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EPUB 978-0-2286-0560-7
Kindle 978-0-2286-0561-4
WEB 978-0-2286-0616-1
Print ISBN
Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0562-1
B&N Print 978-0-2286-0563-8
Copyright 2018 by Barbara Baldwin
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
To the real Brenda Kay – A special friend in my life.
Adagio—Restful, at ease. A slow moving tempo.
Capriccio—A quick, improvisational, spirited piece of music.
Concerto—A composition written for a solo instrument, such as the piano. The orchestra plays the accompaniment while the soloist plays the melody.
Counterpoint—Two or three melodic lines played at the same time.
Legato—Indicates the entire composition, or the movement, is to be played smoothly.
Presto—Indicates the tempo of the music is to be very fast.
Sonata—A musical piece consisting of four movements, each differing in tempo, rhythm and melody but held together by subject and style.
Cheyenne stepped onto the boardwalk outside the Bed & Breakfast and slipped on her sunglasses to cut the glare of the late morning light. The only redemption from the hot July sun was the breeze blowing off the nearby bay. She sighed. She wasn’t here to enjoy the pristine beach and crystal blue water of the small tourist town. She was on a mission and today she would run her quarry to ground, if she had to burn down every tavern in a two mile radius.
For days, he had managed to evade her. His minions in the little village of Princetown refused to give him up. The first day, the answer to her question as to where Joseph Donovan was had been met with “Who?” as though no one in the town of a few hundred people had ever even heard of the man.
Yesterday, it seemed everyone in town had agreed to send her on the wildest goose chase ever to be had. One comment from a local led to another place where, of course, the next person sent her off in a different direction. She knew they knew where he lived, but no one gave her a residence. They simply pointed her to yet another business, most of which were bars.
They apparently thought she was after him for nefarious reasons, which for the love of God was ridiculous. Did they think she had no sense at all, that she would waste her time in some backwater village, dumping sand out of her shoes every day, in pursuit of some…some male who had made it his recent goal to negate obligations and run away from his responsibilities? No, this was strictly business.
If only her employer had not insisted she be the one to find him…
* * *
Two months earlier at the Donovan Academy of Music in Chicago, Illinois
“You will find my nephew,” Sebastian Everhart Donovan had told her in no uncertain terms.
“Sir, he’s thirty years old. He has a right—”
“He has a gift, and that gift is meant to be shared. He belongs to the world.”
“Why not hire a private investigator? Surely they have skills I don’t.”
“And make this public?” He quickly interrupted her. “I’ll not have the tabloids spewing vindictive lies about him being on drugs, cavorting with seamy actresses and singers or doing God knows what. You have three months.”
“Sir, I doubt I can—”
“Three months, Miss Tucker. Because that is all the time I have.” He bent his head to the papers on his desk, effectively dismissing her.
She knew he had been ill, but now as she looked closer, she noticed the pallor of his skin and how his suit jacket seemed to sag on his shoulders. His hand shook as he tried to pick up a pen and if she weren’t mistaken, his hair was thinning; he was almost bald on top.
“Sir, is there anything I can do?”
“You can do as you’re told,” he grumbled, but most of the starch normally in his voice was gone. “And you will say nothing to my nephew other than he needs to return to his rightful place.”
That rightful place was as a world renowned pianist. Joseph Everhart Donovan had been groomed by his uncle for his role from the age of six. Having worked for that Uncle for the past six years, Cheyenne knew only some of his story. His mother had been a concert violinist, raised by her brother, a great composer. She had disappeared for a time at age twenty and come home unmarried but pregnant. After Joseph’s birth, no one had heard anything more about Kathryn Donovan. She hadn’t performed in years and had become a complete recluse, yet no one in the media had ever speculated why. Cheyenne knew that for the truth; she’d done plenty of research on the family after she had come to work for the Donovan Academy of Music. And even though she lived on the Donovan premises, in all her years as Mr. Donovan’s executive assistant, she had never seen his sister.
She hadn’t even known Kathryn Donovan had died until one of the servants let it slip that Master Donovan had left in a temper immediately after the funeral and no one had seen him since. That had been two weeks ago.
She sighed as she quietly closed the door to Mr. Donovan’s office. What did she know about finding missing people?
