She started for the door and hesitated short of her goal. "When will you be back—in case Brock asks?"
"Between half-past one and two."
"Maybe he'll be late," she suggested and walked to the door.
Forty-five minutes later, Perry stuck his head inside her office to let her know he was leaving to keep his luncheon engagement. "Take care of Brock if he arrives before I get back," he reminded her, unnecessarily.
"I will," she promised. "Good luck with the speech."
He waved and left. A few minutes later Stephanie closed her office to have lunch. Her appetite was all but nonexistent, so she chose a salad plate and picked at it for twenty minutes before giving up. A few minutes before one, she obtained the key to the private suite from Mary at the front desk and checked to be certain all was in readiness for Brock Canfield's arrival.
There had been no occasion for Stephanie to enter the private suite before. It consisted of a spacious sitting room, an equally large bedroom with a king-sized bed and an enormous bath. Stephanie explored it with unashamed curiosity.
Bronze-tipped, double-paned windows offered an unparalleled view of the White Mountains cloaked in their rust and gold autumn colors. Sunlight streaming through the glass laid a pattern of gold on the stark white floor of Italian ceramic, set in a herringbone design. There was nothing about the sitting room that resembled New England except for the scene outside its windows.
The furnishings included a white leather armchair and ottoman. A pair of short sofas were upholstered in natural Haitian cotton with coffee tables of antique white. The walls were covered with grass cloth in an ivory shade. A floor-to-ceiling cabinet, which included a shelf for a television to be rolled out, had been built into one wall. A glass-topped rattan table and four chairs were the only natural wood pieces in the room, besides an eight-foot-high secretary, hand carved in walnut. A gold-leaf, coromandel screen opened to reveal a bar. In total, it was an eclectic blend of periods and designs.
Stephanie took note of the bouquet of long-stemmed roses on the coffee table. The arrangement had an oriental touch with bare branches rising above the blood-red blooms. A vintage bottle of champagne was on ice in a silver bucket supported by a stud. A tray of cheese as well as an attractive bowl of fresh fruit was on the rattan table.
When Stephanie ventured into the bedroom, she stepped onto thick, shrimp-colored carpeting. The same color was repeated but dominated by black in the patterned bedspread and matching drapes. An ornate ebony headboard adorned the king-sized bed and was flanked by carved nightstands of the same dark hardwood. A hunting scene was depicted on an elephant tusk and a second was repeated in a massive collage. They gave the room the masculine accent.
The bathroom was a bit overwhelming in its luxury, with the shrimp carpeting extending into it. A white Jacuzzi bathtub was set in a platform faced with Italian marble that continued all the way up to the ceiling. The wall area not covered with marble was hung with black silk, a collection of framed South American butterflies making use of its backdrop. The bath towels were all a very sensual black velour material, thick and rich looking.
Leaving the suite was like stepping into another world. The inn was luxurious, but it attempted to give its guests the flavor of New England. It was obvious that Brock Canfield had decorated the suite to please himself. Stephanie wasn't certain if she liked the result or whether she was indulging in a little inverted snobbery.
As she entered the lobby, she thought she preferred the wide spaciousness of the white-painted woodwork and its massive stone fireplace with the welcoming warmth of the flames emitting the pungent aroma of woodsmoke. Expensive Currier and Ives lithographs adorned the white walls and added the flavor of New England to the lobby. The brass chandelier suspended from the ceiling was a nuisance to clean, Stephanie knew, but the hurricane globes were attractive and homey.
She stopped at the front desk to return the key.
"Any sign of Mr. Canfield yet, Mary?"
The mere mention of the owner's name seemed to unnerve the usually calm woman. "Mr. Canfield? No, not that I know of. Ben, have you seen him?" She suddenly didn't trust her own answer and sought the confirmation of the bellboy.
"No. He hasn't arrived yet." He was much more positive.
"I'll be in my office," Stephanie replied. "Let me know as soon as he comes."
