Книга - The Redemption Of Matthew Quinn

The Redemption Of Matthew Quinn
Kathleen O'Brien


Ex-con Matthew Quinn has plenty of trouble in his life right now. He doesn't need to take on more. And there's no question that Natalie Granville–with her crumbling mansion and her canceled wedding–is capital-T trouble. But that doesn't stop him from accepting a job from her.He can handle it. All he needs to do is follow some rules:Remember she's your boss, nothing else.Don't start letting the arrangement get all cozy and domestic and personal.Don't notice, don't want, don't feel and definitely don't touch.But apparently, when it comes to Natalie, rules are meant to be broken….







Natalie Granville’s

TOP TEN THINGS TO DO ON YOUR NON-WEDDING DAY

10. Avoid pitying phone calls from your concerned friends and relatives. (Especially when you’re the “jilter,” not the “jiltee.”)

9. Avoid visits from your concerned friends and relatives. (As above.)

8. Find a useful alternative for that never-to-be-worn gown. (Dressing up garden statuary is de rigueur this season.)

7. Don’t wear white—unless it’s decidedly not wedding gear. (That bikini will do the trick just fine.)

6. Drink whatever you want to calm those non-wedding jitters. (Leave the champagne cocktails for the misguided fools who do want to get married.)

5. Never let anyone tell you you’re bitter. (Remember—you broke it off because you were getting married for the wrong reasons.)

4. Return all the presents given to you by your wealthy former fiancé. (You don’t want anyone to accuse you of gaining anything but experience from this sad affair.)

3. Break all the rules you want. (After all, everyone in town is already talking about you.)

2. Celebrate your narrow escape. (You really did do the right thing.)

And the number one thing to do on your non-wedding day: Hire the gorgeous guy with the mysterious past who shows up at your door looking for work….


Dear Reader,

What a potent concept the past is! I’ve known people who cling to it, people who slide it under a microscope, people who run screaming from it and even a few who rewrite it. I’ve never met anyone who is indifferent to it.

I’m no exception. I loved being seven, eighteen, twenty-five. I revere my oldest friends, because when I say, “remember when,” they do. My house is full of nicked chairs my grandmother bought. My conversations are decorated with my father’s pearls of wisdom, and my conscience is buckled in tight with my mother’s admonitions.

I’m free to love my past, because I’m also free to tell it to get lost. Sometimes I give away the chair that doesn’t fit. Now and then I string my own pearls. Occasionally I even blow my mother a mental kiss, salute her for teaching me to think for myself, and do the thing she said I mustn’t.

But what if you couldn’t? What if your past owned you—instead of the other way around? That’s what happened to Matthew Quinn. He’s just been released from prison, but in his heart he’s still locked away. He can’t forget his past, not even long enough to fall in love.

It’s going to take a special woman to redeem him. But Natalie Granville is a prisoner of her past, too. She’s shackled to Summer House, a moldering old relic she doesn’t want, can’t afford and yet feels a duty to preserve.

The Redemption of Matthew Quinn is the story of how they finally manage to come to terms with the past—and to fall in love with the future. I hope you enjoy making the journey with them.

Warmly,

Kathleen O’Brien


The Redemption of Matthew Quinn

Kathleen O’Brien






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Books by Kathleen O’Brien


HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

927—THE REAL FATHER

967—A SELF-MADE MAN

1015—WINTER BABY* (#litres_trial_promo)

1047—BABES IN ARMS* (#litres_trial_promo)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#u85e4b40e-876b-5504-857e-1fdeefb4c7a3)

CHAPTER TWO (#u962d2a8c-8ef0-5a02-b590-a90b702d3fc7)

CHAPTER THREE (#u7b9156d5-7fe4-546e-8309-a7dbd978ba9a)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ubbccd67d-5808-5f76-bd02-f9c411dcd658)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


AT HIGH NOON when she should have been saying “I do,” Natalie Granville was lounging on the cracked porch of her maggoty mansion, wearing nothing but a bikini, a smile and a light coating of perspiration.

Through the open double doors to the parlor, she listened to the answering machine. At least ten people had already called to check on her. Their messages ranged from the carefully indirect— “Hi, Nat, just wondering if you felt like talking”—to the blunt growls of her elderly cousin Granville Frome— “Dammit, girl, where are you? If you’re holed up somewhere crying, I’m going to break that bastard’s nose.”

But Natalie ignored them all. She was a Granville, and by heaven she didn’t need anybody’s pity.

She hoisted herself onto the wide marble banister and lay back carefully, so that the sun could bake her entire body. She slathered sunscreen across the bridge of her nose, where those annoying freckles liked to pop up, balanced her bottle of Jack Daniel’s on her stomach, and went on enjoying the heavenly day.

The would-have-been wedding day. Above her, the hot blue sky wore white lace clouds. Around her, the air sparkled like diamonds. The birds were singing schmaltzy romantic ditties.

Actually, she admitted to the bottle, trying to be honest— Granvilles were unflinchingly honest—it would have been a lovely day to get married.

Then she grinned, though her lips felt a little bit numb. Aw, who was she kidding? It was an even lovelier day to not get married.

Oops. Her grandfather wouldn’t like that split infinitive. Granvilles always used perfect grammar. She raised the bottle over her head and, without turning her head, apologized to the glowering portrait that hung on the parlor wall.

“Sorry, Gramps. I guess I’m breaking all the rules today.”

She wouldn’t have called him Gramps, either, if it hadn’t been for the Jack Daniel’s. And the fact that he’d been dead for five years.

“Um, hello. Miss? Excuse me.” A man’s voice floated up to her from the driveway, which sloped away beside the terraced garden. “Sorry, but I have a delivery for Natalie Granville?”

She maneuvered herself upright carefully, straddling the banister as if it were a marble horse. “I’m Natalie Granville,” she said politely. Darn, this position felt kind of awkward—the man was looking at her very strangely.

And she couldn’t quite decide what to do with the Jack Daniel’s. She didn’t want the bottle to fall off and break. She hugged it to her side, but that didn’t seem very hospitable, so she held it out. “Want some?”

The man—more like a boy, really—flushed. “No thanks,” he said quickly. He held out a very large, flat box. “I just need your signature for this.”

Natalie stared at the package, which looked familiar. Not the sort of thing she received for the nursery business she ran from the greenhouse, though. Too flat. Too feminine, with its shiny white corners.

Hmm. She frowned. Jack Daniel’s might taste wonderful, but it didn’t exactly help you to think clearly. Had she been expecting a delivery?

“I— Can you sign? It’s for you. It’s from Apple Blossom Bridal.”

Aw, shucks. Natalie’s shoulders sagged. The wedding dress.

“I don’t want it,” she said, closing her eyes and waving the half-empty bottle vaguely. “Could you maybe just throw it away as you leave?”

“Um…not really.” The kid sounded downright nervous now. “I’ll leave it here, okay?” He set the box on the banister, moving in slow motion, as if he had discovered it contained nitroglycerine. “Just right here.”

Natalie sighed and had another swallow of Jack Daniel’s, which, taken straight like this, was muscular enough to etch its initials in her esophagus. She shivered, loving it.

“Okay.” She wiped her mouth and smiled at him. “If you have to.”

Tucking the bottle under her elbow, she reached over, signed his clipboard, and then began unwrapping the box.

“It’s my wedding dress,” she said conversationally. “Or I guess it’s technically my non-wedding dress. Today is my non-wedding day, you see. I told them I didn’t need the dress anymore, but they wouldn’t give me my money back. Don’t you think that’s mean? I was only getting married in the first place because I needed money so badly, and now—”

But the deliveryman was already gone. Natalie looked at the empty yard around her, the acres and acres of once-beautiful gardens, and sighed. He hadn’t even waited for a tip. Didn’t he know Granvilles always tipped beautifully? That was why they were constantly broke. Well, that and the gambling. And the women.

And the house. Always the house. This crazy, crumbling, hungry monster of a house.

She unfolded her gown and shook the creases out of the soft white cotton lace. It was an okay dress—not great. She’d bought the cheapest one in town, although they’d all been absurdly expensive. That was the problem with living in a community of millionaires. Price tags came in only three sizes: Big, Bigger and Downright Astronomical.

She held the pearled bodice up against her chest, trying to imagine herself wearing it. She couldn’t.

She climbed down off the banister and tried again, letting the layered skirt fall all the way to her ankles. She dipped and swayed, trying to capture the dreamy, princessy feeling she used to get as a kid, when she’d rummage through the attic trunks, pretending to be a damsel in distress. She had shuffled to the attic window, antique lace dragging behind her, and surveyed her flowering kingdom.

In her ten-year-old imagination, she had always witnessed the galloping arrival of her handsome prince, her gallant knight, her brave cavalier. Or, her personal favorite, her Pair of Moors—a phrase she’d heard the grown-ups use, though she had no idea what it really meant. A few years later, when she’d learned what a “paramour” actually was, it had been a crushing disappointment.

Still pressing the gown to her chest, she moved back to the balcony and gazed down over the ruined Summer House grounds, all the way down to where the mountain ledge overlooked the tiny kingdom of Firefly Glen.

But no prince was fighting his thorny, perilous way up the mountain path. Nothing. Not so much as a speck on the horizon. Even the deliveryman’s truck had long since disappeared.

She held out the wedding dress and scowled at it. It might be a five-hundred-dollar gown, but the darn thing didn’t possess five pennies’ worth of magic.

“Nat, are you there?” The answering machine was at it again. It was Stu. He’d called three times already. “Want me to come over and take you out to lunch? I don’t want you lying around feeling sorry for yourself.”

She stuck her tongue out at the machine, then knocked back another swig of Jack Daniel’s. How dare he? She was enjoying her afternoon alone, that was all. Granvilles didn’t feel sorry for themselves.