The easiest place to start her search did not prove the most helpful. She spent a month going through company records, looking for some hint as to where he might have gone, some trip he may have taken that didn’t correspond to a performance. Then she started in on the financial accounts. Although his uncle maintained power over the trust that funded the Academy, Joseph had access to funds at will. Having pinched pennies her entire life, Cheyenne was well aware of the value of a dollar, and it didn’t take long for her to recognize a pattern.
She brought the matter to the attention of Mr. Donovan. “Joseph made systematic withdrawals every month for over a year.”
He did not seem surprised. “Joseph has access to the trust, within reason, although all performance expenses and travel are usually handled through the accountant.”
“These are cash withdrawals, a thousand every two weeks.” An extreme amount of money from Cheyenne’s perspective.
The man just shrugged, not looking up from his papers. “He may have had a mistress. I don’t pry into his personal affairs, as long as he’s discrete and leaves nothing behind that requires responsibility.”
She blushed at the intimate statement, having an idea to what he referred, but that wasn’t her concern. “That’s a rather large sum of money.”
Again he shrugged. “It was cash. There’s no way of tracing it. Are there no receipts for airline tickets, hotel rooms?”
“Nothing outside his performance agenda.”
“Then keep looking.”
“Another question if I may, sir?”
With a resigned sigh, he set aside his pen, folded his hands on the paper in front of him and regarded her with limp, watery eyes. He really did not look well.
“Do you know who his friends are, college pals or other close musicians?”
“You do not have friends when you are famous,” the uncle stated flatly. “You have business associates and groupies, and those who would take advantage of you.” His tone was bitter.
She replied before she thought better of it. “That doesn’t seem a very happy way to live.”
He skewered her with a look. “Your plebeian outlook does not interest me.”
His comment about the lack of friends bothered her more than it should have. Everyone should have friends, someone to confide in. Her best friend was her younger sister, whom she still called twice a week even though she didn’t see her often.
The conversation with Mr. Donovan triggered a memory of an incident that had occurred, what, six months ago?
Her office and Mr. Donovan’s private teaching studio were connected to the mansion by a covered walkway over the driveway. Joseph, his mother and his uncle all lived in the main house. Her apartment was behind her office, and she rarely had reason to visit the mansion. On the occasions she had meals with the servants, she used the back entrance which led directly to the kitchen.
On this particular day, she had papers Mr. Donovan needed to sign but he had left early, not indicating whether he would be back. Since the papers were time sensitive, she hurried after him, hoping to catch him before it was too late.
Instead, she ran into Joseph, literally, in the foyer. He managed to catch her before she sprawled on the marble floor, but in doing so he dropped his briefcase and the contents spilled out. She squatted to help him gather a pile of mail.
“That’s not necessary,” he had said as he quickly grabbed the stack from her. “A friend. I’m collecting his mail for him.”
She caught only a glimpse of an envelope from a travel company. “Well, he must be taking a trip.” She handed him the envelope but at the time had wondered at the flush on his face.
Now, as she recalled the incident, she thought perhaps finding his friend would lead her to Joseph. The problem was she hadn’t paid much attention to the recipient’s name on the envelope. She had just noticed the business name. What had it been?
It wasn’t until the next day that Cheyenne remembered the company name, but an internet search came up with dozens of possibilities for Island Realty and Travel. She started calling but no one had heard of Joseph Donovan, at least not in regard to that name and purchasing real estate in their area. The last on her list, a company in Lockabee, Washington, gave her the first sense of a lead, and that came only from a lack of helpfulness.
“I know Joseph Donovan. I love his music,” said the woman on the other end of the line.
“Yes, but have you recently rented or sold any real estate to him, or perhaps to a friend he’s traveling with?”
The woman hesitated just long enough for Cheyenne to get the sense she was withholding information. “Our records are confidential.”
“Nonsense. Selling houses is on public record.”
“Then perhaps you should start there.” And the phone disconnected.
It was all Cheyenne needed. She booked a ticket to Seattle and flew out the next day.
