Crazy in Love

by Lani Diane Rich

  “So, did Ms. Daly need anything else?”

  Hmmm. Did Ms. Daly need anything else? The idea struck like lightning, and Jake smiled as he ran with it. “Actually, now that you mention it. Go ahead and block out the Rose Banquet Room for . . . say . . . one o’clock. She wants to hold a staff meeting.”

  Annabelle nodded, scribbling, then looked back up at Jake with hungry eyes. “What’s the meeting about?”

  Jake shrugged innocently. “I have no idea. I think it’s just a get-to-know-you thing. She seemed really interested in meeting the staff. Tell everyone to bring all their questions.”

  She leaned forward, her chin in her hand. “Really? Because everyone’s kinda freaked out about a sale. Do you think she’s going to sell? Because I hear that the big chains all come in and cut salaries and then fire everyone who doesn’t quit.”

  “Annabelle, come on. That’s ridiculous. You and I both know that big chains disembowel everyone and stick the heads on pikes to stake at the four corners of the village.”

  Annabelle giggled and rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

  “Can’t. I have one more favor to ask you.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Let that trained monkey out of its cage and block out a room for me.”

  Annabelle huffed and reached for her mouse, waking the screensaver on the computer, then glanced up at Jake. “Look away.”

  Jake turned his eyes ceilingward as Annabelle tapped in the password. “I’m personally offended that you don’t trust me.”

  “Oh, don’t take it personally. It’s just that it took me a long time to find all that money last time. Okay. You can look now.”

  He lowered his eyes and leaned over the counter, watching her. “You know, it would be a lot easier if you’d just show the rest of us how to work the system.”

  “Mmmm, maybe,” she said, tapping her way into the computer. For someone so . . . well, dim . . . she sure did type like lightning. “So, you need a room blocked out? For how long?”

  “I don’t know. Long as you can give me. It’s a just-in-case thing.”

  Annabelle raised her eyebrows. “Planning on entertaining a lady friend?”

  Jake shrugged. “I just think it’s a good idea to have it around. In case someone’s too drunk to drive home.” Or thinks she’s being haunted by her dead aunt. “Put the key in the bar safe for me?”

  She nodded. “No problem.”

  “All right. I’m gonna go home and get a little sleep before the big meeting.” He tapped the desk twice in good-bye and turned toward the front door.

  “Wait, Jake!” Annabelle jumped up from her seat and hung over the front desk.

  Jake turned again. “Yeah?”

  “The niece. You didn’t tell me what she’s like.”

  Jake took a second to contemplate. What is Flynn Daly like?

  “She’s like a Disney heroine after a fifth of scotch,” he said, then escaped into the daylight.

  Chapter Five

  Flynn tucked the last of the cow creamers into the shoe box she’d found in the back of the closet, and then picked at the ragged edge on the roll of duct tape she’d found under the sink. Even though she knew, in her heart, that she had dreamed putting them away the day before, she saw no reason to take chances now.

  This time, those damn cows were staying put.

  After she’d attached enough duct tape to them to secure them for the rest of their unnatural lives, she tucked the shoe box into the very back of the front closet, stood up, and shut the door.

  There, she thought, and stuck the duct tape on the shelf as a reminder to anyone who might need reminding of just who was embodied here.

  She checked her watch. It was getting close to noon. She had planned to go to the front desk and retrieve the box of stuff Freya’d ordered for her, but the fact was, she didn’t really want it. Not enough to deal with two dozen Jake Tuckers, all there haranguing her about selling the inn. She knew she’d have to go down eventually, be a “presence” or whatever, but she wanted to get it clear in her head exactly what she would say.

  It doesn’t matter what you say, Freya’s voice played in her head. What matters is that they see you as an authority figure. Don’t get friendly, don’t get personal. Just walk around like you own the place and tell them only what they need to know. They’ll all fall in line.

  At the time, it had seemed like sound advice.

  Now, it seemed not specific enough. Did her bartender sacking out on her couch count as getting personal? Had she violated the “need to know” rule when she told him about being haunted by Aunt Esther? And how exactly does one “walk around like you own the place”? Flynn was pretty sure she walked the same way whether she owned a place or not.

