Summer at Seaside Cove
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Teaser chapter
FROM NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
“Ms. D’Alessandro has the nimbleness of a thief when it comes to crafting relationship dynamics.”
—Heartstrings Reviews
RAVES FOR JACQUIE D’ALESSANDRO
“On par with some of the best works from seasoned authors like Julia Quinn and Stephanie Laurens.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A delightful tale of honor and duty, curses and quests, treachery and betrayal, love and passion.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A delight from start to finish … Romance at its enchanting best!”
—Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author
“Overflows with romance, passion, humor, and danger.”
—Huntress Book Reviews
“An entertaining, often humorous Regency romantic romp that also provides a lesson in sticking to one’s values even if it hurts to do so.”
—The Best Reviews
“Ms. D’Alessandro’s books are not only keepers—they are treasures.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“An engaging tale, combining witty dialogue with charming characters … Jacquie D’Alessandro is always a solid read for me.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“An exhilarating historical romance starring two delightful lead characters.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Lush, sensuous, intriguing—hang whatever kudos you want on it … An outstanding read, and historical romance readers will absolutely not want to miss it.”
—The Romance Reader
“A fantastic story; it’s sexy, funny, and heartwarming.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“There are so many skillful twists and turns in the deftly drawn plot that one gets dizzy reading them … Decidedly a page-turner.”
—Curled Up With a Good Book
“Pulsating with sexual tension and a cast of marvelous characters whose dialogue is fresh and filled with passion, this delicious tale is a definite keeper.”
—Rendezvous
“[A] charming, funny romp … destined to delight readers with its fast pace, snappy dialogue, winsome characters, and the sweet yet sexy love story.”
—Romantic Times
Berkley Sensation Titles by Jacquie D’Alessandro
SEDUCED AT MIDNIGHT
TEMPTED AT MIDNIGHT
SUMMER AT SEASIDE COVE
Anthologies
DOUBLE THE PLEASURE
(with Lori Foster, Deirdre Martin, and Penny McCall)
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
SUMMER AT SEASIDE COVE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / May 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Jacquie D’Alessandro.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN : 978-1-101-51470-2
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BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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This book is dedicated with my love and gratitude to Jenni Grizzle. Thank you so much for keeping me on track and for being such a great friend. And especially for being older than me. ☺ And to Wendy Etherington, for always lending an ear and support.
Also, to all the men and women serving in our Armed Forces. Thank you so much for the sacrifices you and your families make every day to keep our country safe.
And, as always, to my wonderful, supportive husband, Joe. You’re like a fine wine, getting better and better as time goes by. And our terrific son, Christopher, aka Fine Wine, Junior. Love you guys! xox
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people for their invaluable help and support:
All the wonderful people at Berkley, including Cindy Hwang, Leslie Gelbman, Susan Allison, and Leis Pederson.
My agent, Damaris Rowland, as well as Steven Axelrod, Lori Antonson, and Elsie Turoci.
Many thanks to Steve, Michelle, and Lindsey Grossman and Jeb Kehres for the brainstorming session that resulted in the restaurant at Seaside Cove.
A very special thank you to Lisa Stone Hardt for putting me in touch with Princeton graduates Bill Hardt (class of ’63), Josh Hardt (class of ’95), and Adrienne Rubin (class of ’88). Your help with my research of the school was invaluable. I hope I got it right—if not, the mistakes are mine. You all were wonderful. Go Tigers!
Thanks, as always, to Sue Grimshaw, Kathy Baker, Kay and Jim Johnson, Dick and Kathy Guse, and Lea and Art D’Alessandro. Thanks also to Serena and Jeremy W
ray, Kendra Fogelberg, Brenda D’Alessandro, Anna Lynksey and Anthony, Michele Lynskey, Danielle Lynskey, and Robert, Toni, and Isabella D’Alessandro. Thanks as well to Susie Aspinwall, Sandy Izaguirre, and Melanie Long, and special thanks to Melissa and Ned Windsor for introducing me to the real Godiva.
A cyber hug to my Looney Loopies: Connie Brockway, Marsha Canham, Virginia Henley, Jill Gregory, Julie Ortolon, Julia London, and Sherri Browning. And my Whine Sisters, Julia, Sherri, Julie Kenner, Dee Davis, and Kathleen O’Reilly. And to our missing sister, Kathleen Givens, who is missed every day.
