This was absurd. “I’m not leaving, Duncan.”
His tone quieted. “I know how you feel about me. So I won’t force you to stay.”
She wanted to shake him. Why did he have to go and get sympathetic on her now?
Energy pent up, fit to burst, Rosabel stalked a few steps away before whirling and approaching his humbled, rounded shoulders. He refused to look at her, though he had to know she was standing right there. She stepped around to meet his face. “Please look at me.”
He sniffed.
She softened her tone. “Hey.”
Nothing.
Surprising even herself, Rosabel lifted her hands to his cheeks. His skin was scratchy, a shadow growing quickly after being shaved earlier. His lids lifted, and he allowed her to guide his face upward until he looked right at her. The force of the dejection in his expression struck right through the center of her. She never—never—would have imagined Duncan Hawthorne looking so injured.
She wanted to say something along the lines of her usual snark, but this wasn’t the moment for that. “I don’t hate you.”
“That’s good to know.”
“And I don’t think you’re an awful person.” Not completely, anyway.
Another sniff.
“I have seen moments with you these past few days, moments of pure thoughtfulness. You opened up to me. You’re trying to buy your grandma a freaking house. You got me a trolley pass. I didn’t even know I’d need one.”
He tried to glance away, but she directed his face back to hers and kept her hand on his cheek without knowing why. A connection speared between them, as though the conversation opened an old gate she’d lost the key to. Their talk was curative, and she suspected she wasn’t the only one who needed its healing.
“Mostly, though, you offered to help my father. That meant so much to me. That was why I came here to help you. Just be that version of yourself, Duncan. The one that puts others first.”
“I wasn’t putting your dad first,” he admitted. “I knew helping him was the only way to get you to come.”
She laughed. “I know that too. In any case, you wouldn’t have thought of his condition if you weren’t a good person deep down.”
He shrugged out of her grasp. Rosabel took his hand in hers, eager to extend an effort at camaraderie after such an awkward yet revealing conversation. His warm skin slid softly against hers, and he gripped her hand. The small act sent a chorus of fizzles into her low belly.
It’s a friendly gesture, she told herself. Nothing more. “Now come on. You promised me Eureka Springs. I want to see this town I’ve read so much about.”
10
Across a spread of green lawn, an eye-catching rock face, carved by a master, displayed the name Eureka Springs. Clive turned at its corner, but the street dropped so suddenly, Rosabel couldn’t see their destination.
She gasped at the road’s decline. “What’s down there?”
“The historic sights,” Duncan said.
She inched forward in her seat, attempting to take in what she could. Each side of the road was met by retaining walls of stone and trees, making her feel as though they were about to take some kind of plunge. “Gives a new meaning to going ‘downtown,’” she said.
Duncan didn’t laugh. He was distracted by the view out the dashboard as Clive signaled toward a parking lot on the left and waited for several trolleys to pass before turning in.
“We aren’t driving there?” Rosabel asked.
“The town is old, and even though it thrives on tourism, there isn’t much by way of parking. Plus, you miss a lot if you spend the entire trek in the car. It’s much better to walk.”
Rosabel glanced down at her sneakers. “Good thing I didn’t dress up like you wanted me to, then.”
Clive killed the ignition, and to Rosabel’s surprise, Duncan fished another golden ticket from within his jacket and passed it over the seat. “Here, Clive,” Duncan said. “Take the afternoon. See the town.”
“Thank you, sir,” Clive said, resting a hand on the vacant passenger seat for a better glimpse at his boss.
“We’ll be in touch when we’re done doing the same.”
Clive inclined his head. “Sure thing. You two have a nice time.” He winked at Rosabel.
Together, she and Duncan exited the car. She was touched that Duncan had thought to include his driver in the day’s sightseeing but decided not to mention anything. If he realized his act of kindness, he played it off, staring instead at a map of Eureka Springs.
The early summer air was warm. Regardless, she tightened her cardigan around her and stared. “Where to?”
“The trolley stop is up here.” He pointed toward a brick building and a metal green awning where at least eight others waited their turn to board a trolley.
“Do all these people live here?” Rosabel asked.
“I don’t think so. Most of the homes have been turned into B&Bs to accommodate the tourists. The town is on the national historic registry, so they get a huge influx of people who come just to see the old houses. Add the events to it, and it’s a real show.”
“Events?” Rosabel propped against the trolley stop’s green support beam.
A nearby woman wearing a tank top and jeans overheard their conversation and perked up. “They do something different practically every weekend,” she said. “Stan and I came during October last year for the Zombie Crawl. They had something like five thousand visitors packing in to see people dressed and parading like zombies. It was wicked.”
“Definitely fit with the ghost thing going on here,” the man Rosabel assumed to be Stan answered.
The ghost thing? Rosabel wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to the question, so she didn’t ask it. She’d read of supernatural happenings around the town during her brief research during the flight here. Eureka Springs offered regular ghost tours to talk about the town’s haunted history, and the Crescent Hotel was certifiably haunted. She made a mental note to stay as far away from the place as possible.
Duncan said something about the town’s current featured event being Mustang Week in response, and the couple laughed.
