“I asked after you with the innkeeper, the lovely Mrs. Crossley, but we were interrupted by new guests arriving before she got much further than telling me about your friend. I haven’t had time to do more than that.”
“Ah.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about his asking around town about her. “Well, I was born here, I left, I came back. Having been gone, I have a much greater appreciation for exactly what Hamilton has to offer. I’m afraid I don’t see the tourist draw that you do. Nor do I think that’s the right direction to push our town.” One corner of her mouth kicked up. “Sorry, ‘village.’”
To his credit, he smiled too. While her non-answer had diverted their conversation from the more serious direction it had been heading, it didn’t do anything to create the distance she so badly wished to reestablish between them. Getting him out of her personal space would be a great place to start…she just didn’t seem to be able to accomplish it.
“You’d like for your hometown to stay just as it is for the remaining years of your life. I can understand that, the sentimental attachment, the security that comes with the familiar, the trusted. But what you don’t see is that if Hamilton doesn’t reach forward, it will sink hopelessly into the past. And that won’t allow you to thrive. Not as you could, if you’d be willing to embrace new ideas. I’m no’ looking to destroy your home, Melody. I’m looking to expand on it, improve it, and with that, give you a greater opportunity for bigger successes.”
“You seem to forget I did do my homework. I’ve seen the befores and afters of some of your handiwork.”
He didn’t seem remotely abashed by either her pronouncement or her clear lack of respect. He also seemed entirely too close to her. Still. She could see the tiny, darker flecks that tinted his almost translucent green eyes, could see that he had, indeed, broken his nose at some point. And there was a hairline scar that ran along the top of one eyebrow, and another still, high on his forehead, clearly indicating she hadn’t been far off in her assessment of him as a competent, or at least willing, brawler.
“Some places required more work than others to shore up the foundations,” he responded with the ease of someone who was quite used to defending his work.
It made her wonder how often he had to do that very thing. But rather than make her feel more confident in her arguments, she worried instead that she was going to be outmatched by someone who had fought and won the battle many, many times.
“In those cases,” he went on, “the citizenry was happy to have their home restored in such a way as to guarantee its longevity well into the future. You were right about this not being an Old World town. But some of the ones you’ve researched were. There were few options for renewal without rebuilding, restructuring. It made sense to modernize, to give those villages every opportunity to become successful, thriving communities that could sustain themselves in the modern world, and into the future. Yes, old traditions may have to evolve into new ones. But age-old traditions, while cherished and fondly remembered, won’t sustain a community alone. There has to be flexibility and room for reinterpretation, for building new traditions, new legacies. Isn’t that the very core of your country’s philosophy? If you didn’t embrace growth, you’d all still be driving horses and buggies.”
He made it sound so…necessary. So simple. But it wasn’t.
He tilted his head, ever so slightly, and that mischievous twinkle seemed ready to surface in his eyes at any moment, in contradiction with the absolute seriousness of his tone and the set of his jaw. “If you’d spoken to any of the residents of those places, Melody, you’d have heard how happy and excited they are about their prospects for the future.”
She sighed, and her shoulders slumped a little. He was good, she’d give him that. “Mr. Gallagher—Griffin—I—”
“Let me finish.”
She nodded, so caught up in his eyes, the mellifluous sound of his voice, the vibrancy that radiated from him when he spoke about what he so clearly believed in, that she couldn’t have looked away then if she’d wanted to. “Go on,” she said, ceding him the floor, if not the victory.
The tension in his jaw relaxed just a bit, as did his tone, but the vibrancy was no less potent when he spoke. “I’m no’ in the business of ruinin’ lives,” he said quietly. “I’m no’ here to make your life, or any of those who live here, more challenging, or diminish, in any way, the things you love about Hamilton. I come from a place where traditions are important, too. I consider all of that when coming up with my plans.”
She struggled to keep her head from becoming hopelessly fogged by him, to keep her thoughts clear, her arguments concise. “The pictures you have in the brochure make Hamilton look like some bright, shiny FutureWorld. You can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. We’re a dyed-in-the-wool, homespun-and-happy-for-it sow’s ear. We don’t want or need to be some kind of resort town getaway. Most of us are here because we like permanently being away.”
“Melody—”
“My turn,” she said, hoping he saw that she was just as earnest and sincere as he was. “We’re happy you’re here.” At his arch look, she said, “We are, Griffin. Truly. We’re happy that Lionel has someone he can trust to take over his business, so we can continue forward. With Trevor Hamilton bowing out, it’s been a great concern, where the future would lead without a Hamilton heir at the helm. But if you’d just work on growing Hamilton Industries, the town will grow by default.”
“But no’ fast enough.”
“What is the big rush? We’re not unhappy with our slower way of life. We all know we’re not going to get rich living and working here. We’re not failing as a town, so—”
His previously open gaze grew shuttered. And a whole new kind of alarm sprang to life inside her.
Her heart squeezed hard inside her chest. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Or all of us? Is something wrong at Hamilton Industries? Are we in some kind of trouble?”