Now, she stood on the boardwalk in the small village of Princetown on Lockabee Island off the coast of Washington state. Hands on hips, she looked first one way, then the other. It was approaching noon, and for a young man who had grown up with servants, she could assume that he didn’t cook and would be eating lunch at some local restaurant. Today she wouldn’t ask questions; that had gotten her nowhere. She would simply look.
It didn’t take long to realize that most of the restaurants in the area were occupied by tourists—middle aged couples or families. She narrowed her search to taverns, of which there seemed to be plenty. Number four, the Gold Pelican, was as dim inside as the rest. She stood by the door and removed her sunglasses to let her eyes adjust, surveying the occupants. Several tables were empty by this time. A couple of men dressed in black eyed her from the end of the bar, but she ignored them.
She approached the bartender, one of the same men who had sent her chasing around town yesterday.
“You again? I told you yesterday I don’t know Joseph Donovan except for my girlfriend dragging me to a concert in Seattle once.” He shrugged. “I guess it wasn’t bad.”
“Wasn’t bad?” Cheyenne sputtered. “He’s world-renowned, the finest pianist to ever perform.”
The bartender wasn’t impressed. “Want a drink?”
Frustrated, Cheyenne nodded. “Lemonade?”
When the bartender came back with her drink, she slid a twenty across the bar. “Perhaps Joseph Donovan was here with a friend. You’ve been here for some time, I’m sure. You must notice non-residents.”
He eyed the bill but she kept her fingers securely on top of it.
“I rarely pay attention to the tourists, unless they get rowdy.”
Patience, Cheyenne muttered to herself.
“Not a tourist but not a life-time resident. Someone who has been here, say, about two months.”
“No one by the name of Joe.”
Cheyenne racked her brain for the name on the envelope he had dropped that day, which she had only seen upside-down. Jeremy…John…Jake!
“I’m looking for Jake.”
“Jake who?”
Now what? How many Jakes could there be in a town this size?
“Well, you see. That’s the thing.” She glanced down, trying for a shy look. “We met at a…concert, and we didn’t exactly get around to last names.”
The man laughed, seeming to understand all she hadn’t said. “That sounds like Jake.” He looked closer. “You don’t exactly look his type, but if he wanted you to find him, wouldn’t he have given you his last name or a number?”
She bit her lip. She never lied and it wasn’t easy. “We’d been drinking, and…”
“Hit and run, did he?” the man said and though she had no idea what exactly that meant, she nodded.
“Hmm, it might be kind of interesting to see what Jake does when you show up.” He turned to a phone on the counter and punched in a few numbers, his back to her.
Lord, how backward was this place when people still had land lines?
In minutes he hung up. “Jake said have a beer and he’d be here in a few.”
“I don’t want a beer.” Her stomach had begun somersaulting and her hand shook slightly as she lifted her glass for a swallow of lemonade. After two long months, did she dare hope this Jake could tell her where Joseph was?
“Excuse me, miss,” one of the men in black slid down the bar closer to where she sat. “Did you mention Joseph Donovan?”
She started to answer but paused. Mr. Donovan had always cautioned her about gossip and apparently this man had overheard her.
“Do you know him?” she asked cautiously.
The man looked at his companion before answering. “In college. Haven’t seen him in years so when you mentioned his name…”
Cheyenne narrowed her gaze. The man looked to be well over forty, not exactly close to Joseph’s age. And she knew Joseph had had a private education. Something about the man made her wary.
“I haven’t seen him,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. She turned her back and after a few minutes, heard the man shuffle down to the end of the bar.
She kept her eye on the door, not sure who she was looking for when a group of men walked in. One in particular drew her attention. His sun bleached hair was shaggy and long; he wore an untucked polo shirt and stained cargo shorts, his long legs and forearms tan. Although he looked nothing like Joseph, something about his posture, even relaxed as he chatted with the men who came in with him, reminded her of times when she had seen him off stage after a performance.
When his gaze collided with hers, his eyes narrowed and he frowned. She thought he intended to run as he turned back to his companions, but after a few brief words, he left them and headed her way, sliding onto a stool to her right.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Tucker. I wondered how long it would take my uncle to send someone after me. I never thought he would use you.”
She recognized his voice if not his appearance. All traces of the meticulous performer were gone.
“Joseph! Oh my God, I can’t believe I finally found you.”
