ONCE UPON A VALENTINE

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  She realized she was chewing the inside of her cheek and made herself stop. “Were there any letters that you wanted me to vet this week?” Ordinarily, Cornelia had a file ready and waiting for her.

  “Oh, yes.” The woman dismissed the notion that there might not be with a wave of her fingertips. “But I wondered if you’d consider a little extra duty.”

  Shea sat up a little straighter. A smart person didn’t turn down a request from someone like Cornelia Hunt. Especially when there was a chance that Shea might be fired soon by her ornery editor. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Up until now, I’ve given you the specific Cindys that needed vetting. The projects that we decided looked promising.” Cornelia moved her cup and saucer a few inches to the side and opened a drawer in her desk to withdraw a bulging, oversized manila envelope. She set it on the desktop and slid it toward Shea. “I’d like you to read through these letters for me.”

  In addition to Phil, Cornelia already employed a half-dozen other people to deal with the constant stream of business proposals and outright pleas for handouts they received at FGI. Shea couldn’t imagine why Cornelia was giving her these. “Am I looking for something in particular?”

  Cornelia’s smiled slightly. “Our next Cinderella project, of course.”

  Shea immediately pulled her hand back from the fat envelope. “I’m not qualified for that.”

  Cornelia eyed her thoughtfully. “Do you remember when you brought me the first batch of mail that had been sent to me in care of your newspaper?”

  Shea wasn’t likely to forget. Even though she’d miraculously gained an interview with Cornelia after that fashion show of Joanna Spinelli’s, she’d had to jump through more than a few hoops to meet with her again in order to hand over the insane quantity of communications they’d received for her.

  “I pulled out a random envelope to glance through and then I asked you what your opinion was,” Cornelia continued.

  Shea remembered very well. “I told you the woman was either greatly exaggerating or lying outright.”

  Cornelia nodded. She sat forward. “I had my son-in-law, Max, do what you do now. He looked into her story for me.”

  Shea frowned. “You didn’t tell me that before.”

  “I wanted an impartial opinion. Max’s company has an entire department that does this very thing.” She opened another drawer in her desk and withdrew an opened envelope. “This is the letter. Not only did Max confirm your instinctive assessment, but he also wanted me to give him your name so he could offer you a job himself.” She smiled slightly, dropping the thin envelope back in her drawer and closing it with a soft snap. “I love Max dearly, but I wasn’t about to let him steal you right out from under my nose. I’ve always had this in mind, Shea.”

  She nudged the package toward her again. “At least give it a try. I know you have responsibilities at the Washtub, so I’m sending you home with this small batch to read at your convenience over the next several weeks. If anything here gives you a little tingle,” her eyes smiled, “then set the letter aside so we can discuss it further.”

  She lifted her hand, forestalling Shea’s objections. “And if you’re worried that I don’t intend to keep you on the payroll doing the investigations that you’ve been doing, don’t.” She sat back in her chair once again. “Selfishly, I wish we didn’t have to share you with Harvey Hightower. You write beautiful articles, but I happen to think you could do quite a lot right here.”

  Shea couldn’t do anything but stare. “I appreciate the confidence, Cornelia, but I’m not a—” she made herself say it “—fairy godmother.”

  Cornelia’s calm expression didn’t change. “I know you don’t care for the term. But what is it that you think it means?”

  Feeling even more on the spot, Shea shifted in her chair. “I think what you’re doing to empower women in business is wonderful,” she said carefully. “Particularly because you choose individuals who’ve legitimately had a rough time of it.”

  “I sense a but.”

  “But I’ve heard what happens with the women you help.”

  Cornelia’s eyebrows rose a few millimeters.

  Shea wished she’d just kept her mouth shut, but she was in the soup now. “How they all seem to end up finding—” She broke off and shifted again. “Well, finding romance along the way.”

  “Not all of them. It’s certainly not what I’m trying to accomplish here.” Cornelia smiled a little. “But if they do, I simply consider it a happy coincidence.” She nudged the envelope another inch and her entirely nonthreatening smile widened. She was merely a gracious older woman making a seemingly simple request. “Now, will you at least give it a try?”

  Shea knew she couldn’t possibly refuse. Not just because Cornelia was a Hunt, but because the woman was genuinely nice. She reluctantly set the envelope on her lap, trying not to sigh.

  “Wonderful.” Cornelia rose again, carried her coffee cup back to the table and glanced out at the view. “Now there’s a sight.” She nodded toward the marina-side windows. “Every time I see that delightful boy’s yacht it takes my breath away.”

  Shea’s stomach tightened, but she could no more prevent herself from getting up and going over to the window than she could stop herself from breathing.

  As far as she was concerned, Pax was far from a delightful boy, but his sloop, Honey Girl, was instantly recognizable as it slowly pulled into the marina. From their vantage point on the second floor, she couldn’t quite see him aboard, but she felt sure there wouldn’t be anyone else piloting the yacht. He’d told her once that Erik was the only other person he trusted at the helm. “It is beautiful,” she murmured.

  “Has he taken you out on her?”