Circling behind the registration counter, she walked down the short hallway to her office. She left the door open so she could be aware of the activity going on outside her four walls. The excited buzzing and whispering hadn't lessened since the news had circulated through the inn's grapevine of the imminent arrival of its owner. There was electricity in the air, and Stephanie wasn't immune to its volatile charge.
Before she put her bag away, she paused in front of the small mirror on a side wall to freshen her lipstick. But the new coat of bronzed pink on her mouth only accented the faint pallor in her cheeks. She stroked on a hint of blusher, then retouched her long lashes with mascara. By the time she was finished, she had completely redone her makeup.
Studying her reflection, she decided she was attractive but definitely not a raving beauty. The combination of thick chestnut hair and Corinthian-blue eyes was pleasing, but not startling. Her figure was slender with all the proper curves, but not eye-popping. There was a certain freshness about her, although she looked twenty-two.
All the while, she assured herself that this assessment had nothing to do with Brock Canfield or the warning Perry had given. Still, there was a little part of her that was wondering what it would be like if someone like Brock Canfield made a pass at her—a passing curiosity, no more than that, she insisted, just a flattering thought.
"Stephanie!" Mary hissed from the doorway. "He just drove up out front. Ben's going out to get his luggage now. And he has a woman with him."
Initially Stephanie smiled at the woman passing the information in such a frantic whisper. Who would hear? And what would it matter? But the last sentence wiped the smile from her face. Too late she remembered that in the past, Perry had mentioned that Brock Canfield often brought his current girl friend with him.
But what was the procedure? Did the woman stay in his suite? There wasn't any choice, was there? There wasn't a single other empty room in the entire inn. But she was attacked by the same uncertainty that Mary had suffered earlier, and the need to have someone back up her conclusion.
"Was Perry informed that Mr. Canfield was bringing a guest?" she asked the desk clerk.
"He didn't say anything to me about it," Mary replied with a negative shake of her head.
"Mr. Canfield wouldn't expect us to…have a separate room for her, would he?" There was no longer any need for the blusher on her cheeks. Mother Nature was doing an excellent job of providing color for Stephanie. "I mean, he didn't give us any warning."
"I seriously doubt if he wants her in a separate room." Mary's voice was both dry and suggestive. She glanced toward the lobby and quickly hissed, "He's coming through the door now!"
Stephanie took a deep breath to calm her suddenly jumping nerves and mentally crossed her fingers. Be calm, cool and collected, she told herself as she started toward the lobby. What did she have to be nervous about? Brock Canfield was only a man.
Chapter Two
ONLY A MAN. That phrase Stephanie instantly revised the minute she saw the tall, dark-haired man in the lobby. Lean and virile, he was completely finished masculinity. The planes and contours of his tanned face had been chiseled into the final product of total manliness. An expensive topcoat hung from a set of broad shoulders and tapered slightly to indicate narrow hips before falling the length of his thighs to stop below the knees. Its dark dolor was contrasted by the white silk scarf around his neck.
Yet not for one minute did Stephanie believe that the elegant male attire covered a body that was other than superbly fit and muscled. It was evident in his ease of stride and natural coordination. Perry's description became very clear—a hard, finished
diamond. Brock Canfield was all that and all male.
Stephanie felt the awesome power of his attraction before she ever walked in front of the counter to greet him. It was even more potent when she came under the observation of his metallic gray eyes. Their lightness was compelling, at odds with the darkness of his brown hair.
His gaze made a thorough appraisal of her feminine assets as she crossed half the width of the lobby. His study was so openly one of male interest that she would have been offended if it had come from another man. But, no matter how hard she searched, she couldn't come up with any sense of indignation. Almost the exact opposite happened. Her pulse quickened with the inner excitement his look had generated.
Seeking a balance, she switched her attention to the blonde clinging to his arm. There was a surface impression of class and sophistication. Yet beneath it, Stephanie noticed the blue cashmere sweater was a size too small. The fine wool was stretched to emphasize the full roundness of the girl's breasts. So was the material in the complementing shade of darker blue pants that was forced to hug her hips and thighs.