So this would have been her wedding day. So what? She’d called it off two weeks ago. She’d told Bart Beswick to take his rough hands, his wet kisses and his big bank account and get lost. She was a Granville, and Granvilles didn’t sell themselves to the highest bidder.

Bart had been surprised, but not heartbroken. He’d wanted her name and her house, and he’d been pretty sure she would count herself lucky to get his money in return.

But he must have forgotten what exactly that grand old name he lusted after really meant. Granvilles chose freedom. Exhausted, overworked, penniless freedom. Granvilles might secretly hope that someday, somehow, the long-overdue prince would still find his way up the mountain, but they certainly didn’t stand around twiddling their thumbs, waiting for it to happen.

“Feeling sorry for myself? Ha!” She slurred the s in “sorry” just a little, but no one could hear her. In a minute or two, she was going to go inside, drink some strong coffee and get back to peeling the mildewed wallpaper from the Blue Bedroom. She was going to see if anyone had answered her “Handyman Wanted” ad.

She might even practice spackling, which was actually much harder than it looked.

Yep, she was going to get busy. In a minute or two. Or three.

But she sighed, dreading it. Her dress draped over her arm, she leaned her elbows on the pitted marble banister and stared down the long, empty slope of terraced gardens.

And then, because she was a Granville, she forgot about going inside. Because she was a Granville, she kept staring, dreaming, seeing flowers where no flowers had bloomed in ten neglected years.

And because she was a Granville, she closed her eyes. And as she drifted off, she could almost hear, over the birdsong and the breeze, the distant rumble of galloping hooves.

MATTHEW QUINN peeled the perforated address strip off the “Handyman Wanted” sign and studied it carefully before putting it in his pocket.

Summer House, it said in a frilly, but shaky, calligraphy— 717 Blue Pine Trail. And a telephone number.

Summer House. Looking at the calligraphy, Matthew pictured the owner as an eighty-year-old, silver-haired widow who would make weak tea and cookies for the handyman, but would never invite him into the musty, cluttered twilight of her Victorian sanctum.

Especially not if she knew he’d just been released from prison.

She had tacked the notice to a community bulletin board outside Firefly Glen’s red brick Town Hall. The other notices on the board described a pure Norman Rockwell weekend: the Firefly High Astronomy Club stargazing seminar, the fly fishermen’s annual casting contest, the Firefly Girls’ Saturday car-and-boat wash, the Congregational Church chicken barbecue and white elephant sale.

And, prominently displayed, a picture of a grinning Highland terrier that read simply, “Rob Roy ran away again. If you see him, call me. Theo.”

Apparently everyone knew who Theo was. Everyone but Matthew.

He felt strangely paralyzed, standing at the high end of Main Street, gazing down at the row of quaint, expensive shops. Red-white-and-blue flags flew. Yellow flowers bloomed. Windows sparkled in the summer sun.

It suddenly looked like a stage set, as if it had been painted on cardboard and could be rolled away at will, revealing the familiar dirty, weed-ridden prison yard behind.

He wondered if he had been kidding himself. Could he really ever fit into a place like this again? He had picked this destination three years ago, during his first month in prison. He’d spent long, sleepless hours looking at a map of New York State, imagining where he would go when he was free again.

He hadn’t even noticed Firefly Glen the first few times. It was that small. But once he’d seen it, it had become a kind of obsession. A symbol. You couldn’t imagine anything ugly happening in a place called Firefly Glen. You just knew there would be clean air, warm smiles, wholesome food, simple pleasures—all those decent things they made you empty out of your pockets when they processed you into prison.

But now that he was here—now that it was not just a symbol, but a reality—he felt as out of place as a lump of coal in a cabbage patch, as his grandfather used to say. Maybe prison had changed him too much. Maybe he didn’t believe in Norman Rockwell anymore.

“Hi, there. You look lost. Can I help?”

The voice was friendly, but, when Matthew looked up, he saw that the pleasant brown eyes of the stranger in front of him were careful and wary.

“I’m Harry Dunbar,” the man said. And then he added, pointing his thumb toward his shiny gold star with a smile, “I’m the sheriff of Firefly Glen.”

Suddenly Harry lurched, as another man came up behind, bumping into him rudely.

“Sorry, Harry,” the second man said, grinning. He seemed to be holding a third man up by the collar. “Boxer here is having a little trouble with a straight line this morning.”

“Of course he is,” the sheriff grumbled. “It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”

The second man noticed Matthew, and looked over, smiling. “Hi,” he said, putting out his free hand, briefly letting go of the bleary-eyed fellow he’d been guiding. “I’m Parker Tremaine.”

Was everyone in this town so compulsively friendly? Matthew, who had lived in New York City all his life, hadn’t really expected this. He wondered if this Parker guy was a sheriff’s deputy. Maybe he and the sheriff were both just trying to size Matthew up, trying to decide if he was a desirable or a threat to their idyllic little Rockwell paradise.

But as Matthew shook Parker’s hand, he caught more details, and he realized Parker was no public servant. He was a vastly different type. He wore a very expensive business suit. The suit was a statement. Elegant, understated, educated.

Yes, he knew Parker’s type. He had even been Parker’s type, once upon a time. Just three years ago, he’d worn suits like that, walked like that, smiled out on his world with comfortable confidence like that. Three short years. But it might as well have been a million.

“Are you trying to ticket this poor guy for leaving his car in a no-parking space?” The man smiled over at Matthew. “Harry takes his job very seriously. But don’t worry. I can get you off.”

Matthew flinched and his gaze flicked to the curb instinctively. He hadn’t noticed any signs. He didn’t break the smallest of laws anymore. He didn’t speed, didn’t change lanes without signaling. He didn’t even jaywalk.

But the sheriff was smiling crookedly. “Parker’s being funny,” he said to Matthew. “The restrictive paint’s been worn off that space for years. Can’t get maintenance to repaint, can’t get the town council to cough up money for a sign.” He turned back to the man in the suit. “Why don’t you take Boxer on home, Parker? He could use a shower. He’s getting a little ripe in this hot sun.”

Parker frowned and turned. “Oh, hell. Where is Boxer?” He scanned the area quickly, and then his gaze settled on the ground near the door to the sheriff’s department. “Great. He’s passed out again.”

He sighed, then turned back and smiled at Matthew. “Welcome to Firefly Glen. Never a dull moment. I’m the local lawyer, and that guy on the ground over there is just one of our many beloved eccentric millionaires.”

Matthew glanced at the heap of rumpled clothes propped up against the wall of the building. “Boxer” had begun to hum softly, leading an imaginary band with one finger. The guy sure didn’t look like a millionaire. He had a black eye, a bad haircut, and he did, indeed, stink.

“Well, get him out of here, or I’m going to lock him up again.” Sheriff Harry swiveled back to Matthew and his guarded look returned. “So, was I right? Are you lost? Anything I can help you with?”

Matthew considered asking him for directions to Blue Pine Trail, but at the last minute he decided against it. The two men seemed friendly enough, but in prison you didn’t tell anyone anything, just on principle. Apparently the habit was going to cling to him, the same way the odor of cheap stew and strong prison bleach seemed to cling to the inside of his nose.

“No, thanks,” he said, forcing himself to look Harry Dunbar straight in the eye. If he was going to stay here for the summer, he might as well make friends with the locals.

And then it hit him—his decision had been made. He was going to stay, assuming he could get a job. This wasn’t some imaginary Oz with streets of gold, some enchanted Eden from which people like him had been forever banished. It was just a rather ordinary small town. It had grumpy sheriffs, Friday night drunks, inefficient elected officials, slick lawyers and lost dogs, just like hundreds of small towns across New York State.

And its houses needed repair. Matthew knew how to do that. He’d spent every summer during college with a hammer in his hands, and he could spend this one the same way.

“I was just having a look around.” He steadied his gaze. “I’m here for the summer.”

The sheriff frowned, as if the explanation didn’t quite satisfy him, but suddenly Parker Tremaine let out a low curse.

“Harry, look at this,” Parker said, staring at the bulletin board. “I warned Natalie not to post her address on these ads, and she’s done it anyway.”

Matthew wondered what the lawyer would say if he knew one of those address slips was even now tucked away in Matthew’s pocket.

“She did?” The sheriff stalked over and read the notice. Then, with a grumble, he ripped it off the board and crumpled it in his fist. “Hell, now I’ll have to go all over town tearing the darn things down. I tell you, Parker, Granvilles have always been too naive to live, and Natalie Granville is the worst of the lot.”

A sudden commotion erupted from the direction of Boxer’s corner. “Natalie Granville is a hell of a sweet woman, and I’ll kick the ass of anyone who says she’s not,” the old man said, struggling to his feet. He glared at the sheriff. “In fact, I think I’ll kick your ass anyhow, Dunbar, just for saying her name in that tone of voice.”

“Parker—” the sheriff began tightly.

“I know, I know. I’ll get him out of here. Just give me a hand.”

And while the two civilized young professionals were wrestling the crusty old drunk to his feet, Matthew seized his chance.

No one saw him climb into his car and drive away. No one asked where he was going, and he wouldn’t have told them if they had.

Because he was going to find Natalie Granville. He was going to tell her the truth about himself, and he was going to ask her for a job. Maybe she was just naive enough to believe in things like fair play and second chances—concepts he was pretty sure the suspicious sheriff would consider foolish.

Matthew pressed harder on the gas, overcome by a sudden urgency. Maybe this was why he had chosen Firefly Glen. Silver haired and sweet, the despair of cynical sheriffs yet beloved by pugilistic drunks, Natalie Granville just might be the answer to prayers Matthew hadn’t even realized he was praying.




CHAPTER TWO


SUMMER HOUSE, the understated brass plaque embedded in the tall stone pillar said. But the plaque lied.

