'm her executor. It's not for sale."

Michael turned and studied her for a moment, his eyes reflecting dawning recognition. "Claire?"

"Right."

"Blonde, but I guess I don't see any other resemblance to Brooke." A hint of a smile tilted one corner of his mouth, but his steely eyes remained grim. "You were what, thirteen? Fourteen or so when she and I divorced? I can imagine what they told you."

"Enough," Claire shot back.

"I can see there's probably no point in discussion," he said slowly, his gaze locked on hers. "Brooke's version of the past must have been...convincing."

"It certainly worked for me."

"Are you planning to sell later on?"

"I'm planning to stay," she retorted. He stood there like a man in a Levi's commercial--muscled, sexy, and altogether too appealing for any woman's own good. Her sister had fallen for him almost overnight. How many other women had he hurt since?

He lifted one sweeping brow. "A little far from your social circle, aren't you?"

"That's not your concern." Some of his old charisma surfaced in a lazy half-smile and a teasing glint in his eyes, but she knew he was engineering every move. The flutter of her pulse came from tension, not a response to the dark and smoky tone of his voice.

Claire braced one hand on her hip and gave him a level look. C'mon, buddy, threaten me. Give me a good reason to call the sheriff. Teaching him a lesson he'd long deserved would be the highlight of her year.

He glanced at the open reservation book on the desk, then gave her an incredulous look. "You're managing this place?"

"Yes."

"You might be here on a lark, but you won't last."

Exactly the sentiments of her unlamented ex-fiancé in New York, who had declared her incapable of raising three children and foolish for giving up her career. Of course, his plans for becoming her father's protege and heir had been quickly fading at the time. Claire felt the heat of anger rising in her throat. "I'd like you to leave."

He shook his head, as if his worst expectations had been confirmed. "Blood does tell." He walked to the door, hesitated, then dropped a business card on the desk. "I should have recognized the Worth family wit and warmth right away."

"Out!"

His mouth curved into a faint smile, but no glint of humor showed in his eyes. "You'll be in serious country club withdrawal by Thanksgiving. Don't bother with a real estate agent, just call me. You'll save time and won't get a better price."

As soon as he stepped outside, Claire swiftly shut the heavy oak door and rammed the deadbolt home, then moved to a window by the desk. After Michael's gleaming black Explorer disappeared up the lane, she sank into the creaky swivel chair at the desk.

A faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, sending her thoughts flying back to the time when she had nurtured the world's most intense, embarrassing crush on this man.

As a young teenager caught up in the throes of her first impossible romance, Claire had thought her older sister's boyfriend represented masculine perfection--tall, witty, and handsome enough to compete with any teen idol. She'd lived for glimpses of his slow, easy smiles, loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and deep dimples grooved his cheeks. He'd always ruffled her hair and teased her, treating her like a kid sister.

Her lack of perception at the time still astounded her. Granted, she'd been an inexperienced young girl, but how had she missed the warning signs of what this man was really like? There must have been plenty, the size of billboards, topped by Technicolor neon lights. In all her life, no one had ever fooled her so completely.

Shoving a hand through her short-cropped hair, she started to sweep Michael's business card off the desk and into the wastebasket, but his address caught her eye. She stared in disbelief. Vail Architectural Associates, St. Paul, Minnesota. A local phone number and address had been written at the bottom. The address nearly matched that of Pine Cliff. Claire's heart missed a beat.

One of her closest neighbors had a long-term grudge against her family, and a proven propensity for deceit.

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