Saying Yes to the Boss Read online

  Dane decided the only thing left to do was joke about their lousy luck.

  “I must have done something to tick off the gods. Do you believe in fate?” he asked.

  The woman apparently wasn’t in a joking mood. She regarded him for a moment before answering his question seriously.

  “I believe we’re responsible for our own situations, our own destiny. No matter what life throws at us, it’s ultimately up to us to find a way to deal with it and make the best of it.”

  “Lemonade from lemons?” he asked and she nodded.

  That had long been Dane’s philosophy as well. Too many people he knew expected something for nothing or complained copiously rather than rolling up their shirtsleeves and getting down to business to change what they didn’t like.

  Dane put his faith in hard work and perseverance. Both yielded results. But, thinking back on the hour he’d spent bobbing around in the waves of Lake Michigan before being spat onto the shore at Peril Pointe, he decided maybe luck played a role, too. How else to explain his presence in the beautiful Regina Bellini’s front parlor?

  Lemonade from lemons.

  “I like lemonade,” he murmured. His gaze lingered on her pursed lips. “Sweet is nice, but tart is better.”

  She shook her head and sighed heavily in exasperation. But when she spoke, her request had his mouth going dry.

  “Take off your clothes, Don Juan.”

  He blinked and on a startled laugh replied, “Well, that certainly would be making the most of a bad situation, but gee, Ree, I hardly know you. I like to take a woman out to dinner first, maybe see a movie, before we spend the better part of the evening—”

  He wasn’t able to finish the sentence before she tossed a crocheted afghan in his direction. It wound up draped half over his head.

  “Your clothes are wet and filthy, Mr. Conlan,” she said. “You need to get out of them, and I’m afraid that afghan is about the only thing around here that’s going to fit you unless you’d prefer to wear my bathrobe.”

  “Call me Dane. And, just for the record, I prefer to remove women’s garments, not put them on.”

  She made a little humming noise that might have been the result of annoyance or reluctant amusement.

  He scooted to the front of the chair and peeled off the damp shirt, using the cleanest edge to wipe up the blood drying on his arm.

  “I’m messing up your upholstery,” he said and grimaced. “And your clothes. Hope that blouse wasn’t one of your favorites.”

  Her expression seemed to soften. “Well, it’s not as if you planned to faint in my arms.”

  Planned? No. He considered that a little side bonus given his lousy day. Still, he cleared his throat, feeling the need to clarify, “Men prefer the term ‘passed out.’”

  He was pretty sure she was smiling when she turned her back to him.

  “The rest of your clothes, please.”

  Dane stripped down to bare skin, handing over the remnants of his favorite jeans with a sigh of regret, and then he wrapped the afghan around his body toga-style. When she was gone, he tried to stand without holding the mantel for support. He wasn’t quite successful, but he felt far better than he had an hour ago when he’d washed onto the beach, coughing up water, his arms, legs and lungs burning from the effort it had taken him to get there.

  He hadn’t been teasing her about following the Victorian’s lights. They were all he’d seen, those and a light on some structure closer to the shore, beacons of hope that had kept him putting one arm in front of the other as waves tossed him and currents tugged at him with disorienting force. Now those lights were gone as well thanks to the storm. He shivered at the thought of what would have happened to him had the electricity failed earlier.

  “I can get you another blanket if you’re cold.”

  He hadn’t heard her return, but he glanced over to find her standing next to him, brows furrowed in concern. She’d changed into a pair of capri pants and a pullover that was probably some pastel shade, although he couldn’t discern its color in the firelight. Her feet were bare and the ponytail she’d swept her hair into exposed the graceful line of her neck. She looked younger, softer. And yet he still felt it, that insane blast of attraction that had him wondering if he’d struck his head harder than he’d thought.

  “Dane?”

  He realized he was staring and coughed. “No, I’m fine. The past few hours are catching up with me is all.”

  “I’m sure. You had quite the ordeal.”

  In her hands she held a first-aid kit and a bottle of painkillers.

  He nodded toward the bottle. “Got anything stronger than ibuprofen?”

  The smile she offered was sympathetic. “Sorry, no, but I had just opened a really good bottle of Chianti before you knocked at my door. I’m willing to share.”

  “You don’t have anything with a little more…kick?”

  As a general rule, he wasn’t one to wallow in the false comfort of hard liquor, but he could do with a good bracing belt of whiskey right about now.

  “You probably shouldn’t even have wine,” she told him, sounding almost prim. “But I’m feeling indulgent. Sit.”

  She didn’t wait for him to comply, but gently nudged him back into the chair and then knelt on the floor in front of him.

  “Let me see your hand.”

  Dane did as Regina instructed, deciding he could do with a little TLC and pampering after all he’d been through. Then he sucked in a sharp breath along with an oath when she dabbed the cut on his palm with enough stinging antiseptic to kill half the bacteria in the free world.

  “God! Blow on it or something,” he begged between gritted teeth.

  “That would defeat the purpose of disinfecting it.”

  His eyes were watering. His hand was on fire. “I’ll take my chances. A nasty case of gangrene has to be less painful.”

