Rescuing the Bad Boy

by Jessica Lemmon

  Sofie bristled. She didn’t love confrontation. But she also wouldn’t take it lying down. Being good at conflict resolution meant she was also good at keeping her head during said conflict.

  “Open Arms is a valued partner in this community,” he continued. “I have a responsibility to the man buying the mansion after this fiasco. Part of that responsibility is not tarnishing his image before he gets to town and builds a B-and-B. It’s the best business decision for everyone involved that the mansion be synonymous with helping the people in this town.”

  “How magnanimous of you,” Sofie said dryly.

  Faith stirred in her chair, ready to rip into Donny if needed.

  “Point being, I will not stand in your way.” He pointed to the key on her desk. “Skeleton. Fits the front, back, and side door. Also fits the attic, but I don’t keep it locked.”

  Done with his speech, he turned to leave.

  “Will you be there?” Sofie asked as his hand closed around the door handle. “Or do I have free run?”

  He didn’t face her, but he turned slightly, his profile dark in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

  “My work will not stop because you’re using a room or two. I won’t stand in your way. But I expect you to stay out of mine.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  When he informed Sofie he wasn’t willing to stop his renovation of the house, Donovan wasn’t bluffing. To get the mansion ready for sale, he had land to clear, repairs to make, and an entire basement full of home-shopping garbage and family heirlooms—God help him—to unearth.

  Gertrude Pate’s spending habit had gotten out of hand over the years. He angled a glance at the full-size carousel horse leaning against one of the bedroom walls, its mouth open in a whinny.

  Way out of hand.

  Alessandre liked to preserve some of the original pieces from any structure he acquired, so Donovan knew he wouldn’t be throwing everything out. There were a few antique dressers, table and chairs in the dining room, and key pieces throughout the house he would leave to Alessandre’s discretion. Also staying, the books in the library downstairs, and possibly the hot tub, assuming it was in working order. Currently it was outside on one of the balconies, empty, the bottom filled with dried, brown leaves.

  But a few things had met their demise in the Dumpster he had delivered this morning. Mattresses, for example. Worn recliners from the TV room. Anything unfit for a luxury bed-and-breakfast had to go.

  He’d been hauling crap out to the cobblestone driveway for nearly seven days, and wasn’t close to halfway done. Too bad the hot tub wasn’t up and running so he could soak in it. His back killed.

  Not only from hauling things up and down—and back up and back down—countless stairs, but because he’d been alternately sleeping on the pile of springs that was the red velvet couch or the lumpy L-shaped sectional in the great room. He’d thrown out the mattresses first, figuring he’d be gone soon enough.

  Never before had he been so wrong.

  The idea of sleeping in a hotel or cabin in town was out. Last thing he wanted was to rub elbows with the locals. He was at capacity for blasts from his past.

  Tonight, maybe he would sleep in the back of Trixie under the stars.

  Leaving the painted horse behind, he closed that door and popped open another, hoping to find this room empty. What he found instead were porcelain dolls. Hundreds of them with creepy faces and old clothing. So many damn dolls. He closed the door and heaved a frustrated breath.

  Again, he thought about hiring someone else to deal with the rest. But he’d still need to be here. No one knew Alessandre’s taste like Donovan, what to keep, what to toss.

  He took the stairs down to the foyer. When he reached the last step, the front door swung inward. In the threshold stood a muscular guy with sandy-colored hair, a scowl on his face, and biceps like tree trunks.

  “Son of a bitch. It is you,” said Connor McClain.

  His shoulders had doubled in size since Donovan last saw him. The military had changed Connor’s body. And his face. There was darkness in his eyes Donovan didn’t remember being there when he’d returned from his last tour in Afghanistan.

  When Donovan left Evergreen Cove seven years ago, it was Connor who hunted him down in New York. He tracked down Gertrude, which led him to Caroline, who in turn gave him Donovan’s phone number.

  One minute, Donovan had been watching television in Aless’s guesthouse, the next he’d been getting an earful from a guy he hadn’t seen in two years.