  A pang shot through her. “No.” Not because he hadn’t offered. She’d just always turned him down.

  “My daughters and I went out with J.T. years ago on the first sailboat Pax and Erik did for him and it was—” her eyes seemed lost in the memory “—just unforgettable.” She focused again on Shea and patted her shoulder. “You should ask Pax to take you out on her. You won’t regret it.”

  Shea had plenty of regrets, not the least of which was the way things had ended so horribly at her apartment.

  Cornelia was waiting for some sort of response, so Shea gave her a noncommittal smile. “We’ll see.” She hugged the fat envelope she was still holding to her chest and returned to the chair where she’d left her purse. “I’ll read the letters as soon as I can,” she promised.

  “I know you will.” Cornelia started to follow her out of the office but stopped when her telephone rang. “I’d better get that,” she said. “Harry’s the only one who calls on that line. I’ll see you on Friday.”

  Shea nodded and left the office, working her way around the scaffolding that seemed to find a new position every time she visited. The workers were long gone for the day, as were the rest of Cornelia’s employees, and when she reached the bottom of the curving stairs, her footsteps echoed on the marble floor.

  She hesitated, glancing in the direction of the kitchen where Pax always seemed to be hanging out whenever she came by, slugging down coffee like it was water and filching a chocolate if there happened to be any around. But he hadn’t been there today and she knew it wasn’t coincidence.

  He’d accused her often enough of avoiding him, but now he was the one avoiding her.

  The knowledge sat like a hard stone in the pit of her stomach as she left the building and crossed the quiet street toward her car parked on the other side. She opened the trunk and tossed the envelope and her purse inside.

  Then, before she thought better of it, she slammed it shut and quickly retraced her steps, aiming for the paved breezeway between his building and Cornelia’s. The strong breeze off the bay hit her, and she ducked her head against it, turning onto the walkway th
at ran behind the buildings. She could see Honey Girl’s distinctively tall mast several piers down, and she headed through the unlocked gate that blocked off the marina from the walkway.

  Instinct was the only thing propelling her forward because she had no clue what she intended to say to him once she reached him. She just knew that she had to do—say—something.

  Walking faster, nearly skipping, she clutched the lapels of her blazer together with one hand and caught her blowing hair in the other as she made her way along the dock. Her heart felt like it had transplanted itself in her throat by the time she turned and headed down the narrower, bobbing pier, just in time to see Pax leaping easily from his sailboat with a thick white rope in his hand. He was wearing jeans and a black weatherproof jacket, but his head was bare and his thick brown hair ruffled in the breeze.

  Everything inside her went warm just looking at him.

  She knew when he spotted her because he went still for a moment before he crouched down and rapidly tied off the rope. Then he pulled a ramp around, deftly flipped it out toward the side of his boat and re-boarded. He headed toward the back, where he smoothly jumped to the pier once more with another rope in hand.

  The knots in her stomach rivaled the knots he was making around the huge cleats on the pier. She swallowed and started forward again. But she stopped dead when she heard the peal of a woman’s laughter coming from the sailboat.

  A redhead was picking her way around the riggings toward the ramp that Pax had put in place.

  Shea’s hands fisted as she watched him hold out his hand with an easy smile to help the woman safely across to the pier. Shea instinctively took a step back. Spun around to leave. But the memory of his expression the night of the fundraiser swam inside her head, bobbing as insistently as the water sloshing against the pier.

  She made herself stop. And slowly turn back.

  The woman was on the pier now, her head thrown back, her red hair streaming behind her in the breeze as she looked up at Pax. If Harvey ever knew about the gloriously perfect picture they made and how Shea didn’t even try to catch it on film, he’d can her for sure.

  She could hear their voices, but the wind stole the words. Unable to bear watching, she let go of her own hair and let it blow across her eyes. Concentrating on the faint motion of the pier beneath her feet was better than counting the seconds inside her head, waiting for...something, even though it made her vaguely dizzy.

  Finally, she heard footsteps and she looked up to find the redhead approaching, her gaze curious as she passed Shea. “Wind out here’s hard on the hair, isn’t it,” she commented brightly.

  “Little bit,” she agreed tightly.

  “Worth it, though. Can’t wait until the next time.” The woman smiled brilliantly and sent Pax an exuberant wave before continuing on.

  It was unkind of Shea to wish she would slip and land in the drink, but she couldn’t help giving it a passing thought. Then she saw Pax heading toward her. She impatiently raked her hair back from her face and waited.

  He stopped a foot away from her and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His expression was unreadable. “Feeling better?”

  She had been, until she’d seen him with the redhead. “Yes. You’ve been out sailing.” So says the master of the obvious. She mentally kicked the mocking voice inside her head to the curb.

  “Prospective client,” he said.

  If her jaw clenched any tighter, her molars were going to need dental attention. “For what? Private sailing lessons?”

  He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. He strode back to the boat, crossed the ramp in a single step and jumped back onto the deck.

  Her insides squeezed. It hadn’t been annoyance in his eyes but disappointment.