Summer House wasn’t a house. It was an Italian villa, a sumptuous estate fit for a decadent prince. A baroque fantasy of pink marble and red terra-cotta and gray pietra serena stone. An orgy of arches and ornamentation, loggias and sculptures and formal staircases descending into shadowy gardens.

Matthew left his car by the gate and walked up the long driveway, stunned. Summer House didn’t belong in Upstate New York, tucked into the dense birch and hemlock woods of the Adirondack Mountains. It belonged in the rolling hills of seventeenth century Italy, where lemon trees grew in huge clay pots, and silvery olive trees twinkled in the Tuscan sun.

And yet here it stood.

It was slightly crazy.

It was extremely beautiful.

And it was, quite literally, falling apart.

Matthew, who had finally reached the front door, was hardly an expert, but decay cried out even to the untrained eye. Half a dozen windows on both floors were cracked and taped. The stone walls were pitted in places, crumbling away to dust in others. Many of the statues had lost noses and fingers and other protruding body parts.

And Nature, which obviously had once been banished from these formal Italian gardens by an army of landscapers, was marching boldly back, reclaiming its territory inch by inch.

No one answered the bell. In fact, Matthew couldn’t be sure the bell even worked. He reached up to use the ornate brass knocker, but as he touched it the thing swung free at one end, a loose screw rattling to the ground.

Good Lord. He found the screw and managed to reattach it temporarily, although the threads were nearly stripped. He backed up, and his foot landed on a small sliver of broken glass. As he bent to retrieve the pieces, he balanced himself on a terra-cotta finial, which rocked on its base, threatening to topple.

He caught it somehow and righted it, but he glanced around with a deepening doubt. This place was a minefield of disrepair, and it was way out of his league.

Natalie Granville might be the answer to his prayers, but he definitely wasn’t the answer to hers. She didn’t need a handyman. She needed a miracle.

He moved back down the steps, ready to leave, almost glad that no one had answered the door. He’d just get back in his car and—

But suddenly he heard a sound. A soft, fairylike singing that came from around the east side of the house. The sweet, elderly spinster, the naive Natalie, perhaps?

Curious in spite of himself, he followed the sound, crunching across broken stones with thick weeds growing in the cracks, ignoring the staring eyes of a dozen armless statues that lined the path like wounded soldiers in the war against decay.

As he approached the corner of the house, he caught a glimpse of something soft and white fluttering in the breeze. What was it? It looked like a long, white gauzy stream of lace. He squinted, confused. It looked like a ghostly wedding veil.

He moved closer. It was a wedding veil. A woman stood at the end of a wide back terrace, and she wore a long white wedding dress, her head crowned with the beautiful, flowing, fluttering lace.

But she wasn’t a living, breathing woman. She was a stiffly silent, white marble statue.

Matthew blinked. And as he watched, the soft singing began again. Something weird and disbelieving skimmed across his nerve endings. He was the last man on earth to entertain nonsensical notions. Still, he couldn’t have stopped himself then if a Minotaur had barred the way.

His gaze fixed on the marble bride, he rounded the corner.

And then, finally, he saw the other woman. The young, blond, bikini-clad beauty who was walking the balustrade like a tightrope, singing merrily to herself as she put one bare foot in front of the other.

Now that he was close enough, he could tell she had a lovely voice, but her words were badly slurred, and he noticed that she clutched a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand, holding it out as if for balance.

The balustrade was wide—at least eighteen inches—but it was slick in spots with mildew. And besides, the woman was clearly drunk. He saw her weave slightly, and he began to move fast. She held on for a few wobbling seconds, just long enough for him to reach the balcony.

The bottle fell first, crashing to the terrace and smashing into a hundred pieces. But, two seconds later, the woman fell the other way, and landed neatly in Matthew’s arms.

For a couple of seconds she was utterly silent, her mouth open as she stared, wide-eyed, in shock and breathless disbelief. She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, and her face was so close to his that he could count the tiny, pale freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.

Six.

She was ridiculously light in his arms. She probably wasn’t more than five-four, maybe one-ten? She had a mass of untamed blond hair that fell in soft curls over his arm. Her skin was slippery and warm, and it smelled of coconut oil.

After a couple of seconds, he began to register just how very little she was wearing. He decided he ought to set her down, but her arms were still wrapped around his neck, so it was awkward.

Finally she recovered her breath.

“Gosh,” she said. “It’s a good thing you caught me, isn’t it?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

“I could have broken something. A leg. An arm.” Her eyes widened even more. “I could have broken my neck, just the way my grandfather always used to say I would.”

“Yes,” he agreed, though privately he doubted it. The fall was only a couple of feet, and she was so drunk she probably would have landed limply and safely on the grass.

“So I guess it’s a very good thing you were here.”

“I guess so.”

She nodded sagely, as if they’d solved something important. With a soft sigh, she dropped her head comfortably against his chest.

And jerked it right back up.

“Hey, wait a minute,” she said, concentrating so hard her brow wrinkled. “Why were you here?”

He debated with himself. Since he’d changed his mind about applying for the handyman job, he probably shouldn’t even mention it. On the other hand, he’d hate for her to think he was just some weirdo prowling around.

He looked into her slightly unfocused eyes. They had swirls of gold in the brown, like melted butterscotch being stirred into chocolate syrup. She was very young, very gorgeous, and he was suddenly aware of the warm thrust of her breasts against his chest.

He cleared his throat. “Do you think you’re steady enough to stand up on your own?”

“Oh. Sure.” She helped extricate herself, and she did pretty well, except that she had to take two steps before she found her balance. She frowned, as if trying to hang on to her train of thought. “You were going to tell me—”

“Someone put up an ad for a handyman,” he said, deciding that honesty was his best course. The grandfather she’d mentioned probably took a dim view of trespassers. “I was thinking of applying.”

“Really?” She tilted her head. “You don’t look like a handyman,” she said. Then she flushed and placed her palm against her forehead. “Oh, that was dumb, wasn’t it? I mean, there isn’t any particular way handymen look, is there? It’s just that you’re so…”

She bit her lower lip as she studied him, apparently searching for the telling detail. “I know. It’s because you smell so good. Darryl smelled like when you open the refrigerator, and you can just tell you’ve left the hamburger in there way too long.” She wrinkled her nose. “You know that smell?”

He couldn’t help chuckling. “Darryl was a handyman, I take it?”

“The last one. I had to let him go. I couldn’t bear to tell him about the hamburger smell, so I told him I was going to finish the work myself.” She sighed, her gaze taking in the mess around her. “I don’t think he believed me.”

Matthew’s mind suddenly skidded, trying to accept the implications of her pronoun choices. “I” had to let him go, she’d said. “I” was going to finish the work. Good God. Was it possible that this young, beautiful woman was Natalie Granville? Could this fragile slip of femininity really be the owner of this weird mansion, custodian of all this decrepit glory?

Surely not. She didn’t look much older than a coed, a completely normal twenty-something, celebrating summer break by sunbathing and getting looped.

“Is this your house?”

She nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. I’m Natalie Granville, the last of the Granvilles, and the proud owner of every crumbling stone you see. Sorry about falling into your arms.” She grinned. “But you certainly proved that you’re a very handy man. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” He held out his hand. “I’m Matthew Quinn.”

“Hello, Matthew Quinn. You’re hired.”

His first thought was that the sheriff had been right. Natalie Granville was too naive to live. Hired? She didn’t have any idea who Matthew was. She hadn’t asked a single question, requested a single reference. She didn’t even know if he could tell a pair of needle-nose pliers from a monkey wrench. For all she knew he could be jack-of-no-trades. Or even Jack the Ripper.

But his second thought was that, absurdly, he wished he could say yes. There was something inexplicably appealing about her, and it wasn’t just how great she looked in that bikini.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I had already decided not to apply for the job. I’m afraid it’s a little out of my league.”

She frowned. “Oh, no, don’t say that! You’re perfect for it.”

“No, really. I couldn’t tell, from the flyer, how extensive your needs were. I’m okay at the little stuff—painting, patching drywall, replacing gutters, fixing a leaky drain, stuff like that. But this—”

“I’ve got plenty of leaky drains,” she put in desperately. But then, catching his raised eyebrow, she sighed. “And a leaky roof. And a leaky foundation. And of course the water all leaked out of the pool years ago.”

He looked at her heart-shaped face, with the sprinkle of freckles she probably despised standing out against her pale skin. She looked absolutely forlorn.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really do wish I could help.”

“You can! I’m not expecting anyone to tackle everything. Just do what you can. I’ll pay whatever you ask.” She bit her lower lip, catching herself. “Well, I guess I can’t really promise that, because as you may have noticed this house just gobbles money. But I’ll pay what I can, and you can live in the pool house for free, and I’ll cook the meals—”

She stopped herself again. “Unless you like to do your own cooking. I’d let you use the kitchen, of course, and I’d buy the groceries, so even if I couldn’t pay you a whole lot in salary it would still be a good deal, and you—”

“It’s not the money, Natalie,” he said. It seemed silly to call her Ms. Granville when his fingers were still slick from holding her oiled body. “It’s that I don’t have the necessary skills to do this job well.”

“I think you do. Please, Matthew.” She squeezed her hands together. She suddenly looked very pale. “Please say yes.”

He was amazed to discover how difficult it was to resist her. Her artless chatter and sweet smiles might merely be the result of the booze, but he didn’t really believe it. He thought he could still recognize honest-to-God goodness when he saw it.

Even in his old life, back before prison, when he had been making millions in the stock market, both for himself and for a lot of other rich people, innocence had been pretty rare. He had hobnobbed with dazzling genius and indescribable beauty. He had shaken hands with raw ambition and insatiable greed. He had kissed the sleek cheeks of glamour and power and sex.