  “Clean out your guest room,” Connor had told him over the phone. “I’m visiting before I deploy.”

  When he showed up the next week, Donovan learned why the sudden interest in serving the country. Connor’s girlfriend had been pregnant, and he’d learned the baby was not his. He enlisted in the army the day after he found out.

  There’d been no talking him out of it.

  He may be several years younger than Donovan, but Connor had always been ten times more mature.

  Now, seeing his old friend in the foyer, a welcome light in a very dark place, Donovan couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

  “McClain,” he greeted, extending a hand as he approached. His buddy clasped his palm and pulled him in to slap him hard on the back.

  When Connor backed away, his smile was wide. “Scott said you were back.”

  Nice to know Scott’s habit of repeating absolutely everything hadn’t changed. “When’d you see him?”

  “Ah, I fixed a plumbing problem last night.”

  Donovan crossed his arms over his chest and lifted an eyebrow at his friend. “Plumbing.”

  Connor’s father’s company, McClain’s Handyman Services, was run by his father, Roger, and with an iron fist. Roger was as blue-collar as they came. Connor didn’t share the enjoyment of repairing sinks or snaking toilets. He’d worked for McClain’s because he had to. And he had to because, at the time, he’d believed he was the father of Maya’s baby.

  “It’s temporary,” Connor said, his smile erasing. Whenever he came home, he resumed working for McClain’s in the interim. Evidently, he’d yet to retire his tool belt.

  Changing the subject, Connor tipped his head toward the windows behind him. “You need a professional landscaper.”

  Did he ever. The brush was so overgrown, Donovan had no idea where to start. He hadn’t yet been to the cottage at the back of the property and wondered if he could even get to it through the tangle of growth that had no doubt overtaken the grounds.

  “I do. Know any?”

  Landscaping wasn’t Connor’s pastime, it was his true passion. Last time they’d talked, Connor mentioned getting the business off the ground once he was out of the service.

  A cocky smile found his friend’s face. “For a price, I can hook you up with the best.” He glanced around the mansion. “Guy who owns a place like this has to have a ton of cash.”

  He didn’t know about “a ton,” but Gertrude left an inheritance with the mansion and it wasn’t a small one. There would be money left even after he cleaned the place out and returned to his life in New York.

  Connor raised his chin and studied one of the plaster medallions on the ceiling. “I always heard about this place, but I’ve never seen it. Incredible structure.” Before Donovan could respond, Connor gave him another grin. “I’m gonna charge you a shitload.”

  Hell, if anyone deserved a healthy chunk of change, it was Connor.

  “Deal.” Donovan slapped his friend’s solid shoulder. “You can start today.”

  The steering wheel of her unassuming white Honda was damp with sweat. Sofie took one hand at a time from the wheel to slick her palms down her skirt. Nerves were getting the best of her—something she couldn’t afford if she wanted to keep her head around Donovan.

  It was just a house. A house she’d been to dozens of times before. She’d met with Gertrude Pate, she’d met caterers and florists, she’d planned events, all under the mansion’s roof.

>   She’d just never been here when Donovan Pate was under said roof.

  Oh, yes you have.

  Right. Once.

  “Struggle today, strength tomorrow,” she said to herself as she parked in the driveway.

  Sofie hadn’t seen him since he’d darkened her doorstep at Make It an Event to deliver a key to the mansion. She had no idea what had changed his mind but concluded his reasons didn’t matter.

  After he’d walked out the door, Faith said, “He looks the same as he did seven years ago.”

  Hot, her tone implied.

  Sofie had reluctantly agreed on the inside. On the outside, she muttered a noncommittal, “I guess.”

  For the last week, she’d been doing everything she could to put off the inevitable visit to the mansion, figuring she’d wait until Donovan left town. But he hadn’t left town. She knew because she’d seen his primer-colored Jeep here, there, and everywhere.

  Then a few days ago, Ruby Voss had called and invited her to Open Arms. Ruby introduced her to the children either visiting or living there. Seeing those kids had been heartbreaking in a way Sofie hadn’t expected. Another thing she hadn’t expected was for the nonprofit maven to have a hidden agenda.