Brock Canfield might regard the result as sexy and alluring, but Stephanie thought it was disgusting. Then she wondered if she was being bitchy. She didn't have time to decide as she reached the point where she had to speak.
"Hello, Mr. Canfield. I'm Stephanie Hall," she introduced herself, and offered her hand. "I hope you had a pleasant trip."
"An uneventful one." The grip of his hand was firm, its warmth seeming to spread up her arm and through her system. His gaze had narrowed in sharp curiosity. "Stephanie Hall," he repeated her name, his smooth voice giving it an unusual texture to the sound of her spoken name. "I wasn't aware Perry had got married. When did this happen?"
"Perry isn't married," she replied in quick surprise, then tried to explain. "At least not to me. I mean, he isn't married to anyone." She regained control of her wayward tongue and managed a more controlled, "I'm his sister."
"Ah, yes." He seemed to step back, to withdraw somehow, yet he didn't move except to release her hand. "I remember now that he mentioned he had a younger sister. Somehow I had the impression you were much younger."
Stephanie decided it was best if she didn't comment on that. "I'm sorry Perry isn't here to meet you himself, but he's a speaker at a club luncheon today. He should be back within the hour."
"Fine." His faint nod was indifferent. The blonde arched closer to him as if to remind him of her presence. It earned her a glance that was amused and tolerant, yet Stephanie detected no affection in his look. "Helen, I'd like you to meet Stephanie Hall, her brother manages the inn for me. This is Helen Collins."
But he deliberately omitted identifying the blonde's relationship to him. What could he have said? That she was his current mistress, his current lover? Stephanie wasn't certain if she could have handled such frankness. The glint in his eye made her suspect that Brock Canfield had guessed that. She didn't like the idea that he might find it—and her—amusing.
"May I show you to your suite?" Her stilted suggestion sounded as stiff and defensive as she felt.
"I think it would be an excellent idea." The line of his mouth was slanted in faint mockery.
The action pulled her gaze to his mouth. The firm set of male lips seemed to hint at worldly experience, their line strong and clean. Stephanie's curiosity ran rampant, wondering how expert they were.
Forcing a smile onto her mouth, she turned, and walked to the desk to obtain the key from Mary. The woman slipped two keys into her out-stretched palm. Out of the corner of her eye, Stephanie noticed Ben struggling with the luggage and knew he would be following them to the suite.
When she rejoined Brock Canfield and his female companion, the couple had already started in the general direction of the hall leading to the private suite. Stephanie would have preferred simply to give the man the keys, since he obviously knew the way, but she remembered Perry's instructions—take him to the suite and make sure he has everything he needs.
"Do you work here, Miss Hall? Or are you just helping your brother out?" The question came from Helen Collins, her tone on the acid side.
"I work here," she replied smoothly, and tried not to let her instinctive dislike of the blonde become obvious.
"In what capacity?" The masculine thickness of an eyebrow was arched in her direction, again assessing and appraising, but from an intellectual level.
"I take care of the books." Her answer was cool, prompted by an uncertainty whether Brock Canfield hadn't actually known or merely forgotten.
"So you're the reason the monthly reports have suddenly become legible these last few months," he concluded.
Something in the remark had been faintly taunting. Stephanie was spared from replying as they reached the suite. She unlocked the door and quickly led the way inside, anxious to bring the task to an end and regroup her scattered senses.
"It's stunning, Brock!" Helen exclaimed, betraying that it was her first visit to the suite. She released his arm when she saw the roses on the coffee table. "And roses! They're gorgeous. You knew they were my favorite." She bent to inhale the fragrance of one of the large blooms, and Stephanie worried about the seam of her pants and whether the thread could stand the strain.
"There's a bottle of champagne on ice for you," Stephanie murmured and made a small gesture with her hand in the general direction of the silver bucket.
Brock Canfield's gray eyes skimmed her face, their look mocking and amused, as if he sensed her discomfort. There wasn't any need for him to comment on the information, since Helen discovered the bottle of champagne seconds afterward.