But he hadn’t ever met anyone as open and guileless as Natalie Granville.

Of course, he reminded himself wryly, she was very drunk. She might be a lot more cynical when she was sober. She probably had a ten-page application for the handyman inside, requiring everything from his blood type to his shoe size.

Or she might be just plain crazy. After all, somebody had dressed that statue up in a wedding gown.

“You know,” he said gently, “smelling good doesn’t exactly qualify me to reroof an Italian villa.”

“I know, but still.” She put one hand against her heart earnestly. “I know it sounds crazy, but I know it’s the right thing. I need you here. It’s just a feeling I have.”

A feeling that probably had much more to do with the Jack Daniel’s than it did with Matthew himself. But he refrained from saying so. She had begun to look a little green around the edges, and he thought what she needed most of all might be a couple of aspirin and a long nap. When she woke up, she probably wouldn’t even remember dancing on the balustrade…or begging a total stranger to live in the pool house and fix her leaky drains.

The sound of a sports car rumbling up the back driveway interrupted whatever she’d been going to say next. She looked over at the long-nosed car, a shiny model of British racing green that Matthew recognized as costing as much as a small house.

“Damnation.” She groaned. “I told him not to come. Well, I didn’t exactly tell him, but I didn’t answer when he called, and surely he ought to know—”

“Nat?” A long, lean young man unfolded himself from the car and smiled over at Natalie, pointedly ignoring Matthew. He was dressed in the official rich young stud uniform of khakis, polo shirt and boat shoes. “I called three times, honey. But you didn’t pick up.”

“That’s because I was busy interviewing my new handyman,” she said, drawing herself erect and obviously trying to sound haughty and businesslike. The effect was spoiled somewhat by her saying “thatsh” instead of “that’s” and “hannyman” instead of “handyman.” And of course the wild hair and the bikini weren’t exactly her most professional look.

The man took it all in. He was clearly trying to size up the situation, and finding himself unable to make the pieces fit. He looked over at Matthew narrowly. “Handyman?”

“Yes,” Natalie said, working hard to get the s right. She tugged self-consciously at her bikini pants, trying to cover her hipbone, but merely succeeding in exposing an extra inch of thigh in the process. “Matthew, meet Stuart Leith, city councilman for Firefly Glen. Stuart, Matthew Quinn.”

“Hello.” Stuart’s voice was flat. “Quinn, did you say? And you want to be Natalie’s new handyman?” It was the same tone he would have used to say, “You want to fly to the moon on a bumblebee’s back?”

For a minute, Matthew considered saying yes, just because he’d like to wipe the smug look from Stuart the Stud’s face. God, had he ever looked that self-satisfied? He should have spent three years in prison for that alone.

But he couldn’t play macho games right now. It wouldn’t be fair to Natalie. “Actually, no,” he said, forcing himself to smile politely. “I had thought of applying, but when I got here I could see I’m not quite right for the job.”

“Matthew,” Natalie began plaintively. A few beads of sweat had formed on her brow. She was going to be sick. He knew the signs.

“I see,” Stuart said firmly, closing the door to his car carefully and coming around to stand by Natalie. “So. You were probably just about to leave, then, weren’t you? Don’t let me hold you up.”

Natalie made a low sound of distress. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I don’t feel very good.”

“Come on, honey, I’ll take you inside.” Stuart aimed steady eyes at Matthew. “You can find your way back to the gate, can’t you?”

Matthew nodded. “Be careful,” he said. “There’s some broken glass on the patio.”

“Thanks. I’ll take care of it.” Stuart bent over Natalie. “What on earth has been going on here, honey?”

“Matthew.”

“Bye, Natalie,” he said quietly as Stuart began to lead her away.

She groaned, but whether it was because he was leaving, or because the Jack Daniel’s had finally staged its inevitable revolt in her stomach, he couldn’t tell. He had already turned his back on them and was heading around to the front of the house where he’d left his car.

Goodbye, and good riddance. He had plenty of trouble in his life right now. He didn’t need to take on more. And no question the lovely Natalie Granville, however adorable, was capital T trouble. Her crumbling mansion was trouble, her empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s before lunchtime was trouble, her statue wearing a wedding dress was trouble. Even her snooty, smothering boyfriend was trouble.

Matthew slammed the car door, turned the key and shoved the gearshift into drive. He should be glad to go, glad to escape from this moldering nuthouse. What a pair! A bone-deep snob and a ditzy, tipsy, possibly crazy Pollyanna.

But maybe he was crazy, too. Because instead of feeling relieved as he watched Summer House grow smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror, he felt an unmistakable, inexplicable pinch of real regret.

SUZIE STRICKLAND SAT in the Summer House driveway for two hours that Saturday afternoon, waiting for Stuart Leith to leave.

She wanted to talk to Natalie.

And she wanted to do it alone. But she couldn’t wait forever. She had summer school Monday, and she had a ton of homework.

How long could that preppy cretin hang around, anyhow? Natalie couldn’t really enjoy his company, could she? He was a double-barreled knuckle-dragger, whereas Natalie was actually kind of cool.

Suzie’s fingers instinctively strayed to her eyebrow, accustomed to fiddling with the little gold ring when she was nervous or irritable or worried. But the ring wasn’t there. The piercing had become infected last week, and she had to wait for it to heal.

It was like a conspiracy. She needed to write an essay to go with her college application, and if she expected to have a shot at an art scholarship it would have to be good as hell, really creative. But how was she supposed to be creative when so many things were driving her crazy?

And here came one more. The lawn mower’s rumble had been growing louder for the past half an hour. Mike Frome, another preppy cretin, was some kind of distant cousin of Natalie’s, and he was spending the summer working on the estate.

She slouched down in the seat, but he saw her anyway. He cut off the mower and came sauntering over, wiping his face with his shirt just so he could show off his buffed-up abs.

“Hey, Suzi-freaka,” he said, in that superior, sarcastic way he had. He’d started calling her that in middle school, when she had worn bell-bottoms and peace signs. He, of course, wouldn’t be caught dead in anything that hadn’t already received the Boring Young Conservatives Seal of Approval.

His crowd and her crowd had hated each other since puberty. She had been pretty pissed at fate when, one day last year, while shooting pictures of the basketball team for the school paper, she had discovered that he had suddenly become really cute.

And she meant really cute.

She sat up, acting surprised, pretending she hadn’t noticed his arrival. “Well, if it isn’t Mindless Mike. What are you doing here?”

“I work here.” He put his elbow on the hood of her car and leaned down, smiling in at her. He was all sweaty, but he looked cute sweaty, which he undoubtedly already knew. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here, too, moron.” Oh, brother. She shouldn’t have said that. She hadn’t even asked Natalie about it yet. But he always acted so darn superior, as if his money and his looks and his athletic ability guaranteed him entrée anywhere, while poor little Suzie Strickland, whose parents actually worked for a living, had to prove that she had the right to breathe the same air.

“Oh, yeah?” He looked curious. “What do you do? Are you like the maid or something?”

He was close enough that she could have reached out and punched him. But he would have had a field day with that, telling everyone at school how crazy Suzi-freaka had gone postal on him.

“No,” she said icily. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to be painting a trompe l’oeil in the Summer House library.” She smiled a Cheshire cat smile. “Not that you’d have any clue what a ‘trompe l’oeil’ actually is.”

Mike looked a shade less confident. “The hell I don’t. I was in your art history class last year, remember? It’s a—” he wiped his face again “—a thing on the wall.”

She snorted. “Yeah. Right. It’s a thing on the wall. What did you get in art history class, anyway? A D minus?”

He rolled his eyes. “You know what, Suzi-freaka? I don’t remember what I got. Some of us have more in our lives than obsessing about making the honor roll.”

“Well, that’s fortunate. Considering you haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of ever making the honor roll.”

“Whatever.” Mike yawned extravagantly and pretended to scan the sky with a professional eye. “I’d better get back to work before the rain comes in. I’ve got a hot date tonight.” He raised the pitch of his voice, imitating her. “Not that you’d have a clue what a ‘hot date’ actually is.”

Okay, now she really was going to punch him.

“The hell I don’t,” she countered. “It’s a double-D cup with a single-digit IQ, in the back seat of your daddy’s Land Rover.” She gave him a dirty look. “Although frankly I would have thought you’d had your fill of all that with Justine Millner.”

Oh, hell. She shouldn’t have said that. He had told her about the Justine Millner problem in confidence, one night when, to their total shock, they had ended up at the same party. She had sworn never to mention it again.

But what was she supposed to do? Justine was Mike Frome’s only weak spot, whereas Suzie herself had hundreds, and he knew how to jab an insult into any of them at will.

“You know what you are, Suzi-freaka?” Mike palmed the hood of her car hard in a sardonic goodbye slap. “You’re some kind of serious bitch.”

She watched him lope away. Bitch. He’d never called her that before. Well, so what? Did he really think she cared what he called her? Did he really think she gave a flying flip?

She turned the key in the ignition and started the car. That horrible Stuart Leith wasn’t going anywhere. Apparently everyone on the face of the earth was having hot dates on this summer Saturday night—everyone but her.

Not that she cared. She didn’t care one bit. They were mindless animals, and she was an artist.

But for the first time in her entire life, that word didn’t bring any magical comfort. For the first time in her life, she would have gladly traded places with Justine Millner, or any other bimbo with a double-D cup and a reservation for two in the back of Mike Frome’s father’s SUV.




CHAPTER THREE


NATALIE WAS GOING TO DIE.

At least that’s what she’d been hoping since she woke up this morning, and she figured she had a pretty good chance. If this screaming headache and roiling nausea didn’t get her, surely the humiliation would.