  He leaned over to blow on it himself. When he looked up afterward their gazes held. The air seemed to sizzle as he watched the firelight reflected in her dark eyes. She had questions, too. He saw them there. And it came as a huge relief to discover that he wasn’t the only one mired in this odd, instantaneous need.

  The moment stretched before she finally looked away and muttered, “Men are such babies.”

  “You’re not going to start in with that argument about how if it were up to us to give birth the human race would have ended with Adam, are you?”

  No hint of feminine interest remained, but he felt sure he hadn’t imagined it. She smiled at him with the same smug superiority he’d often seen on his sisters’ faces.

  “No. We both know which one is the weaker sex. Why rub it in?”

  Then she ran the cotton swab of antiseptic over his broken skin again.

  Dane decided to change the subject. To take his mind off the pain, he asked, “So, what have you got against developers that makes you keep a shotgun handy?”

  “You mean besides the fact that the one I’ve had to deal with lately is greedy and unprincipled and only interested in buying Peril Pointe so he can tear down my home and put up condos or another high-priced resort that will make that snooty Saybrook’s on Trillium look like a pauper’s retirement community?”

  She was affixing butterfly bandages across the ravaged skin of his palm during her vehement response and Dane grimaced. No way in hell he was going to admit to her that in the most basic sense of the word he was a developer or that he and his two sisters actually owned the resort she’d referred to as “that snooty Saybrook’s.”

  So, when she finished her minidiatribe, he worked up what he hoped was a charming smile.

  “I’ll take that wine now, please.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE grandfather clock chimed out the hour as they sipped their wine. It was only ten, but it seemed much later. Indeed, it felt as if hours had passed since Regina first opened the door to find a drenched and injured Dane Conlan on the other side of it. With the electricity out and no phone service for w
ho knew how long, it was clear she wouldn’t be saying goodbye to her handsome houseguest anytime soon.

  The thought had her bringing the glass of Chianti to her lips again and drinking deeply.

  Two years had passed since Ree had spent an evening alone in the company of a man. The last encounter had ended with a screaming match inside a tent pitched in the Nevada desert. Actually “match” wasn’t the word for it as Ree had done all the screaming, peppering her accusations with the Italian curse words she’d heard her grandfather using when Nonna Benedetta was out of earshot. None of the verbiage had gotten a rise out of the recipient. Paul Ritter had barely managed to look up from the dusty dig log he so meticulously kept to respond.

  “Let’s talk about this later, Regina.”

  That had been Paul’s mantra throughout their previous five years of marriage, during which Ree had followed her archaeologist husband from one godforsaken dig site to another. Each time he’d promised this one would be the last and he would get a teaching post at a university. Ree wanted a home of her own. She wanted to start a family.

  Two years later, she was legally separated and had filed for divorce. Paul had yet to sign the papers, not because he wanted to make their marriage work, but because he just hadn’t gotten around to it. She knew that because the one time she’d managed to reach him by telephone, he’d admitted as much, right after which he’d launched into an excited monologue on his team’s most recent findings. His work, once again, took precedence.

  Regina hadn’t pressed the issue. Why rush failure? So she remained in limbo. Now she wondered, was that any better?

  She glanced over at Dane. She barely knew him and yet in the span of a mere hour she’d already formed the opinion that he didn’t believe in postponing trouble or confrontations. No, he seemed the sort who faced whatever came along when it came along—from a sinking boat to a raging electrical storm to an angry woman aiming a firearm at his heart.

  One broad shoulder poked from the afghan her grandmother had knitted a half-century earlier. Even the cover’s mauve-and-pink squares couldn’t detract from his masculinity. In the flickering light she noted the firm musculature on what she could see of his chest, arms and legs. More than good genes, it took discipline to get a body that looked like that. Ree respected discipline as long as it didn’t snuff out all spontaneity.

  She glanced up then and realized he’d been watching her study him. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Are you hungry or would you rather just go to bed?”

  His slow smile seemed to fan the heat that was flooding into her cheeks.

  “I’m famished.”

  It was Dane who spoke and yet Ree found herself moistening her lips. Another kind of appetite whetted as she repeated, “Famished.”

  He winked then. “Yeah, but first I’d like to clean up a bit more, if that’s okay with you?”

  She’d brought him a damp washcloth and towel after bandaging his hand, not trusting him to stand long enough at the bathroom sink to wash his face. But she could appreciate his desire to rinse off more of the grime.

  “Of course.”

  He leaned on her once again, putting one arm around her shoulders and holding the flashlight she’d provided in his good hand. With shuffling steps they followed the bouncing beam through the darkened house to the powder room just off the front parlor.

  “Fresh hand towels are in the cabinet over the toilet,” she told him as he braced against the pedestal sink. Noting his hunched posture, she added, “I’ll wait outside the door just in case you need me.”

  Ten minutes later, she helped him into one of the ladder-back chairs at the table in the home’s large kitchen. His face and upper body were freshly scrubbed, and his hair was as neat as his fingers had been able to make it. Ree hid a smile as she realized that Dane now smelled like the lavender rosettes from the guest soap dish. Then she sobered when he turned his head slightly and the rough stubble of his beard grazed her cheek. Certainly nothing else about the man could be considered remotely feminine.