“Joseph?” the bartender echoed, setting a beer in front of him. “This is Jake, the guy you said screwed you and ran off.”
Joseph raised a brow and frowned at her and she had the grace to blush. Ignoring the bartender, she turned to face him.
“Your uncle didn’t use me. He asked for my help.”
“You have no idea how devious my uncle can be.” Joseph’s voice held anger. “Sending a guy to manhandle me wouldn’t have accomplished his purpose as easily as sending a beautiful woman to seduce me.”
“I most certainly did not come to seduce you.” Even as she spoke, she felt the heat of a blush at his compliment.
“I thought I had hidden my tracks very well and yet you found me.” He looked her up and down and Cheyenne fought the urge to tug her skirt down.
She cleared her throat, determined to get to the business at hand. Instead, she asked curiously, “Why did the bartender call you Jake?”
“It’s my name,” he said before taking a swallow of beer.
She frowned because she knew better; however, there seemed little sense in arguing. In a low voice, she said, “I can understand why you would use a fake name. Every time I asked after Joseph Donovan, everyone had heard of you, but no one knew where you were.”
He seemed amused at her words. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “Now that we have that cleared up, I have a message from Mr. Donovan.”
He put up a finger. “Hold that thought. Would you excuse me for a minute? Then we’ll go somewhere and talk.”
Cheyenne watched him saunter between tables toward the facilities at the back of the bar. One of the two men who had spoken to her earlier also left his perch and disappeared into the back.
Cheyenne finished her lemonade and waited. The man returned, shook his head at his companion and they both walked past her and left. She looked to the rear hallway once more and frowned.
Ten minutes later she knew she had been taken in by the oldest trick in the book; one she had even used on a blind date.
Cheyenne hurried out of the bar, looking both ways but could find no one wearing a blue polo hurrying away.
“Quick,” she said as she flagged down a bicycle taxi, climbing onto the small rickshaw seat. “I’m looking for a man who just left that bar.”
“Honey, aren’t we all?” The girl swung her leg over the seat and began pedaling. “What’s he look like?” she called over her shoulder.
Not even thinking, she said, “It’s Joseph Donovan.”
Cheyenne grabbed the side handle to keep from tumbling out as the girl slammed on the brakes.
“What?” She turned on the seat to stare at her. “He’s here on the island? I love his music. I love him! What a hunk.”
Cheyenne shook her head. She was beginning to understand why Joseph wasn’t using his real name. “Blue polo and cargo shorts, shaggy blonde streaked hair.”
The girl scrunched her brow. “That doesn’t sound like Joseph Donovan. I saw him in concert last year and he was—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Maybe it wasn’t him. Can we just go? You drive, I’ll look.”
An hour later, after riding up and down all the back streets and narrow alleys of the small town, Cheyenne gave the taxi driver all the cash she had in her purse when she dropped her off at the Bed & Breakfast.
“You owe me another twenty dollars.”
Cheyenne had to admire her entrepreneurial spirit; after all, she was getting paid to exercise all day. “That’s all the cash I have. I’ll have to find an ATM.” She handed the girl her business card. “If you’ll trust me, come back in the morning and I’ll hire you for the day.”
“Deal.” The girl stuck out her hand. “I’m Lindsay, by the way. Here’s my card with my number. I’m independent so you can’t request me from any of the regular taxi services.”
Definitely a woman after her own heart, Cheyenne thought, as she stood on the boardwalk and watched Lindsay pedal away. Not the exercise part, though. She silently laughed as she went up the steps. She had wondered how she would get around when the port authority in Red Haven told her she couldn’t drive her car onto the island. Apparently only residents could own vehicles, and from what she had seen, they were all small, antiquated cars with rust around the wheel wells and license plates held on with wire. Tourists relied on bicycle rentals or the rickshaw bicycle taxis for hire. Since she had never learned to ride a bike, she had been walking or taking a taxi.
Speaking of walking, she doubted she could do any more today. She dropped into the brocade chair in her room and removed her shoes, rubbing the soles of her feet. She hadn’t expected to spend more than a day, three at the most, finding Joseph and had not packed quite right. She stared at the four inch heels now tossed carelessly on the carpet. The red patent exactly matched her purse and the pinstripe in her suit. It was one of her favorite work outfits, but she had chosen it for sitting professionally at a desk and walking in air conditioned comfort, not trudging around in the heat on wooden sidewalks.