But in the meantime, she had to deliver these plants to Theo. If by some awful chance she lived, she’d still have to pay the electricity bill. And the water bill. And the property taxes. And the insurance. And, and, and…

So she kept driving, even though the sun was stabbing swords of light into her eyeballs and when she hit a bump her skull almost burst from the pain.

She double-parked in front of the Candlelight Café, Theo’s diner on Main Street. She glanced up toward the sheriff’s office, hoping Harry was out on call. He was such a stickler about things like double parking. And she couldn’t afford another ticket. She hadn’t paid her last two yet.

Theodosia Burke, the seventy-four-year-old tyrannical owner of the café, must have been watching for Natalie’s car. Within a very few seconds, the wiry little woman had joined Natalie at the back of the tiny Honda Civic, where the hatch had been lifted to reveal six lush rabbit’s foot ferns in hanging baskets.

Though grateful for the help, Natalie was surprised that Theo had been willing to leave her customers. She ran her little diner like a five-star gourmet restaurant.

“Good morning,” Theo screamed.

The words echoed in Natalie’s brain like thunder. She tried not to wince, but she couldn’t help putting a protective hand to her forehead to try to keep her brain from exploding.

“Morning,” she whispered with her eyes shut.

“Well, I’ll be darned.” Theo paused, a hanging basket in each hand. “It’s true, isn’t it? I thought that idiot Leith was lying. What’s the matter with you, girl? Don’t you know why Granvilles don’t drink? They can’t hold their liquor worth squat.”

Natalie tried to smile, but she had the feeling it looked more like a grimace. “Yes, ma’am,” she said meekly. “I can confirm that.”

“Idiot young people,” Theo complained. “Always have to learn everything the hard way.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Natalie wasn’t up to arguing. The sun was beating down on her, and she’d begun to perspire, which, besides being quite disagreeable, made her feel a little sick.

Theo chuckled thoughtfully. “Stu told me about the wedding dress. Sure wish I could have seen that.”

Natalie didn’t join in the chuckle, so Theo finally subsided. “I guess yesterday was a little rough, huh? I hope you weren’t feeling too sorry for yourself. That never did anyone a bit of good, you know.”

Natalie started to protest that Granvilles didn’t indulge in self-pity, but it wasn’t strictly true. She was feeling fairly darn sorry for herself this morning. But not over Bart Beswick and the non-wedding day.

“Darn it,” she began rather vehemently. But that was a mistake. Her head ringing, she took a deep breath and started over in a fierce whisper. “Why does everyone keep forgetting I was the one who called off this wedding? They all treat me like some pitiful jilted bride who is half dying of a broken heart.”

Theo laughed out loud. “They don’t think you’re pitiful, girl. They think you’re crazy. You just passed up the chance to marry about twenty million bucks. Which, as we all know, you could definitely use.”

“But I didn’t love him. And he didn’t love me, not really.”

“Yeah, I know. But most of the folks around here don’t see what love’s got to do with twenty million dollars.”

Natalie sighed and gathered two baskets in each hand, shoving the hatchback shut with her elbow.

“Well, if they don’t know, I can’t explain it to them.” She nodded toward the café. “Let’s get these inside. Your customers are probably wondering where you are.”

When she climbed the first step, though, she realized that Theo was lagging behind. “Come on, Theo.” Her sunglasses were crawling down on her nose. She tilted her head back, trying to make them slide into place. She couldn’t stand the nuclear glare of the sun. “These plants are kind of heavy, you know.”

“I know. But before we go in, I probably should tell you—”

“What?”

“We’ve got a new customer. New in town, I mean. Good-looking guy. He’s in there now.”

Natalie groaned. Theo was the Glen’s most energetic matchmaker. “Theo, I’m not in the market for a new man yet. Especially not today. Look at me. My jeans are dirty, my head is splitting, and I’m about one wrong move from either puking or fainting. I don’t care how handsome he is. Please, please, please don’t introduce me to him.”

Theo looked strangely tongue-tied—a first for the crusty old woman. She fiddled with the ferns, untangling a couple of soft fronds, not looking at Natalie.

“I don’t think I have to,” she said. “I think you’ve already met him.”

“I have?” Natalie glanced toward the glossy red door, which was flanked by tubs full of bright yellow marigolds supplied by Natalie’s own nursery. “When?”

Theo looked up. “Well…tell me, girl. How much do you actually remember about yesterday?”

“I—” Natalie started. “I remember everything,” she whispered.

“Everything?”

“Every embarrassing minute of it. Up to and including—” She swallowed. “Oh, no.”

Theo nodded sympathetically. “Oh, yes. Up to and including the handsome Matthew Quinn.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, Natalie was still trying to calm herself down with a mental barrage of reassurances.

It wasn’t really such a disaster, was it? Actually, this made her day a whole lot easier. She had planned to try to track Matthew Quinn down sometime this afternoon anyhow.

It was just that she had hoped to wait a few hours, until her eyes weren’t quite so bloodshot. She had wanted one more shower, to banish any lingering whiff of stale liquor…or worse.

She had planned to put on her navy-blue suit, and panty hose, and maybe even makeup. She had intended to tightly French-braid her unruly hair. She had desperately wanted to look professional, sober and sane—well, as sane as any Granville ever could.

Instead, she was going to have to meet him like this. In her working jeans, with her head made of glass and her stomach made of Slinky springs.

Oh heck. Maybe it was for the best. This was how she really looked. If she couldn’t persuade Matthew Quinn to help her without the aid of a suit and panty hose, maybe he wasn’t the perfect man after all.

He was sitting in the back, reading the newspaper. Probably looking at the classified ads, she thought. Hunting for a job, no doubt, now that he’d decided he didn’t want the one she was offering.

She continued hanging the ferns on the hooks above the front windows. She tried not to look at him too much—it would be bad for her concentration. But she was relieved to see that he looked the same, even now that she wasn’t viewing him through the rosy fumes of an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

He was very tall, well over six feet. Maybe a touch too thin, as if no one fed him right, but still pleasantly powerful, especially those broad, squared-off shoulders.

Healthy, thick brown hair, with a touch of wave that he didn’t bother to subdue. She’d be willing to bet he didn’t own a single can of mousse or hair spray. Call her old fashioned, but she hated a guy who used more hair products than she did. Which, in her case, amounted to one generic brand of combination shampoo and conditioner and a brush. Serious vanity required more time—and more money—than she could spare.

She couldn’t see his eyes from here. But she remembered them. Hazel eyes, with dark, thick lashes. Gorgeous eyes, but more than that. Smart eyes. And best of all, kind eyes.

She didn’t pay much attention to men’s clothes—or women’s either, for that matter—but she sensed that he hadn’t spent a lot of money on his jeans and plain white cotton shirt. Some of the pinup boys around here could take lessons. They spent obscene amounts on their designer outfits, and they didn’t look half as good as Matthew Quinn.

Of course he had the advantage of being naturally sexy as all get-out. She had dreamed about him off and on last night, and, with the whiskey pretty much acting like chloroform on her inhibitions, it had been a fairly X-rated evening.

Not that she’d ever in a million years tell him about that. It would scare him off for sure. And she didn’t intend to act on her fantasies. She was looking for a handyman, not a boyfriend. It was only important because it proved that he truly was special. She didn’t have X-rated dreams very often, which she now realized was rather a shame.

At that moment he glanced up. He seemed to be looking for a waitress, but, even though she was high on a chair hanging the last fern, he spotted her.

For a few long seconds he waited, as if he weren’t sure whether it was polite to admit yesterday had ever happened. So, to put the question to rest, she smiled. And then, slowly, he smiled back.

Gosh. She nearly fell off her chair when her knees threatened to go soft on her. She didn’t want to act like a gushing teenage groupie or anything, but he had a wonderful, summery smile. It was full of sunlight and warmth.

Oh, yes. Drunk or not, her instincts had been so right yesterday. This man was special. He was perfect.

And she wasn’t leaving the Candlelight Café until he agreed to come and work for her.

She climbed down carefully, whisking debris from the front of her jeans. She swiped at her hair, hoping she could dislodge any small green flecks of fern from her curls. And then she made her way to his table.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly aware that every woman should have her own personal scriptwriter. There must be something witty and sophisticated she could say to sweep them past this awkward moment. But her mind remained a stubborn, gawky blank. “How are you?”

“Great,” he said, still smiling. He put the newspaper politely down, giving her his full attention. “How about you?”

He didn’t put any particular emphasis on the question, but she flushed anyhow.

“I feel absolutely gruesome,” she said. Why not be honest? She had a strong feeling that they could be friends, that they would work well together, but not if she started out with a phony facade. “And terribly embarrassed. I wanted to apologize for yesterday. You were wonderful. A real knight in shining armor. And I was a complete mess. Absolutely disgusting. I don’t even think I thanked you properly for saving my life.”

He shook his head. “You were cute and completely charming, not at all disgusting. And you thanked me several times, even though your life was never in the least bit of danger.”

He drank some coffee, raising his eyebrows over the rim. “Actually,” he said, “I got the idea that maybe the rougher stages were yet to come. Maybe your friend Stuart got the worst of it?”

She caught herself smiling. “I’m afraid he might have.” She sighed. “I don’t remember all of it, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to buy him a new pair of shoes.”

“Uh-oh.” But Matthew’s eyes were sparkling, and she could tell he found the whole episode more amusing than appalling. That was a good sign. At least he wasn’t one of those stuffy prigs who put women on pedestals and lost interest if they ever got sick or dirty or tired or bitchy. Or drunk.

Not that she got drunk very often. Yesterday was her first time ever, and it would probably be the last. But in the nursery business you were always dirty. And sometimes, not often, she did catch herself being a little bit bitchy.

Theo appeared at the table. She put a plate of banana-walnut pancakes in front of Matthew, and a large fresh orange juice in front of Natalie.