  Although, technically, she’d never owned anything before. And she didn’t really own this place, either; her father did. Still, she wasn’t comfortable with her task here, so secluding herself in the cottage—while perhaps not the mature choice—had been the preferable one.

  She checked her watch. Five minutes to noon. She could always stand up to Gordon Chase and hide out here for the rest of the day, except that she was going to have to face the music eventually, anyway, and she was intrigued by Chase. She wondered if he was really as bad as Tucker had made him out to be, or if they were just rivals who’d fought over something stupid, like a woman. Or a pizza. She wouldn’t put it past either of them, and it sure would explain a lot.

  Either way, it didn’t matter. She couldn’t hide out here forever. Sooner or later she’d have to deal with things, and it might as well be sooner.

  She grabbed her purse off the half-moon table and headed out the door, locking it behind her. Once outside, she took a deep breath and tried to walk like she owned the place. Holding her head high, she attempted to view her surroundings as though they were hers. The trees that filtered the gorgeous fall sun into dappled patches that grazed her feet; the cobblestone walkway that led her past the east wing; the birds that chirped as she walked by, including one that almost pooped on her shoulder. All hers. It worked, kind of, until she found her way to the huge French doors at the front, pushed through them, and . . .

  . . . wow.

  The rich red carpeting was the first thing to grab her notice. It had obviously been there for a while, but it still looked great. The walls were covered in deep cherrywood panels up to the wainscoting, then luscious mauve wallpaper freckled with a subtle Victorian design stretched up to the corniced ceiling, which was easily twenty feet high. Above her head, a tremendous chandelier released light in glimmering droplets. The lobby stretched out to her left with a series of seating clusters—some with chairs, some with love seats, all intimate—that revolved around a fireplace so large you could easily fit a horse in it. To her right, the interior entrance to the restaurant—she’d seen the exterior entrance the night before, when trying all the outside doors until she found the bar, which was tucked away on the other side of the restaurant.

  I own this place. I belong here, she affirmed internally, although the queasiness in her stomach argued the other way.

  “Can I help you?”

  Startled, Flynn glanced up and saw a perky young blonde smiling at her from behind the huge front desk.

  Flynn swallowed, held her back straight, and tried to walk like she owned the place. She caught her toe on the carpet and flailed a bit, but managed to regain her footing and continued the rest of the way to the front desk without incident.

  “Yes. Hi. I’m Flynn Daly.”

  The blonde grinned and held out her hand. Flynn took it.

  “Oh, hi! I’m Annabelle DeCross. I’m your concierge-slash-bookkeeper-slash–Girl Friday. Anything you need, really. I’m so glad to meet you. How was your trip? I heard you took the train. Are you afraid of flying, because I’m terrified. It’s totally unnatural to be thirty thousand feet in the air, don’t you think, Flynn? Oh, is it okay that I call you Flynn? Or would you prefer Ms. Daly? Esther always had us call her Esther,
because she was Esther, you know?”

  Annabelle finally released Flynn’s hand and Flynn forced a smile as she pulled it back, hoping Annabelle wouldn’t be able to tell that she was kinda weirded out. Flynn had always been naturally suspicious of perky people, and Annabelle was beyond perky.

  Give her a chance, Flynn thought. People are just like this out here. Get used to it.

  “Nice to meet you, Annabelle,” she said. “You can call me Flynn, that’s fine. Um, did anything arrive for me today?”

  Annabelle’s eyes widened and she giggled. “Oh, you mean all the boxes?”

  “All the boxes?” Exactly how much had Freya ordered, anyway? She’d known it had been expensive, but she hadn’t expected more than one or two packages. “How many boxes?”

  “Six. I had Herman put them in the back of the Rose Banquet Room because I didn’t want to bother you if you were still sleeping, and also, he almost threw his back out working on the roof last month, so I thought maybe Clyde—he’s Mercy’s sous chef, have you met Mercy yet? Anyway, I thought maybe Clyde or Jake could help you, maybe after the big meeting?”