Her stomach growled, reminding her how long ago breakfast had been. She reached down for her shoes and her feet automatically tucked under as though they had minds of their own. The thought of putting her shoes back on, much less walking very far in them, was just not an option. She had a pair of low heels, but they were meant for trousers. Her stomach rumbled louder. There was no help for it. She would have to change her clothes in order to eat.
Damn Joseph Donovan anyway. This was all his fault, and when she caught up with him, she would certainly give him a piece of her mind.
The street in front of the Inn was bustling with tourists and normally, Cheyenne would have enjoyed people watching. Tonight the bumping and jostling irritated her. One more thing to lie at Donovan’s door. She stopped at the closest restaurant and managed to get a seat at the bar since apparently the tables were reserved for groups of more than one. Unfortunately a single woman sitting at a bar, even if it was in a restaurant, invited unwanted company. Between her salad and main course, she had to deflect the advances of three different men.
Her list of grievances just kept growing.
Upon finishing her meal, she inquired as to the location of the nearest ATM, and was heading back to the Inn when her cell rang. It was after ten, too late for her sister to be calling unless there was an emergency. Cheyenne’s hand shook as she dug through her purse, but when she looked at the readout, it was an unidentified number.
She dropped the phone into her purse and finished her walk back to her room. She never answered numbers not in her contact list. If someone needed to get in touch, they would leave a voice mail. If not, it wasn’t important.
Mrs. Godfrey, the owner of the Bed & Breakfast, usually left out wine and tea for the evening and Cheyenne poured a glass of Merlot to take upstairs to her room. It wasn’t until she plugged in her phone to charge that she noticed the voice mail light blinking.
“So, unknown contact, are you someone wanting to extend the warranty on the car I don’t own, or a scammer wanting my credit card number?” she muttered as she punched play.
“Miss Tucker, this is Jake Smith,” a deep voice rumbled over the line.
“I don’t know any Jake Smith.” Cheyenne started to jab the delete button but paused. “Jake?” Her jabbering made her miss part of his message. She quickly hit repeat.
“Miss Tucker, this is Jake Smith.” There was a pause and a heavy sigh before he continued. “I sincerely apologize for running out on you today. You caught me by surprise, but I hope you’ll let me make it up to you. I live out at Crystal Bay if you would come out tomorrow so we can talk.” Another pause, then a short, “Please,” before a click ended the message.
She smiled. Tomorrow was certainly looking up.
* * *
The morning dawned clear with the promise of hot, but Cheyenne dressed in her best suit and heels. If she was to convince Joseph to return to Chicago, she needed all the confidence her professional attire gave her. She called Lindsay as she went down to breakfast, and the rickshaw was waiting when she exited the Inn.
“Do you know where Crystal Bay is?” she asked as she climbed onto the seat.
“There’s no place on the island I don’t know, but that area isn’t very inhabited. Are you sure that’s where you want to go?” Even as she asked, she started pedaling down the narrow street.
“That’s the name he…my client gave me.”
Lindsay grinned over her shoulder. “That’s definitely a very nice, isolated spot to meet a…client.”
Cheyenne’s look of distain was lost on the girl. She certainly had no designs on this particular client. As they flew along what appeared to be the only road out of town, she thought about what she knew of Joseph Donovan. Her job was executive assistant to Mr. Sebastian Donovan, who was a composer in his own right but also gave private music lessons and ran a music academy in downtown Chicago. She had rarely seen Joseph as he was constantly on tour and had his own staff but when she had, he had been reserved and aloof. She knew the trust money that ran the Academy had come from Joseph’s winning the coveted Camelot Award for Excellence in Musical Composition when he was just eighteen, then again two years ago at the age of twenty-eight. He had a distinguished recording career and his concerts were sold out months in advance. Yet all that was the public Joseph Donovan, adored by millions and worth billions. She realized she didn’t know the man behind the tuxedo at all.