"Darling, you think of everything," she declared, and plucked the bottle out of the ice. She wrapped it in the towel and brought it to him. "Open it, Brock."
As he shrugged out of his topcoat, Stephanie saw her opening to be excused. "If there's anything else, Mr. Canfield—" she began.
"Don't leave yet, Miss Hall." His smooth order stopped the backward step Stephanie had taken to begin her retreat. But he offered no more explanation than the simple command that she remain.
She stood silently by, trying to appear as composed and calm as her jittery nerves would permit, while he tossed his coat and scarf over the white leather chair. A minute later his suit jacket joined them. Then he was expertly popping the cork out of the champagne bottle and filling the two glasses Helen had in her hands.
"Would you care to join us, Miss Hall?" he inquired. "There are more glasses in the bar."
"No, thank you," she refused with stiff politeness. "I have work to do this afternoon."
"One glass of champagne would interfere with your ability to function?" he mocked her, but returned the bottle to the ice bucket without reissuing his offer.
There was a knock at the door. Since Stephanie was closest; she answered it. It was Ben with the luggage. She motioned him inside the room.
"Put it in the bedroom," Helen instructed, and followed him to supervise.
"I think you'll find everything in order, Mr. Canfield." Stephanie tried again to make her exit. "I checked the suite myself before you arrived."
"I'm sure I will," he agreed.
Her opportunity was lost a second time as Ben came out of the bedroom. She was rather surprised when Brock gave him a tip for bringing the luggage. After all, he was the owner, so it wouldn't have been necessary. Ben thanked him and left.
"Here are your keys, Mr. Canfield." Stephanie crossed the front half of the room to give them to him.
He didn't immediately reach out to take them. Instead he turned to set the champagne glass on an antique white table. The white of his shirt complemented his supply muscled torso without emphasizing it. He looked lean and rangy like a wild animal on the prowl.
Minus the suit jacket, he appeared more casual, more approachable. Her unsteady pulse revealed the danger of such thinking, as she dropped the keys in his outstretched hand. The glitter of his gray eyes seemed to mock the action that avoided physical contact.
When Helen Collins appeared in the bedroom doorway, his gaze slid from Stephanie. He didn't wait for the blonde to speak as he issued his instructions. "Unpack the suitcases, Helen, and make yourself comfortable. I'm going to be tied up for the afternoon."
He was politely but firmly telling his companion to get lost, dismissing her from his presence until he had time for the toy he had brought along to play with. Stephanie watched the curvaceous blonde smother the flash of resentment to smile and blow him a kiss before shutting the bedroom door.
"You don't approve of the arrangement, do you?" Amusement was threaded thickly through his question.
Stephanie worked to school her expression into one of indifference. "I wouldn't presume to pass judgment on your personal affairs, Mr. Canfield. They have nothing to do with me."
"Spoken with the true discretion of an employee to her indiscreet boss," he mocked her reply.
When he absently moved a step closer, Stephanie had to discipline her feet not to move back in an effort to keep a safe distance from him. Her nerve ends tingled with the sexual force of his attraction at such close quarters. The not unpleasant sensation triggered off a whole series of alarm bells in head.
"Will there be anything else, Mr. Canfield?" She made a show of glancing at her watch as if she was running late. "I really should be getting back to my office."
For a long second he held her gaze. Then his glance slid downward as he turned away and slipped the keys into his pocket. "You probably should." He picked up the glass of champagne.
Taking his agreement as permission to leave, Stephanie started toward the door. Relief was sweeping through her, the tension disintegrating with a rush. She could fully understand how curiosity killed the cat.
She was still five feet from the door when Brock Canfield stopped her with a low question. "Did your brother warn you about me?"
The plaid swirled around her knees as she pivoted to face him. "I beg your pardon?"
She felt cornered, trapped like a little brown mouse that almost escaped before a set of claws gently forced it back into the mouth of danger. A faintly wicked smile was deepening the corners of the firm male lips.
Heart of Stone Page 2