“I didn’t order anything,” Natalie said, glancing over at her meaningfully.

“I know you didn’t.” Theo crossed her arms. “But you need vitamin C for that hangover.” She turned to Matthew. “And you could use two or three more pounds of meat on those bones. So no arguments from either of you. Just eat up.”

Natalie lifted her glass with a resigned sigh. “You might as well take a bite,” she told Matthew. “Theo won’t budge from that spot until she gets her way.”

Matthew smiled suddenly. “You’re Theo?”

Even the notoriously immune older woman melted a little under the wattage of that smile. She unfolded her arms. “Theodosia Burke. I own the café.”

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Matthew said. “I was sorry to see the flyer about your dog. Have you found him yet?”

“No, not yet.” Obviously pleased by Matthew’s concern, she dug in her crisp white apron and pulled out an extra copy of the picture. “Here. If you’d keep your eyes peeled for him, I’d appreciate it. The fool animal is going deaf. No telling what trouble he might get into.”

Matthew took the flyer. “I’ll be glad to,” he said. “I know you must be worried.”

“Yes. Well. Eat up.” Taking Matthew’s check, Theo slipped it into her apron pocket. “Breakfast’s on the house,” she said gruffly.

She started to move on to the next table, but suddenly she turned back and gave Natalie a steady look. “And just for the record, I don’t think you’re having a Granville moment, whatever Stuart Leith says. I think your judgment is just fine on this one.”

Natalie flushed, hoping Matthew couldn’t decode that little message. For as long as she could remember, Glenners had described her family’s idiosyncrasies as “Granville moments.” When her grandfather had bought a pair of giraffes to lope across the Summer House lawns, it had been a “Granville moment.” The helicopter pad, the dance-hall strumpet installed as the children’s governess, the bootleg whiskey fermenting in the bathtub, all historic Granville moments.

She had grown up on the story of her great-great-grandfather, who had declared war on the city of Firefly Glen and established a cannon on the mountain ledge overlooking the town. Apparently the Glenners had largely ignored it, observing placidly that the old man was clearly having a “Granville moment.”

She studied Matthew’s face to see what he thought of Theo’s cryptic parting comment. But she couldn’t quite read the expression. She didn’t know him well enough, not yet. He merely seemed to be enjoying his pancakes.

Okay, it was now or never. She took a big gulp of the orange juice and launched her attack.

“Anyhow, I did want to apologize. But I also wanted to see if there’s any way I can talk you into accepting the handyman position.”

She saw him look up and prepare to speak, but she rushed on, hoping she could forestall another refusal. “I know it probably seemed like the job from hell yesterday, what with me acting so goofy and the house being such a mess. But I want you to know that I’m really not a lush. In fact, I don’t drink at all. Granvilles never drink. They have no head for alcohol whatsoever.”

He smiled. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely. So you don’t need to worry that I’ll be forever falling off things and landing in your arms.” She swallowed, aware that this wasn’t coming out quite right. “And about the house. It is pretty awful, that’s obvious. But I wouldn’t expect any major repairs. I can’t afford anything major right now anyhow. All I can afford is some routine maintenance. Just a bandage over the wound.”

“Natalie, I do appreciate the offer, but—”

“Please.” She wrapped her hands around her glass hard. “Please don’t say no until you’ve heard me out. I live out there all alone. It’s a huge place, a huge responsibility. New problems pop up every day. I can do some of it. I do a lot, actually. I have for years. But right now I need help.”

“Natalie, I’m really not your man. I’m not here for the long haul. I’m only in Firefly Glen for the summer, and—”

“That’s okay. I’m not asking you to commit long-term. But couldn’t you try it for a couple of weeks? I’ll pay you a month in advance. And if you don’t like it, or if you still feel it’s a mistake, you can leave, no questions asked. The salary is low, but the pool-house apartment is included, and meals, too.”

He was looking at her sadly, as if he hated to disappoint her. But he had stopped trying to inject a firm no into her monologue, so that had to be a good sign.

“It wasn’t just the liquor talking yesterday,” she said, gathering courage. He was tempted, she could tell. “I really think we could get along well together. I think we’d make a great team.”

“Natalie. You don’t even know me. You don’t know the first thing about my skills. What if I can’t even hammer a nail straight?”

“Nonsense.” She shook her head. “You’re not clumsy. You have strong, graceful hands, and you know how to use them.”

“What if I’m weak—or lazy?”

“Give me a break. With those muscles? You forget, I know exactly how strong you are. Strong enough to catch a falling woman in midair and never miss a beat.”

He smiled, but his expression sobered almost instantly. “Then what about my character? You’re inviting me to live in your home without any proof I’m not a liar or a thief or a crazed serial killer. What about references? What about my past?”

“I’ll call your references if you want me to. But I make my best decisions when I simply follow my instincts. I can’t help it. My grandfather used to say ‘Granvilles always go with their gut’ and he was right. In fact, the only really bad choices I’ve ever made were when I ignored my instincts.”

She thought about Bart. She’d known from the start that a loveless marriage was a terrible idea. But she’d allowed other people to persuade her that twenty million dollars could be awfully darn lovable. Even her grandfather, on his deathbed, had recommended Bart as the answer.

But in her heart she’d known all along it would be a disaster. Breaking the engagement was the best decision she’d ever made.

Until this one.

Matthew seemed lost in his own thoughts, too. He stared at her for a long moment, rotating his spoon slowly through his fingers, like a card player tickling an ace. She couldn’t help watching—it was such a perfect example of the grace she’d mentioned earlier.

Finally he spoke.

“I have something I need to tell you,” he said, his voice low and grave. “Something you should know before you push this any further.”

She nodded, almost afraid to hope. But he didn’t look like a man who was trying to find a way to say no anymore. He looked like a man who was trying to find a way to say yes.

He took a deep breath and began.

“It’s simple, really. Simple and ugly. I just got out of prison.”

She could see that he expected some reaction. A recoil of horror, perhaps? An ‘eek’ as if she’d seen a ghost? He must not know that her great-grandfather had been in jail four times for bootlegging, and her grandmother’s brother had shot his best friend over a soprano. And the ancestor with the cannon had refused to pay taxes for decades.

Granvilles didn’t scare that easily. So she just looked at him and waited.

“I got out less than a month ago,” he went on finally. “I served three years of a five-year sentence at the New York State Penitentiary.”

“Why?” It seemed an inadequate reaction, but it was the only one she could come up with. “What did you do?”

“Embezzling. Grand larceny. There were actually several counts, with several fancy names. The short version is that I owned a financial consulting firm. I was good at picking investments, and I made a lot of money for a lot of people. But my partner…”

He set his jaw hard, and his brown eyes were suddenly black. “The money disappeared. All of it. Millions and millions of dollars. My partner went to South America, and I went to prison.”

The simplicity of his delivery was her best clue. He was in a lot of pain, and he was afraid that if he said any more the pain might show.

“But you didn’t take the money, did you? Your partner took it, isn’t that right?” She leaned across the table. “You aren’t an embezzler just because he’s an embezzler.”

Matthew took a long drink of coffee, as if his throat was very dry. “A jury of my peers found otherwise,” he said, and she heard the dark note of bitterness under the words. “And the New York State prison system didn’t seem to think there were any substantive distinctions, either. They found us equally to blame.”

He set the cup down carefully and turned his shadowed eyes her way. “So, there it is.”

Yes, there it was. She could almost feel the anger and bitter resentment radiating out from him. It pulsed across the table and touched her in thick, black waves. But she felt other things, too. She felt the loneliness, the courage, the shock of betrayed trust. The pure injustice and pain.

It was a lot to take in, almost too much.

She hoped she wouldn’t start crying. He would never understand. He might think she cried out of pity, when really they would be tears of indignation. What a bastard his partner must have been. How could any man leave a friend to pay so heavy a price?

“So what do you say, Natalie Granville? What is your gut telling you now?”

Somehow she managed to smile. “Right now my gut is telling me that we’d better hurry. It’s a statistical fact that every eight-point-two minutes another piece of Summer House falls apart. While we were discussing this nonsense, I probably lost the entire west wall of the Blue Bedroom.”

“Natalie, this isn’t nonsense. It’s real. I am a convicted felon. You could be—”

She sighed heavily. “For heaven’s sake! Let’s cut to the chase. Just give me a yes or no answer. If you accept this job, will you do your best to fix up my crazy old house?”

“I can’t—”

“Yes or no answer.”

He nodded cautiously. “Yes.”

“Are you going to try to cheat me?”

“No.”

“Rob me? Steal all my expensive stuff?”

He smiled just a little. “Do you have expensive stuff?”

She grinned. “Not a bit. But if I did, would you steal it?”

“No.”

“And would you ever physically hurt me?”

He took a breath. “Never.”

She stood up and held out her hand. “Then, as I tried to tell you yesterday, Matthew Quinn, you’re hired.”

Slowly he rose to his feet. Even more slowly, he accepted her outstretched hand. His grip was strong and sure and safe, and she smiled, thinking how lucky she was that the world’s most amazing handyman had somehow found his way to her rickety old door.

She was sorry for his sake that prison had brought him to this moment, but for one fleeting instant, selfishly, for her own sake, she was glad.

“Okay, then. It’s settled. Can you move in tomorrow morning?”

Gradually his own smile grew less strained. And he nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

“Great. I’ll be waiting for you.”

She picked up her glass and downed the last of the orange juice. Theo was so smart. Her hangover had completely, miraculously, disappeared.

“Natalie,” Matthew called out as she started to walk away.

She paused. “What?”

“I have to know. Why was that statue wearing a wedding dress yesterday?”

She shook her head, chuckling.

“I’ll tell you all about it someday,” she said. “Right now I can only say that I must have been having a Granville moment.”