“This is about the only cottage along this side of the island,” Lindsay said as she came to a halt in front of a ramshackle structure that Cheyenne was sure a strong wind would blow out to sea. The porch sloped to one side and the shutters, faded to the palest blue, hung by one hinge or were missing altogether. Weeds had overtaken any flowers that may once have graced the front yard.
She warily climbed the steps and knocked on the door but no one answered.
“Want me to hang around?” Lindsay was swigging a bottle of water and Cheyenne wished she had thought to provision herself. A noise caught her attention and she carefully picked her way to the side of the cottage. Down a grassy knoll, a dock projected out into the water. A man, whom she presumed was Donovan, sat in a boat tied to the dock.
“You really should get some different shoes,” Lindsay called as Cheyenne stumbled on loose gravel. She caught herself, straightened and adjusted her suit jacket. One didn’t approach a famous icon and expect to be heard in flip flops and cut offs.
“Thank you for your assistance getting here,” she said drily. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to return.”
The girl grinned, eyeing her over the top of her sunglasses. “Right. I’ll just keep a tab.”
“That’s not a very wise way to do business,” Cheyenne started, but Lindsay had already turned around and was heading back to the road.
Gingerly she picked her way over the grass to the edge of a dock. She eyed it guardedly and tested its sturdiness with one foot.
“It’ll hold you,” he called.
“I’m not worried about that.” She still hesitated, then carefully stepped on the first plank, making sure her heels were on the wood and not the spaces between.
“Thanks for coming.” He continued his work without looking up.
“How did you know my phone number?”
“I’ve always had your number.” He did look up then, cocked a brow and grinned at her.
“I sincerely doubt that.” She straightened her shoulders, determined to get right to the business at hand.
“I…” It suddenly dawned on her what he was doing. “Dear God, your hands!”
He held up his hands, greasy from working on the motor. “Yeah, I’m a mess.”
“You can’t be doing that!” Even as she spoke, he turned a wrench the wrong way and his hand slammed against the motor cover.
“Son of a bitch.” He shook it off and repositioned the wrench.
“Stop! Good Lord, are you crazy?” His hands were insured by Lloyd’s of London and here he was playing mechanic.
He did stop. Hoisting himself onto the dock, he spun to face her.
“Exactly why are you here, Miss Tucker?” Although the question was asked with no intonation, she had the feeling he was judging her. She carefully chose her next words.
“You need to return to Chicago. You’ve had your little holiday and the staff is waiting to set the dates for the next concert season.”
“There won’t be a next season.” He wasn’t looking at her now, but was busily wiping grease from his hands on an equally dirty rag.
“You have a responsibility.” Her voice rose with determination.
“To who? My uncle? As though he has ever done anything but take. His name on the Academy? He gave nothing but his name to that endeavor. He wasn’t even at the dedication.”
“You owe it to your audiences, to everyone who has ever bought an album or downloaded a single or gone to a concert. To all those taking piano lessons so they can be like you.”
“I don’t want anyone to be like me!” He threw the rag down on the dock and stood towering over her. “No one should be like me!”
She had had enough. He was still the arrogant, egotistical yet brilliant man she had first met six years ago. They would both have to cool down before he would see reason. She turned on her heel and started to storm away just as he yelled.
It was too late.
Her heels tangled in a rope on the dock and she went plunging into the water, only to surface to deep, male laughter.
“You, you maniac!” she screeched, struggling to her feet. The water was only three feet deep but she had gone completely under. Her hair dripped in her eyes and she swore she felt something creeping up her leg. She splashed to the dock and slapped her hands onto the wood to pull herself up but had no leverage.
“You could offer your assistance.” She glared up at him.
He knelt before her, strong brown hands spread across his thighs. And he was still laughing. She couldn’t recall hearing him laugh before. He had always been somber and studious. Laughter turned him even more handsome. His eyes twinkled and his even white teeth gleamed in the sunlight. In that moment she both loathed him and ached for him.
“Forget it.” She turned and tried to wade toward the shore but her heels, somehow still attached to her feet, sank into the sand. She floundered, her footing threatening to drag her down, when she was grabbed beneath the arms and bodily lifted out of the water. Wobbling on the wooden planks, she grabbed his shoulders to keep herself upright.
