by Nora Roberts
gently faded wallpaper. Its charm was old and lasting; amber globed lamps, graceful antiques and old silver. Local stone dominated one wall in which a fireplace was set. Brass andirons guarded the empty hearth. Tables had been set to encourage sociability, with a few more secluded for intimate interludes. The air was humming with easy conversation and clattering dishes. A smell of fresh baking drifted toward them. In silence, Taylor studied the room, his eyes roaming from corner to corner until B.J. was certain he had figured the precise square footage.
“Very nice,” he said simply.
A large, round man approached, lifting his head with a subtle dramatic flourish.
“‘If music be the food of love, play on.’”
‘“Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.’”
Chuckling at B.J.’s response, he rolled with a regal, if oversized, grace into the dining room.
“Shakespeare at lunch?” Taylor inquired. B.J. laughed; against her will her antagonism dissolved. “That was Mr. Leander. He’s been coming to the inn twice a year for the past ten years. He used to tour with a low budget Shakespearean troupe, and he likes to toss lines at me for me to cap.”
“And do you always have the correct response?”
“Luckily, I’ve always been fond of Shakespeare, and as insurance, I cram a bit when he makes his reservation.”
“Just part of the service?” Taylor inquired, tilting his head to study her from a new angle.
“You could say that.”
Prudently, B.J. scanned the room to see where the young Dobson twins were seated, then steered Taylor to a table as far distant as possible.
“B.J.” Dot sidled to her side, eyes lighting on Taylor in pure feminine avarice. “Wilbur brought the eggs, and they’re small again. Elsie’s threatening to do permanent damage.”
“All right, I’ll take care of it.” Ignoring Taylor’s questioning stare, she turned to her waitress. “Dot, see to Mr. Reynold’s lunch. Please excuse me, Mr. Reynolds, I’ll have to tend to this. Just send for me if you have any questions or if something is not to your satisfaction. Enjoy your meal.”
Seeing Wilbur’s eggs as a lucky escape hatch, B.J. hurried to the kitchen.
“Wilbur,” she said with wicked enjoyment as the door swung shut behind her. “This time, I’m umpire.”
A myriad of small demands dominated B.J.’s afternoon. The art of diplomacy as well as the ability to delegate and make decisions was an intricate part of her job, and B.J. had honed her skills. She moved without breaking rhythm from a debate with the Dobson twins on the advisability of keeping a frog in their bathtub to a counseling service with one of the maids who was weeping into the fresh linen supply over the loss of a boyfriend. Through the hours of soothing and listening and laying down verdicts she was still conscious of the presence of Taylor Reynolds. It was a simple matter to avoid him physically, but his presence seemed to follow her everywhere. He had made himself known, and she could not forget about him. Perversely, she found herself fretting to know where he was and what he was doing. Probably, she thought with a fresh flash of resentment, probably he’s even now in my office poring over my books with a microscope, deciding where to put in his silly tennis courts or how to concrete the grove.
The dinner hour came and went. B.J. had decided to forego supervising the dining room to have a few hours of peace. When she came downstairs to the lounge the lighting was muted, the hour late. The three-piece band hired for the benefit of the Saturday crowd had already packed their equipment. The music had been replaced by the murmurs and clinking glasses of the handful of people who remained. It was the quiet time of the evening, just before silence. B.J. allowed her thoughts to drift back to Taylor.
I’ve got two weeks to make him see reason, she reminded herself, exchanging goodnights as stragglers began to wander from the lounge. That should be plenty of time to make even the most insensitive businessman understand. I simply went about things in the wrong way. Tomorrow, I’ll start my campaign with a brand new strategy. I’ll keep my temper under control and use a great many smiles. I’m good at smiling when I put my mind to it.
Practicing her talent on the middle-aged occupant in room 224, B.J.’s confidence grew at his rapidly blinking appreciation. Yes, she concluded, smiles are much better than claws at this stage. A few smiles, a more sophisticated appearance, and a brisk, businesslike approach, and I’ll defeat the enemy before the war’s declared. Rejuvenated, she turned to the bartender who was lackadaisically wiping the counter. “Go on home, Don, I’ll clear up the rest.”