He laughed softly. “The world will say you’re having another Granville moment now, hiring me.”

She shrugged, still smiling.

“Let it,” she said. “The world has been wrong before.”




CHAPTER FOUR


MATTHEW ARRIVED at Summer House early, not wanting to give himself time to reconsider. He had hardly slept, staring at the hotel ceiling all night as he fought a twitchy, irrational urge to bolt, just to jump in the car and head north. Or south. Or anywhere. Anywhere else.

Maybe it came from those three years caged in an eight-by-eight cell, but the idea of being tied down made him crazy. Even a casual, short-term arrangement like this job for Natalie Granville left him short of breath, as if a noose had been looped around his neck.

He should have said no.

Freedom. Freedom was everything.

But it was also relative. If he didn’t work at Summer House, he still had to work somewhere. Down in Florida, his sister and her husband were waiting patiently, hoping he would accept their generous offer of a job managing one of their family restaurants. And back in New York City, his parole officer was waiting, too, less patiently. Matthew’s early release had been conditioned on his finding gainful employment outside the world of finance within the month.

Yes, it was Florida—with his sister’s smothering solicitude and his brother-in-law’s silent disapproval—or it was some quick, anonymous job like this one.

So he’d gotten up early, called his sister to tell her he was fine but that he was taking a summer job up here, to give himself time to think things over, time to clear his head.

And then he’d driven straight to Summer House.

But apparently he was too early. Natalie had left a note on the front door, in that same frilly calligraphy that had led him to her in the first place.

“Darn! I missed you!” the note said, and Matthew could almost hear her voice in the exclamation points. “Follow signs to pool house and settle in. Back absolutely ASAP.”

He followed the silly pink sticky notes, which were affixed every few feet to whatever was available—outstretched hands of statues, terra-cotta pots, tendrils of ivy. They led him toward the eastern side of the house, through the mildewed grotto— God, what a wreck!—and out toward the monstrous, dry hole in the ground that had once been the lavish swimming pool.

He paused there, peering in, noting its broken, cavernous walls and steeply sloping floor. An elaborate mosaic had been inlaid into the finish, but so many small pieces were missing that it looked like a half-done jigsaw puzzle, and Matthew couldn’t quite tell what the picture was.

Good grief, he thought, shaking his head. The place was even worse than he’d thought. He definitely should have said no. The best handyman in the world couldn’t help. Natalie Granville should just rent a bulldozer and start over.

The pool house was on the far side of the cracked deck and it was, predictably, just as run-down as the rest of the crazy old mansion.

His duffel bag held lightly in one hand, Matthew stood before the beautiful ruin. It reminded him, with its marble columns and formal pediments, of a small, abandoned temple.

Mold mottled the walls. Early-morning sunlight streamed through holes in the roof, spotlighting foot-high weeds that grew up in the cracked floor tiles. And two of the three white columns had curiously jagged missing chunks, as if a dragon had sampled them for lunch.

It was picturesque and broody and probably uncomfortable as hell. Oh yeah, he positively should have said no.

But Natalie’s final pink note fluttered on the front door.

Hurray! You found it! The words were followed by three more exclamation points and a smiley face. “Welcome home!”

He peeled the note off and held it in his hand, shaking his head in silent amazement. Where on earth did a woman like Natalie Granville, who should have been thoroughly oppressed by her dilemma, find so much enthusiasm?

And besides, Summer House wasn’t his home. He didn’t have a home.

“I know. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

He turned toward the sound of the voice. It was Natalie, looking clean and sober and surprisingly professional in a pale blue linen suit. In fact, she looked so different from the disheveled, half-naked eccentric who had fallen into his arms that at first he hardly recognized her.

Nothing could change the fact that she was beautiful. But all these efforts to look “normal”—the young exec uniform, the safe pink lipstick, the curls scraped back and tamed into a tight ponytail—took away some of her quirky magic.

What a shame. He had kind of liked her drunk and disorderly.

But just then the balmy summer breeze kicked up, and a few of those soft, shining corkscrew curls lifted free. She wrinkled her nose and, with a sheepish smile, yanked the clip from her hair. Then she bent down, peeled off her high heels and flexed her bare foot with a relieved groan.

“God, I hate shoes. Don’t you?” She turned toward him and grimaced. Somehow she even managed to make a grimace look cheerful. And suddenly he realized that the magic was still there. It would take more than a linen suit to make Natalie Granville “normal.”

“Don’t let the mess out here scare you off,” she said. She dropped her purse and shoes on the broken flagstones and reached out to take his hand. “I didn’t get to the outside yet. But wait until you see inside. It has a few good points, I promise.”

Before he could protest, she pulled open the door and led him into the cool interior. She bustled around, apparently nervous, flicking at imaginary specks of dust, nudging picture frames a millimeter to the left or right, smoothing the fall of curtains around the picture window that looked out onto the spectacular mountain view.

The place was bigger than it appeared from the outside. It was bright and airy and smelled of fresh paint. Natalie had left all the curtains open wide, and all the lights on, too. For a moment Matthew wondered whether she guessed how much he valued sunshine these days.

“It’s not perfect, of course.” She smiled at him, wrinkling her nose again. “The pictures are hideous. The roof needs some attention, but rain’s not actually dripping in yet. And it has a fabulous, very modern Roman bathroom. Which is more than I can say for the main house.”

“It’s fine,” he said, meaning it. He didn’t give a damn about the pictures.

She looked around, obviously searching for a few good points to mention.

“Oh, yes! I forgot to explain about the bed.”

It did need explaining, he had to admit. A huge walnut four-poster, it dominated the central part of the room. It faced the picture window, and the sunlight exposed an elaborate jungle of birds and butterflies and snakes carved into every inch of exposed wood.

“I know it’s a little big for this place, but it’s a fantastic bed. Rumor is my great-great grandfather won it a hundred years ago in an arm-wrestling contest with the king of Tahiti.” She smoothed the soft white bedspread. “The king was only twelve at the time. Doesn’t really seem very fair of my grandfather, does it?”

Matthew smiled. “Or very smart of the king.”

She looked up. “That’s exactly what I’ve always thought,” she said happily, as if delighted to discover they shared a common outlook on something so important.

“Anyhow, it’s comfortable, which is why we’ve always kept it, even though it eats up all the space. But let’s see…other than this main room, there’s a kitchenette, which is pretty awful, and the bathroom, which, as I said, is fantastic. In fact, we used to wonder if my grandfather used to have assignations down here. Great bed, great Roman tub…and almost nothing else. Makes you think.”

He smiled. Sounded pretty good to him.

“Time for a full disclosure, I guess. The left burner on the stove won’t heat. You have to jiggle the handle to make the toilet stop running. The overhead light in here makes a hissing noise when it rains. And the faucet in the kitchen sink has a very annoying tendency to drip when you’re trying to sleep.”

She sighed, apparently having come to the end of her litany of drawbacks. “I’m sorry.” She gave him a tilted smile. “My only hope is, I figure it’s got to beat prison, right?”

Matthew had hardly been listening. He’d been looking out the window, enjoying the limitless expanse of blue sky and the way the green oaks and hemlocks seemed to swarm down the mountainside into the cozy hamlet of Firefly Glen. But her last sentence got his attention.

He turned around slowly. “Beat prison?”

“Oh, dear.” Natalie’s high brow furrowed and she twisted a curl in her forefinger. “Maybe I’m being stupid. I should have realized. You probably were in one of those country club prisons, weren’t you?”

For a second he didn’t know how to answer. Except for his parole officer, Natalie was the first person since his release to say the word “prison” in his presence. Everyone else, even his sister, had locked it away with other shameful words you’d never mention in polite society, like hemorrhoids or cannibalism or incest.

They meant well, of course. They pretended it hadn’t ever happened because they thought he wanted to forget. They just didn’t get it. Prison was a part of him now, burned into him like a brand. It had happened, all right. And he would never forget.

But now, as he heard Natalie Granville say the word so naturally, he realized that she wasn’t afraid of it. She didn’t think it made him dirty. He wondered whether it might be possible someday to talk to her about it. About the degradation and the panic, about the claustrophobia and the fury and the shame, and finally the creeping numbness that had come over him.

But what was he thinking? He squeezed his eyes shut hard, trying to force himself back to reality. He hardly knew her, for God’s sake. Maybe he was as crazy as she was. Maybe “Granville moments” were contagious.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that Natalie was watching him anxiously. After a second, she groaned and pressed her knuckles against her brow.

“Oh, this was so dumb! I’ve got ten bedrooms up at the house. I should have put you in one of them. It’s just that— I just thought you might like more privacy. More freedom. I guess I thought that, after prison, privacy would be more important than drippy faucets.”

He shouldn’t have waited so long to say something. Apparently he had lost the knack for normal conversational rhythms, along with everything else.

“No, it is,” he said quickly. “You were absolutely right. Privacy is more important to me right now than almost anything. This place is terrific.”

He had begun to notice little things. A fresh vase of Queen Anne’s Lace stood on the nightstand, probably picked from her own side yard. And beside the flowers she’d neatly arranged a couple of paperback mysteries, a pitcher of water and a crystal glass.

Welcome home.

“It’s beautiful. And trust me. Even with drippy faucets, it’s got prison beat by a million miles.”

“You mean it?” She wrinkled her nose again. “You don’t have to say—”

“I mean it. It’s perfect. In fact, it may be the most unselfish thing I’ve seen anyone do in about ten years.”

Still frowning, she studied his eyes earnestly. But her face gradually relaxed, and soon she was smiling that sweetly lopsided smile.

“It’s not really unselfish at all, you know.” She touched his hand. “I just want you to be glad you said yes.”

He looked down at her hand. Her fingers were small, tanned from working in the sun. Her short, unpolished nails were white crescent moons, feminine in the most simple and honest of ways.

