Summer at Seaside Cove (50 page)

“I didn't—” His words broke off, then he muttered what sounded like an inventive combination of curses. After dragging his hand down his face, he said, “I didn't set up an appointment with you.”

“You said you're Griffin—”

“I am. But I'm not the only Griffin. There's my brother. Evan Griffin. I'm Ryan. Evan must have set up your interview.”

Hope filled her. Maybe Evan was the sunshine to this guy's thundercloud. “In that case I apologize for disturbing you. Can you tell me where I might find Evan?”

“He's not here.”

Clearly a man of few words. She knew—and disliked—the type. Getting more than five words out of them required infinite patience, which she currently didn't have much of, and a nuclear blast, which she was fresh out of. “I don't mind waiting.”

“No point. He's gone for the day.”

Great. Just freakin' great. He didn't look any happier about it than she was. “Will he be back tomorrow?”

“Don't know.” He blew out a long breath. “Guess that means I'm stuck with this.” He pinned her with a hard, assessing look. “Did Evan tell you about the job?”

“We didn't actually speak—only left messages on each others' voice mail. According to the ad in the newspaper, you're looking for an office manager. It's a position I'm well qualified for.” She opened her oversized purse and pulled out a copy of her resume. Making a resume—another first she could have happily lived without ever experiencing.

He took the proffered paper without a word and perused its contents. When he looked up from the resume and met her gaze there was no missing his you've-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “Wanna explain how cochairing some debutante shindig, serving on a committee for some artsy-fartsy fund-raiser, and overseeing customer relations for a New York City restaurant qualifies you to work at a marina and boat-building business? There aren't any debutantes here—except for you.”

Years of practice dealing with ill-mannered louts allowed Laurel to hold on to her temper. “It's been many years since I was a debutante, Mr. Griffin,” she pointed out mildly. “And those positions I held required finely honed organizational skills—which I'm sure you'll agree are important when managing an office. Whether that office is attached to a restaurant, an art museum, or a marina.”

“What do you know about boats?”

I know that at this time last year I was sunning myself on the deck of one in the French Riviera owned by a fashion designer who used to call me his muse and who no longer takes my calls.
“I know they float and that they're your business—one that needs an office manager.”

“There's a lot of catch-up that needs to be done,” he said, his frown still in place. “Bills to be paid, invoices to send out, supplies to be ordered, filing, checkbook balancing, not to mention handling the phone calls.” As if to prove his point, she heard the muffled sound of a phone ringing.

“All of which I'm perfectly capable of.” She hoped. Just because her accountant had always paid her bills and she'd never sent out an invoice or balanced her checkbook in her entire life didn't mean she
couldn't
do it. She'd just never had to before. But now she did. So she'd figure it out. She was smart. How hard could it be?

“Since when do debutantes send out invoices and do filing?”

“As I said, Mr. Griffin—I haven't been a debutante for a long time.”

He glanced down at her resume. “According to this you were working in a New York restaurant until just a few weeks ago. Why'd you leave?”

A tidal wave of painful memories threatened to swamp her. She forced them back into the dark abyss from which they'd arisen and then said, “The restaurant suffered an economic setback and my position was eliminated.” Not exactly true, but the only explanation he was going to get.

“Why not stay in New York?”

“It's very expensive to live there. I wanted to try somewhere new.”

“Why Seaside Cove?”

“I spent some time here last summer and fell in love with the island.”

“So you moved here? Just like that?”

“Yes.”
I had no where else to go.
“My sister's fiancé owns a rental on the island. I'm staying there until I get a place of my own.” Rent-free, thank God.

“Which house?”

“It used to be called Paradise Lost, but they've renamed it—”

“Paradise Found. That's Nick Trent's place.”

“Yes.”

His frown bunched deeper. “He's a good man.”

“I agree. And he's engaged to my sister.” A fact she didn't hesitate to reiterate since Mr. Frowny Face apparently liked Nick. She wasn't above exploiting a connection to get her foot in the door.

He kept that unwavering narrow-eyed regard on her, clearly trying to read her, as if she were some kind of book—one he hadn't enjoyed the first chapter of and was debating whether or not to keep turning the pages. Well, he was destined to fail. She didn't wear her thoughts or emotions on her sleeve—a lesson she'd learned the hard way.

“The office opens at eight thirty, closes at five, Monday through Friday. Lunch is noon to one.” He mentioned an hourly salary that wouldn't add up in a week to what she'd normally spent on a single night out in New York.
Those days are over, Laurel.
“You'd need to go to the bank once, maybe twice a week to make deposits. That a problem?”

Probably not a good time to mention that she didn't have a car. Since she'd always had a limo and driver at her disposal, she hadn't needed one. Especially since she didn't even know how to drive. “Absolutely not a problem.” Hell, that's what taxis were for. Or sneakers—if the bank was in walking distance.

Once again a muted ringing phone sounded and his gaze swiveled to a door at the far end of the building. She wouldn't have thought it possible, but his frown seemed to grow fiercer. He swiveled his gaze back to her and she felt pinned in place by the intensity and obvious frustration brewing in his eyes.

“When could you start?” he asked.

In spite of the fact that the prospect of working for Mr. Congeniality here wasn't appealing, relief rippled through her, and she had the sense that she'd been saved, literally, by the bell. “Right now, if you'd like.”

He gave a terse nod, muttered, “Follow me,” then headed toward the door behind which the phone continued to ring. His long-legged stride would have left a shorter person in the dust, but she kept pace with him, her boot heels tapping a staccato rhythm on the cement floor. When they reached the door, he paused with his hand on the brass handle.