“Thanks, B.J.” Needing no second urging, he dropped his rag and disappeared through the door.
“It’s no trouble at all,” she told the empty space with a magnanimous gesture of one hand. “I really insist.”
Crossing the room, she began to gather half filled baskets of peanuts and empty glasses, switching on the small eye-level television for company. Around her, the inn settled for sleep, the groans and creaks so familiar, they went unnoticed. Now that the day was over, B.J. found the solitude for which she yearned.
Low, eerie music poured put of the television, drifting and floating through the darkened room. Glancing up, B.J. was soon mesmerized by a horror film. Kicking off her shoes, she slid onto a stool. The story was old and well-worn, but she was caught by a shot of clouds drifting over a full moon. She reached one hand absently for a basket of peanuts, settling them into her lap as the fog began to clear on the set to reveal the unknown terror, preceded by the rustle of leaves, and heavy breathing. With a small moan at the stalking monster’s distorted face, B.J. covered her eyes and waited for doom to claim the heroine.
“You’d see more without your hand in front of your eyes.”
As the voice came, disembodied in the darkness, B.J. shrieked, dislodging a shower of peanuts from her lap. “Don’t ever do that again!” she commanded, glaring up at Taylor’s grinning face.
“Sorry.” The apology lacked conviction. Leaning on the bar, he nodded toward the set. “Why do you have it on if you don’t want to watch?”
“I can’t help myself, it’s an obsession. But I always watch with my eyes closed. Now look, watch this part, I’ve seen it before.” She grabbed his sleeve with one hand and pointed with the other. “She’s going to walk right outside like an idiot. I ask you, would anyone with a working brain cell walk out into the pitch darkness when they hear something scraping at the window? Of course not,” she answered for him. “A smart person would be huddled under the bed waiting for it to go away. Oh.” She pulled him closer, burying her face against his chest as the monster’s face loomed in a close-up. “It’s horrible, I can’t watch. Tell me when it’s over.”
Slowly, it dawned on her that she was burrowing into his chest, his heartbeat steady against her ear. His fingers tangled in her hair, smoothing and soothing her as though comforting a child. She stiffened and started to pull back, but the hand in her hair kept her still.
“No, wait a minute, he’s still stalking about and leering. There.” He patted her shoulder and loosened his grip. “Saved by commercial television.”
Set free, B.J. fumbled off the stool and began gathering scattered peanuts and composure. “I’m afraid things got rather out of hand this afternoon, Mr. Reynolds.” Her voice was not quite steady, but she hoped he would attribute the waver to cowardice. “I must apologize for not completing your tour of the inn.”
He watched as she scrambled over the floor on her hands and knees, a curtain of pale hair concealing her face. “That’s all right. I wandered a bit on my own. I finally met Eddie when not in motion. He’s a very intense young man.”
She shifted away from him to search for more far reaching nuts. “He’ll be good at hotel management in a couple years. He just needs a little more experience.” Keeping her face averted, B.J. waited for the heat to cool from her cheeks.
“I met quite a few of the inn’s guests today. Everyone seems very fond of B.J.�
� He closed the distance between them and pushed back the hair which lay across her cheek. “Tell me, what does it stand for?”
“What?” Diverted by the fingers on her skin, she found it hard to concentrate on the conversation.
“B.J.” He smiled into bemused eyes. “What does it stand for?”
“Oh.” She returned the smile, stepping strategically out of reach. “I’m afraid that’s a closely guarded secret. I’ve never even told my mother.”
Behind her, the heroine gave a high-pitched, lilting scream. Scattering nuts again, B.J. threw herself into Taylor’s arms.
“Oh, I’m sorry, that caught me off guard.” Mortified, she lifted her face and attempted to pull away.