  Ruby needed a favor. A big one.

  “You know how we like the children to help with the charity dinner. Serve, help cook if the caterer agrees,” Ruby had started, straightening the sleeves on a smart red suit.

  “Of course.” Sofie was a step ahead of her. “The caterer loved the idea. We have extra hands in the kitchen to oversee the kids.”

  Despite her formal dress, Ruby’s smile was warm and genuine. “Wonderful.” Then she took a breath, her smile dropping. “Recently, we lost our funding for the night before. The kids who are chosen to help with the charity dinner do a campout. We find this is good for them. To get them out of here.” She’d gestured at the facility more resembling a big house. “Pate Mansion would be perfect for that endeavor.”

  For one terrifying second, Sofie thought Ruby was asking if the kids could stay in the bedrooms at the mansion. That was something she was sure she couldn’t negotiate. Not with Donovan “stay out of my way” Pate.

  “Did you know the mansion sits on nearly twenty acres?” Ruby’s brows winged into her stylishly coiffed brown hair.

  “Something like that,” Sofie had commented with caution.

  Her smile returned, pearly teeth bared. “Plenty of room for the kids to make camp. And, right out back. They would need access to a washroom so they can get cleaned up and dressed for dinner. If you think about it, staying on site is kind of genius. They will be there, ready to work, ready to assist the caterer in the kitchen at an early hour. Ready to help you set up in the ballroom if needed.”

  It was a good pitch, but nowhere near Sofie’s jurisdiction.

  “This was not part of the original contract, Ruby.” Sofie had bitten her lip, thinking how to turn her down gently. “I’m not sure if you know, but the mansion has changed hands since Gertrude passed away. Her grandson is preparing the house for sale. I’m not sure he would be amenable to the campout.”

  That was an understatement. Donovan and amenable didn’t belong in the same sentence.

  Ruby’s smile had cooled. “But you can ask.” It hadn’t been a question, allowing no room for argument.

  “Of course,” Sofie agreed.

  And so, here she was. At the mansion. To ask a favor from the man who simply wanted her to stay out of the way.

  Strength.

  She parked, noting the obvious: a very large truck standing in the driveway and three very large men at the back of it. One of them she recognized as Connor McClain, local landscaping guy. He used to work at the Wharf back in the day. Now back home for good and warming up his business, Sofie took advantage of his talents and had hired him for several events.

  Connor didn’t acknowledge her arrival—must not have noticed her before he turned to walk inside the mansion. The other two men wore gray shirts, stitched tags on the material matching the logo on the truck. Local thrift shop.

  Dressed in her work clothes, a smart black pencil skirt, cream-colored blouse, her hair pinned back into a twist, Sofie got out of her car and approached the front door. She’d thought about changing into something more casual since she sure as heck wasn’t trying to impress Donovan, but by the same token, she also wasn’t going to change her appearance for him, either.

  Careful not to wedge her new stilettos into the cobblestone driveway, she picked her way in the direction of the front porch, stopping short when a balding man with a large mustache hefted a box. Thick, black Sharpie spelled out the word SILVER on one side.

  Sofie pictured the pieces inside clearly—knives, spoons, forks, tongs, ladles, and various other implements, their handles engraved with fleur de lis. She knew what they looked like because she and Gertrude had carefully wrapped the pieces in fabric and packed them into this very box. Sofie had wedged the can of polish into one corner herself.

  Last year, for the USO charity dinner, Sofie suggested they use the antique silver flatware for the biggest sponsors who garnered special seating. They charged extra for the perk, which directly benefited the charity and added nothing to the cost of the event.

  Gertrude had dug out her fine china as well.

  And now the silverware was being loaded onto a truck heading to a thrift store. Adjusting her purse onto her shoulder, Sofie smiled up at the man loading the box.

  “Excuse me.”

  With a grunt, he dropped the edge of the box onto the truck and gave it a shove. The man inside dragged it to the back.