“You’re on the brink of achieving a success like you never dared hope for.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer I bring, Melody. It’s an answer that will work.”
She looked into his eyes and realized he was not going to give her anything more. She understood. His loyalties lay with Hamilton Industries. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. “Perhaps you, and by extension, Lionel, should have more faith in the people who keep this town running. Why don’t you focus on the people who run your company?”
“It’s no’ mine as yet.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t underestimate us, Griffin. You’ll garner the kind of real loyalty and support you’re trying to charm us into, if you tell us the truth. We don’t scare off. And we don’t give up.”
“You’ve seen my list of successes, Melody, so I’m going to ask you, based on my track record, to trust that I know what I’m doing. I’m handling the situation the best way possible for everyone involved. Everyone.”
She sighed a little at that and tried not to be frustrated. Before, she’d been prepared to dislike him and cast him as the bogeyman, come to ruin her bucolic little life. It was harder to do now that he’d allowed her to glimpse the real man behind the charming Irish accent and glossy Power-Point presentation.
That man seemed sincere, smart, and very determined.
She broke their gaze, looked down, wanting, needing to regroup. And felt his knuckles beneath her chin, drawing her gaze back to his.
“I think you’ll find that my way isn’t a bad way.”
She looked into his eyes, wanting to find what she needed, so she could get past the ball of fear in her gut. All she knew, in her gut and in her heart, was nothing was going to be the same again. She knew it, just as surely as she’d known moving back here to be with Bernie, to take on a whole new life challenge, was the absolute right thing to do. She prayed like hell this was going to work out half as well. “I hope, for all of our sakes, that you’re right.”
“I am,” he said
simply and without arrogance.
Standing, all but in his arms, their gazes locked, she felt connected in a way she hadn’t ever been before, and certainly wouldn’t have expected to be. She saw how easy it could be to trust him, to put her faith in him, let him lead the way, and believe everything would be okay. And she knew the townspeople would feel exactly the same way. Maybe her time in Washington had left her too cynical, too suspicious. But she strongly felt that she was right to protect what was hers, what she saw as the most valuable parts of the life that fulfilled and contented her. She hadn’t thought she was alone in those feelings. She’d heard the same sentiment over and over, expressed by everyone in town. But she saw what had swayed them and understood the temptation. Lord knows she felt it. But that didn’t mean she had to give in to it. Not when so much was at stake.
As she moved to break the moment completely, to shift away from him, do whatever she had to, kick him out if necessary, to regain her perspective—not to mention control over her own libido—he spoke.
“Do you know what I wish for, Melody?”
She smiled at him. She was finding it increasingly easy to do. Danger, danger, she thought. But she didn’t step back. “That I’d stop being a thorn in your side?”
His lips curved, and somehow, that half grin was sexier than all the sparkling, charm-filled ones that had come before it. He had offered it naturally, rather than as a calculated play.
“That, too, of course. But I’m referring to a rather more…insistent, immediate wish.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then slowly returned to meet her eyes.
Her heart started an erratic tattoo inside her chest, and her skin had gone beyond warm and tingly to an almost steamy dampness that had nothing to do with the huge ovens cranking out heat. She should have stepped away when she had the chance. At the moment, she was rooted right to that spot.
“Which is?” The words came out as a damnably soft whisper.
The pupils in his clear green eyes expanded until they threatened to swallow up the rest. That darkness added an element that made him seem all the more dangerous.
“That I could court your favor quite personally, for reasons having nothing to do with business. And everything to do with kissing. Your lips tempt me. Mightily.”
She swallowed reflexively against the sudden tightness in her throat. “How…direct.”
“You wanted honesty.”
“If only you could be so where it mattered,” she said, her voice still not as strongly confident as she’d hoped.
“So tempting…”
“Honesty…or—”
“The natural color and shape of your lips is so striking. Your bottom lip fair begs a man to…” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on her mouth, then lifted back to her eyes. There was so much electricity, it was as if a live wire had brushed against all her nerve endings at once. She felt…carnally singed. And it was only an intent look. Were he to put his hands on her just then, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t combust into a ball of flames.
“Griffin—”
“Miss Duncastle…”
She couldn’t help it, she smiled.
He groaned, just a little, as her lips curved deeper. She should take some much-needed strength in the discovery that she held some sway over him, as he did with her. He with his accent and otherworldly eyes, and she, apparently, with her…lips.
Odd, but she’d always felt her strength was a keen mind. She should be insulted, perhaps, or at the very least feel condescended to, that his attraction was so seemingly superficial. Instead she felt rather primal and intensely female. And she wasn’t at all upset about it.
His knuckles, still resting beneath her chin, uncurled, and his hand opened to slide up and cup the side of her face. For a man who purported to have made his fortune using his own keen mind, she was surprised to feel the calluses on his palm.
Although they perfectly fit the cunning, Irish devil who was tilting her jaw and lowering his mouth to claim hers.
5
Aye, Griff. What in heaven’s name do ye think yer doin’, lad?