And finally, a very special shout out to all my readers who have been so supportive through the years. Thank you so much—I really appreciate it!
Chapter 1
The decapitated, plastic pink flamingo, standing assfeathers deep in what looked like poison ivy, was Jamie Newman’s first clue that doom had followed her from New York. The pictures of the “cheerful, cozy, inviting” beach house posted on the rental Internet site for the North Carolina coastal barrier island of Seaside Cove must have been seriously Photoshopped.
There was absolutely nothing cheerful, cozy, or inviting about this ramshackle bungalow, which sported peeling paint, grimy windows—two of which bore jagged cracks—and a second-story porch whose screens drooped like a flag on a windless day. The ten-foot stilts raising the house off the ground resembled weathered toothpicks and the entire structure looked a single ocean breeze away from dropping into a pile of rubble. The headless flamingo’s faded color was the only bright spot in the tiny yard choked with weeds and thorny bushes.
Like all the neighboring dwellings, a plaque hung on the front of the rental proclaiming the house’s name. She turned and read the names of several homes across the street—Beach Music, Kickin’ Back, It’s Five O’clock Somewhere. Unlike those colorful, beautiful plaques, however, her cottage sported a splintered oval of wood bearing sun-faded sand dunes and the words Paradise Lost. It hung at a drunken angle above the cracked front window.
While “Lost” was appropriate, someone clearly didn’t know what “Paradise” meant.
“More like Hell Found,” she muttered.
“Good luck, ma’am,” came a male voice.
Jamie yanked her gaze away from the house of horrors and saw that while she’d been gawking, the cab driver had set her luggage at the end of the driveway. He made a beeline for the driver’s seat.
“Whoa—you’re not leaving me here,” she said, hurrying after him.
“My shift ended twenty minutes ago, ma’am, and I promised the wife I wouldn’t be late. As it is she’s goin’ to be hoppin’ mad.”
“She’s not the only one. There’s obviously been a mistake in my accommodations, and I’ll need a ride once it’s straightened out.”
“I’m afraid you’ll need to call the cab company and arrange for another driver. Don’t worry—they’ll send someone quickly if you need them to. You have a good evenin’ now, ya hear?” With that he slammed the door and took off like his gas tank contained rocket fuel.
“If I need them to?” Oh, she’d definitely need them to send someone else. There was no way in hell she was staying in this tumble-down shack. “We came to Seaside Cove to get away from disasters, not take on any new ones, right, Cupcake?”
She looked down at Cupcake, who glared at her through squinty eyes from the confines of her cat carrier. Poor kitty. Jamie hated putting her in the carrier as much as her beloved pet hated being in it, but safety first.
“Don’t give me that look. Believe me, it’s no better out here.”
Cupcake answered with a pissed-off hiss.
“I know exactly how you feel.” In fact, pissed off didn’t begin to describe her mood as anger and frustration burst through the wall she’d so carefully erected around her emotions since her life had fallen into a sinkhole a week ago.
With a muttered curse she sat on one of her three overweight suitcases that had cost an arm, leg, and part of a kidney to check in at the airport and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. Ignoring the flash that announced three missed calls, two voice mails, and seven text messages, she scrolled through her contacts until she found Jack Crawford. Right now the Realtor, from whom she’d picked up the keys to Paradise Lost less than ten minutes ago when the cab had stopped at his office, was number one on her hit list. Jack Crawford had seemed like a nice man—fatherly and oozing Southern hospitality—but clearly he was insane, not to mention severely mistaken, if he thought he could pawn off this dump on her.
After two rings, Jack’s cheery voice came through on his voice mail stating he wasn’t available but would return “y’all’s call as soon as possible.”
“Mr. Crawford, this is Jamie Newman,” she said through her clenched teeth. “I picked up a key at your office a few minutes ago. I need to speak with you immediately as there’s been a mistake with my rental. Please call me as soon as you receive this message.”
She ended the call and heaved out a disgruntled breath as she glared at the house. The absolute last thing she wanted to do was go inside, but given that she had no idea how long she’d have to wait for Jack Crawford to return her call and the bottle of water she’d sucked down during the hour-long cab ride from the airport had made its way to her bladder, she was going to have to brave it. Not to mention that Cupcake could use a few minutes of freedom.