“Crap,” he muttered. Moving his hands down her leg, he lifted one foot then the other and yanked off her heels, unceremoniously throwing them back into the water.
She was almost beyond speech. “Those are very, very expensive shoes!”
“Were. And probably the most stupid excuse for footwear ever created.”
She stood there, barefoot and dripping wet, watching as his gaze slid down the sodden lines of her linen suit. His eyes lit and a slow smile curved his lips. He reached for her jacket buttons.
She felt her eyes widen and quickly stepped back, only to have him grab her arms to keep her from dropping back into the water.
“Don’t even think it.” She slapped at his hands.
“Seaweed,” he said, holding up a piece of green slime he had plucked off her jacket. “Are you intent on drowning yourself rather than telling my uncle you couldn’t persuade me to go home?”
His uncle was the absolute last person she was thinking about. Instead she was wondering how those slender fingers would feel against her wet skin and that would never do. She shivered at the thought.
He sighed and shook his head, moving past her to the edge of the dock. She watched him turn and tilt his head. “Come along, Miss Tucker. We can’t send you back to my uncle all wet and wrinkled.”
She had no recourse except to follow him up the grassy slope to the back deck.
Given the dilapidated outside of the cottage, Cheyenne was surprised when she stepped inside. The furniture was old and a little faded but everything was clean and neat. Several bright throw pillows added color to the brown couch. There was a small table and two chairs positioned between that and the efficiency kitchen. Most of the walls were simply banks of windows which gave its occupants the appearance of being outside. She didn’t understand how Joseph could live in such small confines, let alone make do for himself, when he came from such an entitled background.
He disappeared through a door and returned, tossing clothes at her. “The bathroom is the door on the right. Help yourself while I make some coffee.”
She was shivering too much to come up with a retort to his curtness. The hot water felt good as she stood under the spray, but when she recalled that only a thin, unlocked door stood between them, she hurriedly finished and briskly rubbed her hair dry. Only when she reached for the clothes he had given her did she realize what they were—a faded pair of sweatpants and a ratty tee-shirt with a huge fish printed on the front.
An unbidden memory of her childhood with hand-me-down clothes she was often lucky to have surfaced and she quickly squelched it. She had worn nothing but designer suits, tailored pants and cashmere sweaters since her first paycheck. But she had no choice at the moment if she didn’t want to wear the extra-large bath towel which now covered her.
Jake watched Cheyenne emerge from the bathroom and his heart stopped. Gone was the prickly, straitlaced Miss Tucker and in her place was a woman. His sweats were too large for her shapely hips and his tee shirt too small for her generous bust. The bass across the front looked entirely too happy. Her hair had begun curling around her shoulders and he wondered why she always wore it tightly up in some matronly bun. But it was her face, devoid of makeup, that drew him closer. Long lashes blinked over bright blue eyes, pink lips looked lush and kissable and there was just a touch of natural color across her cheeks.
“You look…clean,” he finished lamely, not sure exactly how to approach this new, totally different version of his uncle’s executive assistant. He had rarely thought of her back in Chicago; she had simply been his uncle’s efficient employee. Now she stood looking hesitant and vulnerable, and he had the insane desire to pull her close and hug her.
She looked down, and he followed her gaze to see her curl her brightly painted toes. It would appear Miss Tucker had a sexy side. Those toes made him want to do something more than give her a brotherly hug. He cleared his throat. For all his sophistication on stage, in private he never knew exactly how to behave around people, especially women.
He relaxed as she said, “Are you using the name Jake Smith to appear incognito?”
“That’s my real name.” At her quizzical expression, he added, “A long story for another time. Lunch is ready.” He turned back to the oven and pulled out the metal pan he had put in to bake before going to the dock.
“You cook?” She raised a brow in question.
“I used to sneak into the kitchen and watch Mrs. Miller.” He shrugged. “I never had the chance to actually do it. I’ve found I enjoy it.”
“I really should go back to town.”
“Your clothes aren’t dry. The least I can do is feed you.” He turned back holding two plates he’d taken from the cupboard. “Besides, you don’t have a ride.”
“I can call Lindsay. She said she would come back when I was ready. I didn’t think it would take long to explain why I was here.”