“No, this is the third time in one day you’ve been in this position.” One hand lifted, and traveled down the length of her hair as he held her still. “This time, I’m going to see what you taste like.”
Before she could protest, his mouth lowered to hers, at once firm and possessing. His arm around her waist brought her close to mold against him. His tongue found hers, and she was unaware whether he had parted her lips or if they had done so of their own volition. He lingered over her mouth, savoring its softness, deepening the kiss until she clung to him for balance. She told herself the sudden spiraling of her heartbeat was a reaction to the horror movie, the quick dizziness, the result of a missed dinner. Then she told herself nothing and only experienced.
“Very nice.” Taylor’s murmured approval trailed along her cheekbone, moving back to tease the corner of her mouth. “Why don’t we try it again?”
In instinctive defense, she pressed her hand into his chest to ward him off. Lightly, she told herself, praying for the earth to stop trembling, treat it lightly. “I’m afraid I don’t come in thirty-two flavors, Mr. Reynolds, and . . .”
“Taylor,” he interrupted, smiling down at the hand which represented no more of an obstacle than a blade of grass. “I decided this morning, when you stalked me in the office, that we’re going to know each other very well.”
“Mr. Reynolds . . .”
“Taylor,” he repeated, his eyes close and compelling. “And my decisions are always final.”
“Taylor,” she agreed, not wanting to debate a minor point when the distance between them was lessening despite the pressure against his chest. “Do you engage in this sort of activity with all the managers of your hotels?” Hoping to wound him with a scathing remark, B.J. was immediately disappointed when he tossed back his head and laughed.
“B.J., this current activity has nothing whatever to do with your position at the inn. I am merely indulging my weakness for women who look good in pigtails.”
“Don’t you kiss me again!” she ordered, struggling with a sudden desperation which surprised him into loosening his hold.
“You’ll have to choose between being demure or being provocative, B.J.” His tone was mild, but she saw as she backed away, his eyes had darkened with temper. “Either way we play, I’m going to win, but it would make the game easier to follow.”
“I don’t play this sort of game,” she retorted, “and I am neither demure nor provocative.”
“You’re a bit of both.” His hands slipped into his pockets, and he rocked gently on his heels as he studied her furious face. “It’s an intriguing combination.” His brow lifted in speculation. An expression of amusement flitted over his features. “But I suppose you already know that or you wouldn’t be so good at it.”
Forgetting her fears, B.J. took a step toward him. “The only thing I know is that I have absolutely no desire to intrigue you in any way. All that I want you to do is to keep your resort builder’s hands off this inn.” Her hands balled into tight fists. “I wish you’d go back to New York and sit in your penthouse.”
Before he could answer, B.J. turned and darted from the room. She hurried through the darkened lobby without even a backward glance.
Chapter 3
B.J. decided that making a fool of herself the previous evening had been entirely Taylor Reynolds’ responsibility. Today, she resolved, slipping a gray blazer over a white silk shirt, I will be astringently businesslike. Nonetheless, she winced at the memory of her naive plea that he not kiss her again, the absurd way her voice had shaken with the words. Why didn’t I come up with some cool, sophisticated retort? she asked herself. Because I was too busy throwing peanuts around the room and making a fool of myself, she answered the question to her frowning mirror image. Why did a simple kiss cloak my brain with layers of cheesecloth? The woman in the mirror stared back without answering.
He had caught her off guard, B.J. decided as she arranged her hair in a neat, businesslike roll at her neck’s nape. It was so unexpected, she had overreacted. Despite herself, she relived the sensation of his mouth claiming hers, his breath warm on her cheek. The knee trembling, brain spinning feeling never before experienced, washed over her again, and briskly, she shook her head to dispel it. It was simply a matter of the unexpected creating a false intenseness, like pricking your thumb with a needle while sewing.
It was important, she knew, to refrain from thinking of Taylor Reynolds on a personal level, and to remember he held the fate of the Lakeside Inn in his hands.