  She lit a few candles, including the one in the centerpiece on the table, and the scents of cinnamon and ginger mingled pleasantly as she moved about the familiar room, completely at ease despite the poor lighting. Ree had grown up in this house. Every squeaky floorboard and stubborn windowpane was committed to memory. Of all the massive house’s rooms, this was her favorite and thanks to her grandmother’s patience, Ree was a good enough cook to do it justice.

  If houses had hearts, the kitchen was the Victorian’s. Life pulsed from here. That especially had been true when her grandmother was alive. Even now, as Ree stood in front of the late nineteenth-century cabinetry that unfortunately was starting to show its age, she could almost hear Nonna humming a Dean Martin tune, the blade of her knife making quick work of a bulb of garlic for pesto. It would pain her grandmother that the wood still needed resurfacing and more than a few of the door hinges begged for replacement. Ree had not been able to make those repairs or the many others the home required. Regret came swiftly, but she pushed it away. She swore she heard Nonna’s voice whispering to her that it was impolite to dwell on her own troubles when she had a guest to feed.

  “The stove is gas, so it still works. I don’t have much in the fridge at the moment. I’d planned to go grocery shopping today, but…” She shrugged.

  “No car,” Dane guessed.

  “Exactly. So, grilled cheese and tomato soup okay with you?”

  “Sure.”

  She pulled a loaf of homemade bread from the old-fashioned metal box on the counter. As she sliced it, she asked conversationally, “So, tell me a little about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s see…” She mulled her answer as she slathered butter onto the bread and transferred the slices to a cast-iron skillet. It was appalling, but the question she wanted to ask was if someone special was waiting for him, worrying over him, back on Trillium. She had no right to ask such a question. No right to even want to ask it.

  She settled on the more generic, “Why don’t you tell me about your family.”

  “I’ve got a couple of sisters, Ali and Audra. They’re twins.” He grunted out a laugh then. “Of course, they’re nothing alike in either looks or personality.”

  Ree sent him a smile over her shoulder, ridiculously relieved that he hadn’t spoken of a wife and kids. “That must be nice. I always thought it would be fun to have a sister or two.”

  “An only child, huh?”

  “Not exactly.” She stirred water into the pan of condensed soup she’d opened. “I have two half sisters and a half brother, but…we’re not close.”

  Not close? The sad truth was Ree had never even met them, and only knew of their existence thanks to an entry in a diary she’d found that had belonged to her mother.

  “That’s too bad.”

  She decided to redirect the conversation. “So, tell me about your sisters. Are they older, younger?”

  “Younger, but that doesn’t keep them from trying to run my life.” There was a smile in his voice despite the complaint. “Ali tried to talk me out of coming over to the mainland for supplies. She wanted me to wait until the morning.”

  “Smart woman,” she replied pointedly, giving the soup another stir before flipping the sandwich.

  “Yeah, and I can guarantee she’s not going to let me forget it. Neither of them will once they find out I’m okay.” He cleared his throat. “Wish that could be sooner rather than later. My sisters are probably pacing the floor.”

  His voice brimmed with remorse. The tone told her that family was important to him. Nothing was more important, Regina knew, and so she couldn’t help but admire Dane Conlan’s priorities. Not everyone put family first. Her husband clearly wasn’t willing to, and her father hadn’t. Or, at least, Ray Masterson hadn’t put the family Regina was a part of first.

  She lowered the heat on the soup. Glancing over her shoulder again, she said, “It’s nice to have people who car
e enough to worry about you.”

  “What about you? Who’s worrying about Regina Bellini?”

  No one. The sparse reply echoed painfully through her head.

  Since her grandmother’s death after a long battle with congestive heart failure several months earlier, Ree had been completely alone. And lonely. So lonely. Tears threatened now and she was grateful that, in the low light, Dane could not see her blink them away.

  Even so, she turned back toward the stove, stirring furiously for a moment as she collected her thoughts. “I’m pretty much on my own,” she said at last, amazed that her voice sounded so normal.

  She no longer had any immediate family—at least none that acknowledged her. Nor could she count on any close girlfriends. Maintaining meaningful relationships with other women had been difficult when she’d lived like a nomad for half a decade and then had returned to her hometown with her marriage in tatters and the only person who could be of any comfort wasting away in a nursing home bed.

  Ree had moved Nonna back to Peril Pointe and hired a private nurse. Between the two of them, they had tended to the fragile, elderly woman until Benedetta Bellini drew her final breath. During those dark and painful months, even if she’d had friends, Ree wouldn’t have had time for them.

  She heard both surprise and sympathy in Dane’s voice when he asked, “What about your folks?”

  “My mom…died when I was six,” she replied vaguely.

  Ree half expected Dane to ask her how. She wasn’t sure what her answer would be, which was strange. She’d never even told Paul the details of her mother’s death beyond saying Angela Bellini had drowned. Suicide was an ugly family secret, one she’d long chosen to keep.

  But all Dane said was, “God, I’m really sorry. And your dad?”

  She chewed her lower lip for a moment. Another ugly family secret, and yet she found herself sharing this one.