  Flynn blinked, feeling like she’d just walked into the middle of an Oscar Wilde play without a script. “Uh . . . big meeting?”

  “Yes.” Annabelle nodded enthusiastically and Flynn was entranced by the bounciness of her hair. What shampoo did this girl use, anyway? “Jake told me all about it, so I got you the Rose Banquet Room for one o’clock and I’ve called everyone, even the people who don’t work today, and most everybody’s going to be here because we’re all really excited about meeting you.”

  A big meeting.

  Jake told her.

  And everyone was coming. Plenty of witnesses to keep her from killing the bartender. Smart move. Flynn forced a tight smile. “That’s great. Thank you.”

  “So, with all those boxes . . .” Annabelle stood up, moved closer, and lowered her voice. “I mean, with all that stuff, you must be planning on staying awhile, right? So, you’re not going to sell, are you?”

  “Well . . . we, uh . . . We haven’t made any decisions.”

  Annabelle patted her hand. “It’s okay. I understand, if you want to save the announcement for the big meeting. I promise I’ll keep my trap shut.” Annabelle somehow managed to contain her grin long enough to mimic locking her lips and throwing away the key. Flynn stared until she realized she was staring, then forced herself to speak.

  “Thank you,” she finally managed, but as she spoke, Annabelle’s focus went to a spot behind Flynn’s shoulder and her eyes darkened considerably. Flynn was just about to turn around when she heard Gordon Chase’s voice booming behind her.

  “Flynn,” he said, marching up to her and planting a kiss on her cheek. Flynn had to work not to recoil from him. “So good to see you again.” He looked at Annabelle and didn’t seem to notice the daggers she was shooting at him. “Good to see you again, Annabelle.”

  Annabelle stood up straight and her lips thinned to form a tight, disapproving line. “Your table is ready for you in the restaurant.”

  Flynn glanced at Annabelle. She couldn’t remember asking for a reservation, but then again, her mind was still processing . . . well . . . Annabelle.

  “Oh?” Gordon Chase’s eyebrows lifted. “We’re eating . . . here?”

  “Um . . .” Flynn glanced at Annabelle. “Yes?”

  Annabelle nodded primly and motioned toward the restaurant with her left hand.

  Flynn looked back at Gordon Chase, whose eyes might have been registering a tiny bit of alarm, although it was hard to tell, because nothing seemed to faze him. So, once again, there she was, lacking even the slightest clue as to what was going on.

  “Is that okay?” she asked.

  Whatever it was she thought she might have seen in Chase’s eyes vanished, and he smiled brightly. “It’s perfect.”

  He pulled the heavy wood and glass door open, then stepped aside and gave a “ladies first” motion with his arm. Flynn smiled as she cut past him into the restaurant, the details of which—high-ceilinged, corniced, and gorgeous—fled past her. Mostly, she was noticing the looks.

  The first one came from the hostess, a tall woman with a patrician nose whose name tag read Nancy and who refused to make eye contact with Gordon Chase. As a matter of fact, Flynn would swear that Nancy deliberately dropped the wine list hard enough to slosh his water.

  The next look came from the waiter, Gregory, who smiled warmly at Flynn as she gave her order, then snatched the menu from Chase’s hand so fast he gave Chase a small paper cut.

  Then there was the couple in the corner. Their looks weren’t actively hostile, more shamelessly intrigued. Chase had a rep about town, that was for sure.

  Chase, however, seemed immune to it. As they drank their wine and waited for their salads, he seemed positively chipper. Either he hadn’t noticed the seemingly intense dislike surrounding him, which Flynn thought doubtful, or he genuinely didn’t care, which she found fascinating. Even Freya, for all her toughness, cared at least a little what people thought. But Chase just glanced over the menu like there was nothing interesting happening at all.

  Fascinating.

  “So,” he said, leaning slightly forward, “how do you like the place? It’s nice, isn’t it? Have you seen the rose garden?”