Oh, hell. To his horror, a sudden, fierce sexual reaction shot through him. He eased his arm away and bent over his duffel stiffly. Damn it all to hell.

Had he really turned into such a pathetic cliché? Watch out, ladies. He’s a lonely, sex-starved drifter just out of prison…

Well, he wouldn’t let it happen, that was all. He made a silent vow to himself right there on the spot. He would not let it happen.

“It’s getting late,” he said firmly. “I’d better get to work. How about if I unpack, and then I’ll come find you, and you can tell me where to start?”

She might be naive, but she could take a hint.

“Okay,” she said, smoothing the bedspread one last time. “I’ll leave you alone. I’ll be in the kitchen when you need me. Big door at the back.” She fluffed the flowers and headed for the door.

But at the last second she turned around.

“Hey, wait a minute,” she said in a thoughtful tone. “When you said this was the most unselfish thing you’d seen anyone do in ten years…” She tilted her head. “I thought you said you were in prison for three years. Not ten.”

He didn’t turn around. “That’s right,” he said, unfolding T-shirts. “I was.”

“Oh.” He heard her chuckle softly as she figured it out. “Oh, I see. Well, then I guess it’s a good thing you came to Firefly Glen, Matthew Quinn. Obviously you’re way overdue for a fresh start.”

SHUCKING HER UNCOMFORTABLE business suit with relief— God, she hated wooing new clients— Natalie changed into shorts and T-shirt at lightning speed, then scurried down to the kitchen.

She surveyed her pantry thoughtfully. It wasn’t ten in the morning yet. Matthew had arrived so early he probably hadn’t had any breakfast. She intended to fix that. She’d make the best breakfast he’d ever seen.

As she gathered eggs, fresh fruit, whole wheat bread, sausage and homemade apple butter and plopped them on the huge kitchen island, she had to admit she might be overdoing things a little. She’d spent all day yesterday painting the pool house, hanging new curtains, washing windows till they sparkled. And now this feast, fit for a king, not a handyman.

But she wanted to treat him well. Something in his eyes told her that no one had treated him like a king in a long, long time.

Besides, she wanted to show him she was actually competent at some things. She wanted to assure him that she wasn’t as half-baked and hapless as she must have seemed when they first met.

She cringed, remembering the booze, the bikini, the wedding dress on the statue. Arms full of more food, she nudged the refrigerator door shut with her forehead. Heck, he probably thought she was nuts. Which was annoying, because actually, for a Granville, she was pretty darn practical.

Her nursery business was thriving, which took a lot of know-how. She made money. Heck, if she didn’t have this money pit to take care of, she’d practically be solvent.

And she was a darn good cook. She began to hum as she cracked eggs against her grandmother’s big stainless steel mixing bowl. Matthew would see soon enough that he hadn’t made such a terrible mistake after all.

When she heard the knock on the back door, she slid the egg-and-sausage casserole into the oven and rushed over to let him in.

“Hi,” she called out, licking apple butter from her fingers and then patting her hair, praying it wasn’t flying everywhere. “I hope you’re hungry!”

But the face on the other side of the door didn’t belong to Matthew Quinn. It belonged to Bart Beswick, the handsome young millionaire she had spent last Saturday not getting married to.

Right now, though, that handsome face was as sour as old milk. “Obviously you were expecting someone else,” Bart articulated icily, hardly moving his lips. “Who?”

Natalie sighed. “Hi, Bart,” she said, standing away from the door so he could enter. “You know, sweetie, it’s exactly that kind of question, asked in exactly that tone of voice, that made me decide not to become Mrs. Beswick.”

Bart entered the kitchen stiffly. “I’m glad you can joke about it, Natalie. God knows I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” she said, bending down to check on the casserole. “You just won’t. At least not until that big hole I shot in the side of your ego mends.”

Bart pursed his lips. “It wasn’t my ego. It was my heart.”

“Nonsense.” Natalie spoke around her index finger, which had once again become covered in apple butter. “But if you’ll stop scowling, I’ll let you stay for breakfast.”

“I can’t. I’ve got a meeting. And besides…you are obviously expecting company.” He paused, but as she remained firmly silent he gave up and went on. “I just came by to ask you about my mother’s bracelet.”

He unfolded a couple of typewritten sheets from his breast pocket and began looking them over. “It’s not here. I’ve checked three times. I even had my accountant check. It wasn’t among the things you returned.”

Natalie wiped her hands on a damp towel and wandered across the room to look over his shoulder. “You made a list?” She shook her head. “Good grief, Bart. You actually kept an inventory of the gifts you gave me?”

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “It seemed prudent.”

For a minute she almost lost her temper. What exactly was he implying? Did he think she’d steal the nasty bracelet, which was much too vulgar for anyone to wear?

But then she calmed down. This was just Bart. They had been friends since preschool, and he’d always been the ultraorganized class nerd. At three years old, he’d cried if his stuffed toys weren’t lined up right. At twelve, he had demanded that every pencil in his pencil case be exactly the same length. Was it any wonder that, at thirty, he kept a typewritten list of his love offerings, their appraised values, dates given, and dates returned?

“Okay, whatever.” She moved away. “It’s just that I honestly thought I gave everything back.”

He tapped the empty spot on the “date returned” list. “Not this one. Not my mother’s bracelet. You remember. The diamond bracelet. Rather large diamonds, in fact.”

“Yes, of course I remember it,” she said, sliding bread into the toaster. Darn. This could be sticky. If it hadn’t been in the box she gave him when they called the wedding off, she didn’t have a clue where the blasted thing was. “I’ll look for it. Want a muffin?”

“No, thank you. Maybe you could look for it now? I’ll wait.”

“Bart.” She took a deep breath. “I’m cooking. I’ll look for it later, and I’ll call you.”

“Actually, I’d rather—”

“Listen.” She put her hands on her hips. “I know you’re just itching to put that last check mark on that lovely list, but I’m busy right now. I will find it, I promise. But you might want to be a little less gestapo about it. Technically I don’t have to return it. Look ‘gift’ up in the dictionary.”

“You wouldn’t keep my mother’s bracelet!” He looked so horrified that she was almost ashamed of herself. In spite of his methodical love of detail, Bart was a very nice man. And she had once believed that his hyperrigidity might be a good counterweight to her own impulsive nature.

Besides, his last fiancée— Terri the schoolteacher, the one woman he had really loved—had kept every gift he’d ever given her, right down to the last karat and gram. No wonder he was a little gun-shy.

“Of course I wouldn’t,” she said reassuringly. “Tell you what. Watch the casserole for me, and I’ll go see if it’s upstairs. Oh, and if Matthew comes in, give him a cup of coffee, okay?”

Bart’s eyebrows slammed together. “Matthew?”

“The new handyman,” she said, sliding a wedge of cantaloupe into her mouth and heading for the door. “He just started this morning.”

“Oh, the handyman.” Bart’s frown eased, and he finally smiled. “I thought that you—all this food—well, you know what I thought. But if it’s just the handyman, why are you putting on such a spread?”

She growled under her breath, resisting the urge to toss the cantaloupe rind onto his head. “Reason number seven hundred and twelve why it’s a good thing we didn’t get married, Bart. You’re such an unbelievable snob.”

WHEN, TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Matthew stuck his head in the kitchen door, Natalie was nowhere in sight. The only person in the room was a man who stood staring out the far window, one hand holding a coffee mug, the other drumming impatiently on the countertop.

It wasn’t the same guy who had helped Natalie inside the other day—the preppy Stuart with the unfortunate shoes. This man was more solid, with tidy sandy hair and the conservative, finicky clothes of a fifty-year-old banker. Stuart had been the sports-car-and-tennis type. This one was probably a silver Mercedes sedan and eighteen holes of bad golf.

Not that Matthew cared. But it was interesting to note that wherever Natalie Granville went, men seemed to show up like moths.

Matthew rapped politely against the door, even though it was already open. The man turned around, and Matthew was shocked to discover that he wasn’t fifty at all. He was probably in his late twenties. Not much older than Natalie herself.

“Good morning,” the man said, setting his coffee mug down carefully. “You must be the handyman. Matthew, I think it was?”

Matthew nodded. He held out his hand. “Matthew Quinn,” he said.

The other man’s eyes flickered, and one tiny beat passed before he held out his own hand.

“Bart Beswick,” he said in a formal tone, as if the name should impress.

God, did he always look as if he’d been lashed to a broomstick, or was something annoying the man? Oh, right. Of course. Matthew realized too late that he’d forgotten to don his yes-master tone. He’d automatically approached Bart Beswick man-to-man, eyeball-to-eyeball, and Beswick didn’t like it.

The guards in prison hadn’t liked it, either.

But too bad. He wasn’t in prison anymore. And he’d be damned if he’d start his new life by genuflecting to every millionaire he met. Apparently Firefly Glen was lousy with them, and they apparently all had rotten manners. Even in his highest-flying days, Matthew had never treated an employee with this kind of condescension.

“So.” Matthew moved toward the coffeepot. “Is Natalie around?”

“No, she’s upstairs,” Bart said, taking his own mug and tossing its contents into the sink. “She went to look for something, but that was—” he looked at his Rolex and groaned, temporarily forgetting to be pompous “—for God’s sake. It was close to half an hour ago.”

So that accounted for the impatient drumming of fingers, Matthew thought. Bart had been kept waiting, and he didn’t like that, either.

“Maybe she couldn’t find it,” Matthew suggested helpfully.

Bart grunted. “She probably completely lost track of what she went up there for. She could be repotting a gardenia or cleaning her closet or teaching herself the tango. The damn Granvilles haven’t had a linear thought in six generations.”

But then he caught himself, perhaps realizing this wasn’t the kind of conversation you had with the hired help





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