No stern admonition or sudden return of sanity was going to save him from what he’d begun. If he were honest with himself, the desire for the kiss, for her, had been far more the drive behind seeing her again than anything having to do with his coming inheritance, Lionel, or Hamilton.
“’Tis no’ meant to persuade you,” he murmured, a breath away from her lips. “I simply want to taste—” He paused for one brief moment, looked into her eyes, and liked to think it was his integrity finally showing up, needing to make certain she was a willing participant in the mutual exploration…but, in all honesty, unless she’d shoved him off, he’d have stolen a sip anyway. He’d just wanted to watch her while he did so.
In the end, he was rewarded in a way he couldn’t have foreseen, and never would have expected.
“It won’t,” she whispered, those plum perfect lips brushing the barest hint across his. “Since we’re being direct, I’ll admit I’d like to know what you taste like, too.”
The punch that breathy little admission delivered ignited the sparks already licking between them.
He took her mouth, and not in the gentle, seductive manner of a man who meant to stake his claim slowly, building trust and need at the same time. He took her mouth like a man half-starved for the taste of her, as if he’d been deprived of it for so long, he had no restraint, no civility left in him.
And, true to her claim, she responded with equal fervor.
Trays clanged, metal clashed, as he sank his hands into her hair and bent his head to hers, pushing her back against the worktable. He slid his tongue between those lips, then she did the same between his, both of them tasting, dueling, demanding. It was like plundering heaven. She tasted spicy, sweet, and dark, like something forbidden and exotic, known only to him, the lucky bastard who’d uncovered the buried treasure first.
Her fingertips flexed hard against his scalp as she held him where she wanted him, taking his tongue, taking him, then giving in return, taunting, teasing, until he wasn’t sure whose gasps were whose, and whether the vibrating growls were coming from deep inside his chest or from the one plastered so tightly against it.
Some shred of sanity prevailed long enough for him to pull her up and off the worktable before they destroyed another entire night’s work. He tugged her against him as he spun them around and pushed her up against a pair of oversized, stainless-steel doors.
The chill of the cooler doors made her gasp, but when he pulled her away, she grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him right back close again. He was grinning when he took her face in his hands and claimed her mouth all over again.
She was tugging off his tie, and he was busily undoing the buttons on the front of her starched white baker’s coat, when a shrill, insistent beeping sound went off, startling them into leaping away from each other—as if they’d been doing something wrong.
Only it hadn’t felt at all wrong to him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Surprisingly so. “What is that?” he asked, a little dazed, breathing heavily.
“Cakes,” she panted, pushing back the hair that had spilled down out of her bun. Silky, dark brown curls clung to her flushed cheeks. “Ovens.”
“Don’t,” he said instinctively, when she started to gather the tumbled waves and knot them back up. He reached out, as if he had all the right in the world, and brushed aside a damp curl. The tips of his fingers caressed the smooth skin of her cheek. Her lips parted slightly, drawing him to trace his fingers across her bottom lip. He felt the slight tremble there, heard the catch in her throat. And his hunger for her surged right back, with a renewed vengeance.
He took a step toward her, crowding her back against the doors again. He watched her pupils expand, saw her throat work, knew that if he cupped her breasts, her nipples would be rock hard. The thought of peeling that starched linen from her body, and whatever else was beneath it, sent him from launch to orbit in a second.
; “Th-the cakes,” she stammered as he slid one hand behind her neck and tilted her mouth up to his again. She sidestepped, half stumbling out of his reach. “They’ll burn.” She scraped her hair back and, with less than steady hands, managed to get it into some semblance of a knot.
“Right,” he said, letting his hand drop. He watched as she darted across the room, then leaned back against the closest worktable. He lowered his chin and closed his eyes with a deep sigh. “Well done, boy-o,” he muttered. “Well done.”
It was her sudden hiss that brought him fully alert again. “What?” He was half across the room before she answered.
“Nothing,” she said tightly, then quickly clattered the cake pans she was juggling onto the waiting cooling racks. She dropped the oven mitts and curled the fingers of one hand into a fist.
The cakes were a rich golden yellow, and their warm, sweet scent made his empty stomach growl. But he was more concerned with the color of her hand.
“Did you burn yourself?” He closed the distance between them. “Let me see, I can—”
She shooed him back as she shifted to the other oven in the smooth, almost graceful manner of someone who had danced between them many, many times. She handled the mitts better and was more purposeful, sliding out one tray at a time and placing them on a different cooling rack.
He didn’t push her about the burn, he just got out of her way. “Do you ever tire of the scent?” he asked. “It’s wonderful, and, along with your fresh roast, quite like paradise would smell, I imagine.”
She didn’t respond. He noted she didn’t look at him, either. He should just let the moment go. Only he didn’t want to. Hence his lame attempt at conversation. He thought her lack of response was because she was busy unloading her ovens, arranging cooling racks, and rearranging the hot racks inside the ovens. But once those tasks were complete and the beeping timer had ceased, she made herself enormously busy arranging the hot pans just so on the cooling racks, then going over to the refrigerated units and burying her head inside one, then another, rooting around…but coming out empty-handed.
The Naughty List Page 4