Pulling in a resolute breath, she grabbed the carrier, then picked her way up the crushed-shell pathway—a construction material that should have come with a warning label, as she discovered when a piece of shell found its way inside one of her flat-heeled sandals.
“Youch!” She shook her foot to dislodge the sharp shell and tried to recall if her tetanus shot was up to date. “Clearly I should have worn Nikes,” she mumbled. “And a hazmat suit.”
She cut across the cracked cement of the carport, praying with each step the house wouldn’t collapse on top of her, then stared at the steep wooden stairs leading up to the door. The two bottom treads were missing. Not even broken—just completely gone. Like giant termites had come and hauled them away.
“Perfect. Really adds to the ambiance. Hold on, Cupcake. This first step is gonna be a doozy.”
Jamie hauled herself and Cupcake onto the third step, then carefully climbed up, testing each tread before putting her full weight on it. Holding the screen door open with her elbow, she inserted the key in the lock, then pushed the heavy, wooden inner storm door inward. And was immediately enveloped in a noxious cloud of hot air that reeked of something fishy. Something dead and fishy.
“Holy Stink Almighty!” Jamie said, wrinkling her nose. Breathing through her mouth, she shouldered her way in and rolled her eyes at Cupcake, whose quivering nose was pressed against the carrier.
“Yeah, sure, that’s your favorite smell but Eau de Old Man and the Sea doesn’t make my top-ten fragrances. There’s fifty bucks in it if you find whatever that stink is and drag it outside.”
Leaving the storm door open so she wasn’t asphyxiated by the stink fumes, she unlocked the carrier. Cupcake shot out so fast Jamie was shocked she didn’t leave a vapor trail behind her. Knowing her pet was simultaneously pouting over her confinement and scouting out potential hairball hacking locations, Jamie looked around the shadowed interior, which was—no shocker—as shabby as the outside.
She stood in a small, dingy kitchen complete with a linoleum floor that peeled up in the corners and a chipped Formica countertop. The appliances—which she noted with horror didn’t include a dishwasher—screamed circa 1958. Beyond the kitchen was the living area, furnished with a dirt-colored sofa, two folding chairs, a cracked-leather beanbag chair, and a coffee table made out of two plastic crates emblazoned with the United States Postal Service logo topped with a piece of swaybacked, splinter-ridden plywood. A pair of doors, both ajar, one on each side of the living area, led, Jamie presumed, to bedrooms, and hopefully a bathroom.
“Probably there’s a frat boy somewhere who would think this is very chic,�
�� Jamie grumbled. “No doubt the bathroom has all the elegance of a Porta Potty.”
She crossed the living area and opened the nearest door. As she suspected, it led to a bedroom. She hit the light switch.
Nothing.
“Perfect.” Probably whoever owned this dump forgot to pay the electric bill. Although that could be a blessing as the room definitely benefited from a lack of illumination. There was no headboard or bedspread on the bed, and the dresser was missing three of its four knobs. Clearly a garage-sale find. No blinds or curtains covered the windows, but given how dirty the glass was, privacy probably wasn’t an issue.
She stuck her head in the tiny adjoining bathroom and groaned. Porta Potty with a shower. It had looked way larger in the Internet photo. The Internet photo had also featured a shower curtain. Now there was merely a liner of dubious cleanliness that drooped off the curtain rod, as half the hooks were missing.
Her jaw clenched. How could anyone possibly think they could get away with renting something like this? And so grossly misrepresenting it on the Internet? It was fraud! By God, when Jack Crawford called her back, he was going to have to offer her the damn Taj Mahal of Seaside Cove to make up for this snafu.
Because the pressure on her bladder had reached emergency proportions, she made quick use of the facilities. When she finished, she explored the rest of the house. The door on the opposite side of the main living area yielded an identical bedroom/tiny bathroom/no light situation. The only difference was this bed did have a bedspread—depicting the New York Mets logo. Figures. She was a Yankees fan. Cupcake had taken up residence on the bedspread and currently had her hind leg hoisted in the air to clean her lady bits. She spared Jamie a single glare, then resumed her cleansing ritual.