  She went after him, stopping shy of the ramp. “I’m sorry.”

  With a life jacket in his hand, he straightened and then ducked his head, disappearing down the companionway. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until he reappeared and looked at her.

  “Prove it.”

  She opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say.

  “Erik and Rory’s wedding is on Saturday,” he added. “I’m standing up for him. I’ll pick you up at three.”

  “Crashing a wedding is even worse than crashing an anniversary party!”

  His lips twisted. “Suit yourself.” He ducked his head again.

  “Wait!”

  He straightened again, his gaze steady. She moistened her lips and the toe of her shoe bumped up against the edge of the ramp stretching over the water to his boat. “What would I need to wear?” It was the very last thing she cared about, yet it was the only thing that came to her lips.

  “I think clothing is the accepted norm,” he deadpanned.

  She made a face. “Is it formal? Semiformal? Casual? You just said you’re his best man. Are you wearing a suit or a tux?”

  “Suit. And if you need more details than that, I’ll give you Rory’s phone number and you can ask her. I suppose you went to work yesterday instead of taking the day off like the doc suggested.”

  The comment came out of nowhere and her shoulders tightened. “I had a story to turn in.” And fat lot of good that had done. She might as well have stayed home and saved herself from the up-close dose of Harvey’s wrath.

  “You call and make that appointment with her?”

  “No. But I will,” she added quickly. “Tomorrow.” She moistened her lips again. “First thing.”

  He watched her as if he were trying to decide whether or not to trust what she’d said. Then he nodded abruptly. “Any time’s okay except Wednesday mornings,” he said before disappearing below deck once again.

  She hesitated uncertainly. Was he going to reappear? Did he expect her to leave? Want her to leave?

  She knew she probably should, but reluctance to do so had her ignoring common sense and stepping onto the ramp instead. She wrapped her fingers around the rope that was stretched along its length for a handhold and tried not to wonder how deep the water was below.

  She had only seen Honey Girl from a distance until now. Her gaze ranged over the wealth of gleaming, polished wood, and she knew that if she ran her hand along the rail, the wood would be as satiny and warm as living flesh.

  Don’t you mean as warm as Pax’s flesh?

  Her grip tightened on the rope. “I’ll call and let you know when the appointment is,” she said loudly.

  The only answer she got was a thud from below deck and what sounded like an oath.

  Concerned, she hustled across the ramp and stepped carefully into the boat. She was probably breaking nautical protocol by going aboard without permission, but she didn’t care and quickly headed down the narrow steps into the cabin.

  But all Pax was doing was standing there studying a large pad. Then his hooded gaze slid over her. “What’s wrong?”

  Besides everything? “Nothing. I thought I heard a noise.”

  He didn’t answer as he tore off the top sheet from the pad and rolled it into a tube that he secured with a rubber band he pulled from one of the built-in cupboards that surrounded the cozy space.

  She shifted, feeling awkward. “Anyway, I’ll let you know about the appointment.”

  He tossed the tube on the upholstered bunk, which was covered in fabric that reminded her painfully of the cushions they’d slept on together. “You said.”

  He had heard her then. She felt even more foolish and then compounded it by jumping a little when he suddenly stepped close.

  Her nerves prickled as she looked up at him, and they went into overdrive completely when his hand closed over her shoulder. Heat spread through her veins like wildfire.

  But all he did was nudge her to one side. “You’re blocking.” He lifted the pad.

  H
er cheeks went hot, and she sidled out of the way so he could slide the drawing pad into a narrow cupboard clearly designed to hold such things. She’d heard that pregnancy hormones increased a woman’s libido, but this was ridiculous. She rubbed her moist palms on the back of her jeans. “You don’t usually dock Honey Girl here, do you?”

  “Port Orchard. My folks still have a place on the water there. I brought Honey Girl over so Patrice could get a feel for her.” He waited a beat as if he expected some reaction from her. “She wants something similar,” he finished.

  The light outside was dwindling and it had started to sprinkle. She’d never really needed a cold shower before, but it was appealing now. If only it would just pore instead of drizzle. “Patrice is the—” She gestured vaguely to the open air behind him.

  “Prospective client,” he provided blandly.

  Either the redhead had a heck of a job, or she was independently wealthy. A Merrick & Sullivan yacht did not come inexpensively. But it did explain the drawing pad because Shea knew that he often sat with a new client and sketched ideas before a design was selected. “How long will it take to finish the commission?”

  “Have to finalize a sale before we can worry about that.” He lowered his arms and straightened, suddenly seeming to take up even more space. And he was completely blocking the path to freedom.

  She moistened her lips. “Cornelia doesn’t know I’m pregnant, does she? Why didn’t you say that you hadn’t told her?”

  “You’d already decided that I had. Would you have believed me?”

  He had a point. “She wants me to do more work for her.” She wasn’t sure what prompted her to share that, but as soon as she did, she knew she wanted his opinion.

  “More vetting?”

  “As one of the associates there.” She hesitated. “You know. Reading the letters and helping choose...projects.”

  “Shea, the fairy godmother,” he murmured.