  “Just from my window,” Flynn said, taking a sip of the wine Gregory had recommended. It was good stuff. “I haven’t really had much time to get acclimated yet.”

  “Well, it’s a terrific property.” Chase took a sip of his wine and gave her that strange, tinking smile again. “You should see the whole area while you’ve got the chance.”

  Flynn put her wineglass down. “While I’ve got the chance?”

  “Well, I assume it’s temporary. Isn’t it?” Chase raised one eyebrow casually. “I mean, a number of established companies have been interested in this property for years. I tried to encourage Esther to sell, but she never listened to a word I had to say. I could understand, I guess. She’d grown up here; it was home. But honestly, Flynn, a large company with resources like that? It would make a world of difference for these people. Updated systems, bigger paychecks.” He waved around generically, indicating the staff. “Not to mention what a boon that kind of business would bring to the town.”

  Wow. Agendas, agendas everywhere. And for some reason, Chase’s bugged her even more than Tucker’s had.

  “So, what?” Flynn said carefully. “You don’t think I should try to run this place myself?”

  Something like surprise flashed over Chase’s face, but he hid it under a smile. “Are you thinking of doing that?”

  Not on a bet. But she wasn’t going to tell Chase that. She had a feeling it would be a good idea to play her cards close to her chest, at least until she knew what he wanted from her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m still thinking about it. Is that so crazy?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Chase said, keeping his eyes on hers lazily. Almost seductively, Flynn thought. “I don’t doubt for a moment that you could succeed at anything you put your mind to. If you wanted to run this place, I bet you’d do great. But it’s not really what you do, is it? Hospitality, I mean?”

  “My family runs a number of hospitality properties,” she said, pretty sure that was true. Her dad mostly bought properties, developed them, and then sold them to the highest bidder. Some of the properties had been hotels, so he must have run them during the process. Not that the truth mattered; at this point, she’d claim to be Paris Hilton herself if it wiped that smirk off Chase’s face.

  As he watched her, his eyes dancing, the smirk stayed firmly in place. “But it’s not what you do, though, is it? And your father chose to send you. I find that very . . . telling.”

  He stabbed a leaf of his salad with an expression of smug satisfaction, as though he were an ancient hunter taking down a wildebeest for the tribe. Igh, Flynn thought, every part of her body bristling with intense dislike. While Tucker
’s researching her and her family had been annoying, Chase’s was outright pissing her off. She sat up straighter, and decided to switch defense for offense.

  With this guy, she had a feeling she was going to enjoy taking offense.

  “So,” she said, leaning an elbow on the table and her chin into her curled hand, “how do you do it?”

  Chase gave her a confused half smile. “Do what?”

  Flynn gestured toward the wait staff and the diners. “Not care. I mean, everyone here just hates the shit out of you. I can tell. I’m sensitive to those things. But it doesn’t seem to bother you, not even a teensy little bit. Is it because you don’t know that they despise you, or that you don’t care?”

  Chase took another sip of his wine. “People liking or disliking me is of no consequence. I’m a businessman, and some people are not going to like what I do sometimes. If I let it bother me, I lose my advantage.” He leaned forward a bit. “And, just to let you know, I’m more popular in other places.”

  “So, you’re saying the people here have particular reason not to like you?”

  Chase eyed her for a long moment, and she sensed that he was evaluating her while forming his answer. “There’s a man here who thinks I’m responsible for everything that’s gone wrong in this town and in his life, and he’s a very convincing guy. These people like him, so they don’t like me.”

  Ah. Tucker. “Or maybe their disliking you has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with you.” She shrugged playfully. “Just a theory.”

  Chase paused for a moment, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You know, some men don’t go for ballbusters, but I don’t happen to be one of them. I like you.”

  Flynn grinned. “I’ve got spunk.”

  Chase chuckled, then picked up his wineglass and took another sip. He opened his mouth to speak again, but coughed lightly into his hand before he could get the words out. His expression went from smarmy and amused to concerned, and his skin seemed to be getting . . . blotchy.

  Igh.

  “Are you okay?” Flynn asked. She picked up her untouched water and handed it to him.