“Let's see what sort of order you can bring and how much you can accomplish in the next four hours.” He winced. “And for God's sake, handle that phone. Impress me and you're hired.”

Oh, she had every intention of impressing him. Even if it killed her. Just to prove to him that she could. Because he clearly didn't think she'd be able to.

“Be prepared to be impressed, Mr. Griffin.”

“If you're hired, no more fancy high-heeled boots,” he said, shooting her footwear a fierce scowl. “Sneakers or deck shoes or work boots only. Got it?”

“Got it.”

His only answer was a grunt. She crossed the threshold and the door closed behind her.

The instant Ryan closed the door, he headed swiftly back toward the saw, but he wasn't quick enough to miss the debutante's gasp. Not that he could blame her. He knew damn well what the office looked like—a mess of papers and coffee cups and open files. An inbox that overflowed onto the desk, the windowsill, two chairs, then continued onto the floor. Somewhere hidden in that disaster area was the phone that never seemed to cease ringing. Damn it, he was boat builder, not a secretary. And Griffin's needed a secretary. Badly. They'd been without one for over a month, and between the mounting administrative stuff, the ongoing dock repairs, and the custom boat he was two weeks behind on, he was ready to lose his mind. Problem was, it was nearly impossible to find anyone during the off-season. Miss Debutante was the first—and only—person to answer the ad.

He shook his head. If even one other person had expressed interest in the job, Ryan would have escorted that glamorous piece of fluff right back out to the parking lot. Jesus, she looked as if she'd just jetted into town between modeling assignments. She looked more out of place at Griffin's than he would have at a one of those silly debutante balls. God, he should have known better than to leave Evan in charge of the hiring. His younger brother was an expert at bringing trouble to the door, then disappearing as he'd done today—and Ryan was frankly exhausted from cleaning up the messes. And there was no doubt that Laurel Newman would be trouble. Any woman who looked like her meant Trouble with a capital T. And that rhymed with P and that stood for Problem.

And more problems he didn't need.

 

 

 

 

 

“Y
ou shouldn't have come out here, Lady Julianne.” Even the darkness couldn't disguise the heated intensity of his gaze. Dear God, the way he was looking at her . . . as if he were a starving beast and she was a tasty morsel he'd happened upon. And the way he made her feel . . . as if she were gasping for air and he was the last bit of oxygen on earth.

Holding her breath, she stood in an aching jumble of desperate want, need, apprehension, and anticipation, unable to move, waiting to see what he'd do next.

Just when she thought his hot scrutiny would incinerate her where she stood, his gaze shifted to study each of her features. When he came to her mouth, he lingered for several breath-stealing seconds before slowly raising his gaze back to hers.

“You should return to the house,” Gideon said.

Julianne had to swallow twice to locate her voice. “Yes,” she whispered.

She should return. She knew it. But apparently her feet did not as they remained firmly rooted in place. Maybe perhaps she might possibly have convinced her feet to move, but then he touched a single fingertip to her cheek. And the only thing fleeing the garden were any thoughts of her leaving.

His finger followed the same path his gaze had just traveled, painting feather-light strokes over her face. The tip of his finger was hard. Blunt. Calloused. Not that of a gentleman. Yet infinitely gentle.

She watched him as he touched her, noting the avid way his gaze followed his finger. The muscle that ticked in his square jaw. With his finger lightly circling the outer curve of her ear—a bit of skin she'd had no idea was so sensitive—he leaned in. Brushed his cheek against her hair.

In an agony of anticipation, Julianne remained perfectly still, terrified that if she so much as breathed he would stop. End this wondrous adventure. She heard him take a slow, deep breath, one he released in a ragged stream of warmth against her temple.

“Delicious,” he muttered. “Bloody hell, I knew you'd smell delicious.” The last words ended on a low groan. “What is that scent?”

How could he possibly expect her to answer questions? With an effort, she managed to say, “Vanilla.”

“Yes . . .” He pulled in another deep breath. “You smell like the bake shop. Warm. Sweet. Scrumptious.” His lips brushed over her hair, and he groaned again. “You really need to return to the ball, Julianne. Now.”

The intimacy of that gravelly voice saying her name, without the formal use of her title, touched something deep inside her. She could no more have left the garden at that moment than she could have held back the tide. She'd longed for a moment like this—free of the suffocating constraints of society and away from the ever-vigilant eye of her mother who was determined to see her married off to a duke. Dear God, if Mother suspected Julianne was alone with a man, let alone a man like Gideon—a Bow Street Runner, a commoner—she'd fly into the boughs and never allow Julianne out of her sight for an instant.

But this was the man who'd haunted Julianne's dreams for months, who'd set her dreams and imagination on fire. A man who could never be hers for longer than this stolen instant in time. She'd longed for a chance like this and nothing her common sense or conscience screamed at her could deter her.

“No,” she whispered. “Not now.”

JACQUIE D'ALESSANDRO

 

 

Lady Emily Stapleford never dreamed that the burden of saving her family from financial ruin would rest on her lovely, resourceful shoulders. Since she's willing to marry only for love, and not money, Emily pens a story she hopes will bring her fortune—only to have it rejected by every publishing firm. After all, what respectable reader would dare embrace a vampire heroine?

Not to be dissuaded, Emily decides to stir public interest by creating false vampire sightings. Overnight, London is abuzz with the news. With renewed interest in Emily's book, she's guaranteed success—if it wasn't for the mysterious American Logan Jennsen. He's onto Emily's duplicity, and he has every intention of using it to his advantage. If only he wasn't falling in love with this unabashedly creative woman. And if only he didn't have a scandalous secret of his own—one that's putting both their lives in danger . . .