“Didn’t you hear? Ghosts interfere with GPS. That’s why so many people get turned around. Probably a big joke to them.” The three of them laughed again.
Rosabel shivered. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in ghosts. She believed in them a little too much. She needed a subject change. “Have they done Mustang Week before?”
“They did Corvettes last year,” Stan said as a green trolley with three wide front windows, a white roof, and a wide black bumper reminiscent of a vaudeville villain’s mustache pulled to a stop. Its screen displayed the word “Red,” along the front with a matching screen running down the side. Very Hello, Dolly! All the vehicle lacked was the cables overhead to keep it on its track.
“Red track, that’s us. You going to see the historic homes?” the woman asked.
Rosabel wasn’t sure what their plans were, and she said as much. “We’re just out to see the town,” she added.
“Make sure you take the tram tour,” the woman instructed as the trolley’s doors opened. “You find out all kinds of interesting things about the town’s history. They even take you up to that haunted hotel.”
She and Stan climbed on, and Duncan and Rosabel waited for several others before joining in as well. They greeted their driver and showed him their trolley passes before turning to find a seat.
The trolley was packed with people who were headed for their own destinations. The front-facing benches along the back were filled, and benches lining the sides, allowing those seated to look out the opposite window, were now occupied by those who’d been at the stop with them.
Black leather straps hung down along the gold poles lining the trolley’s ceiling. Rosabel suspected they carted as many people as could fit into these things if the occasion called for it.
“Looks like we’re standing.” Duncan reached for the nearby strap.
Rosabel situated herself close to him. The fact was, he was a known in a vehicle full of unknowns. She had to admit, the talk of ghosts and tourists had her a little on edge.
“We all in?” the driver called.
“In,” Duncan replied, before the doors closed and the trolley began its slow progression. Rosabel had to adjust her footing. The last thing she wanted was to lose her balance and barrel into the people sitting in the seats beside her.
The trolley headed for the parking lot’s mouth, and then turned left. A thrill climbed Rosabel’s throat as they progressed lower and deeper into the town. Rocks piled on either side, forming retaining walls to keep the mountain from spilling into the roadside. Pedestrians could be seen strolling down the hill, and regarding the steepness, Rosabel was glad she and Duncan had opted to take the trolley.
Homes of a time long past were stacked in the mountain’s side, wedged in among the rock and trees, and then they were swallowed by what felt like another time. The trolley slowed, pulling in at the next station. Rosabel was so distracted by the surroundings, trying to drink in everything she could through the tinted windows, that she didn’t pay attention to her footing. The trolley stopped, and she tipped into Duncan’s chest behind her.
“Hey there,” he said softly, his free arm bracing around her waist and holding her to him for the briefest moment, long enough to send a thrill of awareness down her spine.
He brushed his cheek against hers. The sensation made her pulse race. She placed a hand on his and caught a hint of his cologne, something she’d smelled dozens of times before. Why, then, did the scent have to make her mouth water and send her thoughts to Poughkeepsie?
She was unsure about this new openness between them. He’d been scary before, but if he was the kind of man she thought he was—under all the pain and gruff—then something told her he’d be downright dangerous to her heart.
Duncan appeared to have the same misgivings. He hurried to right her onto her feet and released his hold.
Embarrassment that she hadn’t been the first to pull away trickled over her. She should have. Why hadn’t she? True, she wanted to make up for the awkwardness that had taken place not an hour before. But if she was trying to keep her distance, then throwing herself at him wouldn’t help.
11
Eureka Springs had its own supernatural history—tourists flocked by the bucketful just to go into the old hotels and experience the ghost tours. Personally, Duncan never encountered any supernatural beings, but now his own private demon refused to leave him alone.
The moment with Belinda Simmons back at the Painted Lady had been etched into his mind with a superfine chisel tip. He couldn’t seem to erase her words or the expression of guilt that masked Rosabel’s face.
Shame spilled through him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been hoping to connect with Rosabel on this trip until that moment.
The rejection haunted him. Not Mrs. Simmons’s refusal alone, though that was hard enough. He’d lost out on plenty of investments before. Those were always to further his business, and he’d known each time that he could find a bigger, better investment.
But this wasn’t for his business. The Painted Lady was personal—so personal. He already had a lake house, a place of retreat to hide away at any time he chose and fish to his heart’s content. This was for Grandmother, for the wounds he was hoping to heal.
No other house would do the job. Despite Mrs. Simmons’s claim that the house was in her family line, Grandmother had raised Duncan’s father there. That place meant something to her, despite the wretched rift that had nestled between them since his grandfather’s death. And she meant so much to Duncan.
He’d never been able to tell Grandmother how much. As a youth, he’d spent a lot of time in her company, but then his teenage years had landed. He’d attended private schools and pursued his own interests and hadn’t exactly done the best job of keeping in touch with her. He hadn’t cared enough to, if he was being honest.
Duncan wasn’t sure how much time Grandmother had left. He exhaled, unsure of what to do.