  “Excuse me,” she repeated. “That box is being donated?”

  “Hey, you are smarter than you look,” came the mustached man’s response.

  “Um, you can’t take the box of silver. Or that one,” she said, tipping her head at another box marked CANDLES sitting in the truck.

  “Sorry, lady. You ain’t in charge here, so we will be taking whatever the men in the house tell us to. Jim!” the mustached man called to the man inside the truck, “going to need help with the next one.”

  “What is it?” Jim asked.

  “Plates. Don’t throw that one around.”

  “No, no,” Sofie interrupted with a strained smile. “You can’t take the china, either.” She took a calming breath and tried not to have a heart attack. Could be worse. At least she’d arrived before they left with the dinner service she’d promised to her biggest contributors.

  The man with a mustache turned and glared down at her from his height. “Listen, lady, you are in the way and we have a job to do. I suggest you scuttle your sweet patoot out of the way before we run you over with the dolly.”

  Her teeth clacked shut, offended in more ways than she’d thought possible. She opened her mouth to defend herself, and her sweet… what had he called it? A patoot? But she didn’t get out a single word before Donovan appeared in the driveway, stalking toward the truck.

  And he did not look happy.

  “Tell me I didn’t just hear that, Mario,” he told the man with a mustache, his tone eerily calm.

  “Hotter than the blazes out here,” Mario commented, mopping his brow with a stained orange rag. “Your visitor, while cute, is a pain in my neck.”

  Donovan smiled at the man, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “You think you have a pain in your neck now, wait ’til I lay you out on this cobblestone.”

  Sofie snapped her head over to her rescuer. Donovan’s nostrils flared, his arm muscles coiled. If he were a snake, he would be rattling.

  Mario picked up on none of the cues. “Listen, we’re on a tight schedule, here…”

  Ignoring the other man, Donovan turned soft eyes on her. “Something you need off this truck?”

  “Yes,” she said, still a little shocked by the conversation so far. “At least two boxes, but I can’t be sure there aren’t more. Last year, Gertrude and I set aside several items for future charity dinners.”

 
; He gave a curt nod and turned to the men. “Mario, Jim, this is Sofia Martin. Anything she needs off this truck, and anything she doesn’t want you to put on it, you will listen to her.”

  Mario’s cheeks went ruddy and his dark eyes flashed. He sent Sofie a succinct frown, but then his eyes went back to Donny.

  “No problem,” he grumbled. She couldn’t help thinking he didn’t mean that.

  Jim, far less bothered by the change of plans, nodded his agreement, grabbed the dolly, and wheeled toward the house. Mario started to follow but before he could, Donovan stepped in his path.

  “I ever hear you refer to a single part of her body as ‘sweet’ again, or if I hear you insinuate any part of her body is a ‘pain,’ I will lay you out. I don’t care how uneven the fight is, how much older than me you are, or that you might sue me or call the police. I. Will. Lay. You. Out.”

  Donovan had leaned a little closer to Mario’s face while he was making his threat. The older man wasn’t exactly shaking, but Sofie could see he wasn’t interested in calling Donovan on the threat, either.

  “Understood?” Donovan straightened, gave the older man an unaffected smile, and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Mario’s eyes danced along the bent tree tat tracking up Donovan’s forearm, the inked waves and swirls poking out of his shirtsleeve. “Sure thing, boss. I get grouchy when it’s hot.”

  “I get grouchy where Sofie’s involved.”

  Head down, Mario said no more and walked inside.

  Donovan turned to her, what looked like concern bending his eyebrows. “You okay?”

  Seriously? She was fine. What he’d done was sort of… sweet. In a scary way.

  Then why don’t you feel scared?

  Because she was too busy feeling flattered.

  “I’m sure he would’ve responded the same if you simply asked him to be more polite. I don’t think all that…”—sexy chest beating—“posturing was necessary.”

  My house, my rules,” he replied. “No one talks to you like that. Not ever.”

  Her heart kicked against her ribs. Chivalry was not dead.