Dirty pool, her mind muttered, recalling his easy threat to close the inn if she pressed her resignation. Emotional blackmail. He knew he held all the aces, and waited, with that damnably appealing smile, for her to fold or call. Well, she decided, and smoothed the charcoal material of her skirt, I play a pretty mean game of poker myself, Taylor Reynolds. After trying out several types of smiles in the mirror, polite, condescending, dispassionate, she left the room with brisk steps.
Sunday mornings were usually quiet. Most of the guests slept late, rising in dribbles to wander downstairs for breakfast. Traditionally, B.J. spent these quiet hours closeted in her office with whatever paperwork she felt merited attention. From experience, she had found this particular system worked well, being the least likely time for calamities, minor or major, to befall guests or staff.
She grabbed a quick coffee in the kitchen before plunging into the sea of invoices and account books.
“How providential.” She jerked slightly as a hand captured her arm, and she found herself being led to the dining room. “Now, I won’t have to have breakfast alone.”
The dozens of flaming retorts which sprang to mind at Taylor’s presumptuousness were dutifully banked down. B.J. answered with her seasoned polite smile. “How kind of you to ask. I hope you spent a pleasant night.”
“As stated in your public relations campaign, the inn is conducive to restful nights.”
Waving aside her hostess, B.J. moved through the empty tables to a corner booth. “I think you’ll find all my publicity is based on fact, Mr. Reynolds.” Sliding in, B.J. struggled to keep her voice light and marginally friendly. Remnants of their argument in her office and their more personal encounter in the lounge clung to her, and she attempted to erase both from her mind.
“So far I find no discrepancies.”
Maggie hovered by the table, her smile dreamily absent. No doubt she was thinking of her date last night with Wally, B.J. thought. “Toast and coffee, Maggie,” she said kindly, breaking the trance. The waitress scribbled on her pad, her cheeks flushed.
“You know,” Taylor observed after giving his order, “you’re very good at your job.”
B.J. chided herself for her pleasure at the unexpected praise. “Why do you say that?”
“Not only are your books in perfect order, but you know your staff and handle them with unobtrusive deftness. You just managed to convey a five-minute lecture with one brief look.”
“It makes it easier when you understand your staff and their habits.” Her brows lifted in easy humor. “You see, I happen to know Maggie’s mind is still focused on the double feature she and Wally didn’t watch last night.”
His grin flashed, boyish and quick.
“The staff is very much like a family.” B.J. wa
s careful to keep her tone casual, her hands busy pouring coffee. “The guests feel that. They enjoy the informality which is always accompanied by quality service. Our rules are flexible, and the staff is trained to adjust to the individual needs of the guests. The inn is a basic place, not for those who require formal entertainment or unlimited luxury. Fresh air, good food and a pleasant atmosphere are our enticements, and we deliver.”
She paused as Maggie placed their breakfast order on the table.
“Do you have a moral objection to resorts, B.J.?”
The unexpectedness of Taylor’s question put her off. Blinking in confusion at the long, lean fingers as they held a knife, spreading Betty Jackson jelly on toast, she stammered, “No . . . why of course not.” Those fingers, she recalled irrelevantly, had tangled in her hair. “No,” she repeated more firmly, meeting his eyes. “Resorts are fine if they are run correctly, as yours are. But their function is entirely different from ours. In a proper resort there’s an activity for every minute of the day. Here, the atmosphere is more relaxed, a little fishing or boating, skiing, and above all the menu. The Lakeside Inn is perfect exactly as it is,” she concluded more fiercely than she had intended and watched one brow rise, nearly meeting the curling thickness of his hair.
“That’s yet to be determined.” He lifted his cup to his lips.
His tone was mild, but B.J. recognized traces of anger in the disconcertingly direct eyes. She dropped her eyes to her own cup as if enticed by the rich, black liquid.
“‘The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night.’”
The quote brought her head up sharply, and looking into Mr. Leander’s smiling, expectant face, B.J. searched her brain. “‘Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.’”