Rosabel’s words haunted him as well. Her rejection was a sore. From the way she’d flirted with him in his kitchen, he’d allowed hope of a closer relationship with her to spring inside his chest. But to open himself to the woman he’d been secretly falling for since she’d started working for him, only to find out she didn’t return the sentiment?
He felt like a complete idiot, especially as other conversations he’d had with Rosie pealed through his mind like funeral bells. Not only did she not like him; she was disgusted by him.
She’d told him before. She’d made her disregard so obvious. He’d always shrugged her off—how could she not like him? He had money; he was handsome and charismatic. Those qualities were why he thought she’d stayed around. Women liked to be around successful men, didn’t they?
Apparently, not all women.
He supposed he had tried to buy her affections, first by offering her a raise and to pay for her dad’s treatment and care. Other women he’d dated had loved his financial gestures. It was when he stopped buying them things that the relationship had soured.
Clearly, that wasn’t how things would work with Rosabel.
“You okay?”
Duncan blinked from his stupor and stared at the Civil War memorial of a soldier poised atop a pedestal of limestone bricks and gripping his musket with a somber expression. An amphitheater’s curved roof stood elevated atop a rock wall behind the soldier. In front of him was the circular green railing offering a view of the original spring for which the town was named. They’d already walked to the Balm of Life memorial?
Duncan cleared his throat. He vaguely remembered walking alongside Rosabel beneath the awnings of shops along the street, but he’d been so distracted, so trapped by his own thoughts, he hadn’t realized how far they’d gotten.
“I’m fine,” he lied. “See that hotel?” He pointed past the kiosks being set up by vendors wanting to sell merchandise during Mustang Week, past the layered stacks of stones serving as retaining walls for the mountainside, to a large hotel reaching high above the trees.
“Duncan,” she said in a chastising tone.
He didn’t relent. He wasn’t ready to talk about it, especially not with her. She’d been kind after realizing she’d hurt his feelings, and that only made things worse. He didn’t want her pity. He wanted her to feel the way he did. “Ripley’s Believe It or Not said it’s the only hotel in the world where all seven stories lead out to a ground level. Because of the mountain it’s built into. We can go inside, if you want.”
Rosabel opened her mouth as if to argue, but instead she tucked her lips together and turned. “Maybe,” she said. “But right now, I’m curious about this. Balm of Life?” She gestured to the thick archway near the street bearing that title.
Duncan was eager for the subject change. “Sure. This used to be a healing ground. Many people believed the water here had curative powers.” He wiggled his fingers for good measure. “Civil War soldiers from both the Union and the Confederate side came here to be healed.”
He could use some of that water right about now. Maybe its curative powers could heal the scalpel-style cuts festering beneath his ribs. He leaned against the green railing and peered down. A small trickle could be seen through the grate blocking the well.
“And did the water work?” Rosabel asked.
“I think so. People think so, anyway.”
“Duncan,” she said, taking that serious tone of hers. “I’m sorry your deal didn’t work out—”
He turned away from her. “Want to grab something to eat? I think the Mustang Road Rally will be starting soon. Maybe we can find a seat at a window and watch the cars drive through town.”
Rosabel set her jaw. “Fine. Then maybe we can talk about how you’re going to reconnect with your grandma.”
“What does that mean? There is no other option. That house was my only shot.”
/> “I doubt that,” she said, ensuring her tone didn’t match its regular level on the snark-o-meter. “I’ve seen you miss out on plenty of deals. This one is bothering you more than any other, and I know it’s because of her. You really care about her, don’t you?”
He did care about Grandmother. He’d allowed himself to believe things would be all right between them since the jolting invitation Mother had sent. He’d even succumbed to prayer, which was something he hadn’t done in a long time. But Duncan wasn’t sure how to share this with Rosabel.
Duncan pushed aside the hurt he’d experienced earlier as other memories surfaced. The moment between himself and Rosabel in the kitchen, the moment on the dock, in the trolley, and the dozens of other times he could have sworn they’d shared the same inkling of attraction. She was trying. He could too.
“How do you feel about Mexican food?” he said, not giving her a direct answer. He needed some time to sort through his thoughts, and maybe he could do that over food.
They went into Amigo’s, and Duncan requested one of their outdoor tables. Crowds were building along the street, though not as many people as he expected. He and Rosabel ate in awkward silence, watching car after car—old Lincolns, refurbished Fords from the 1950s, he would guess—drive through town in a long procession. People whooped and cheered for their favorites, and even Rosabel commented on a cherry-red convertible that in any other instance Duncan would be ready to surprise her with.
Soon enough, the procession ended. The waitress with fiery orange hair and a tag pronouncing her name as Mollie left their black folder on the table between their plates. Duncan reached for his wallet when Rosabel held out a hand.
“I’ve got this.”
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?” She looked at him with wide chocolate-brown eyes. She slipped the black folder toward herself, retrieved her card from her purse, and inserted it into the clear pocket inside before handing it to the waitress. “I know I don’t owe you anything,” she said. “But we’re here as friends, remember? If I were going out to eat with any other friend, I would never let them pay for me all the time.”
Rosabel And The Billionaire Beast (Billionaire Bachelor Mountain Cove Book 6) Page 9