Chapter One

 

The lawyer’s pronouncement hit her like an actual blow, the shock of his words coming way too soon after her father’s untimely death for her to process rationally. The room grayed out and she had to grasp the arms of the uncomfortable client chair to keep her seat.

“Miss Ferguson?”

Old Mr. Murphy peered at her over his wire-rimmed glasses, his pale-blue watery eyes reflecting concern.

“How…” She cleared her throat. “How could this happen?”

“My dear, your father wasn’t exactly … worldly, when it came to business matters.”

And didn’t she know that, having taken on the bulk of the running of The Inn since she turned sixteen, hell, even earlier. Yet the loan was something she knew nothing about, had never seen any paperwork pertaining to it. “But this seems medieval!”

Even as she announced the proclamation, she recognized the absurdity, but having her power wrested away made her feel in the middle of a historical romance.

The man sitting on the left bent an assessing stare on her. He’d already been in Mr. Murphy’s office when she arrived, a tall, broad-shouldered male in the prime of his life. Despite the circumstances of her visit to the lawyer—reviewing a will had unspoken implications—Regan had taken in his handsome appearance.

Even seated, he radiated a presence, and at first, she thought he was a lawyer. Learning he was a Ferguson had thrown up a huge, red flag, overriding her involuntary feminine reaction to such a specimen. A cousin she’d never heard of?

His dark gaze collided with hers and she wondered what he saw. Regan was fit. She had to be, what with the amount of physical work required of her. But being in shape didn’t negate her size. She wasn’t a dainty, anorexic example of her gender, her breasts were more than a handful, and her hips and ass made a statement. She’d taken some pains with her appearance that morning, pulling her boring, brown hair up into a semi-formal twist, donning clean, pressed khakis and the only floaty, feminine top she owned. Shades of blue to maybe match her eyes. But her scratched and calloused hands loudly proclaimed she made her living at difficult physical work.

A spark of something flickered in his eyes for an instant, too quick for her to read it, and then his whiskey-smooth tone filled the room. “It’s not like property being handed down to the first son. It was a business loan, if between families, as I understand it.”

“Did you know about this?” She wasn’t normally demanding, but she wanted to turn her shock and ire on someone.

His stare blanked before he shook his head. “I didn’t. I didn’t know about you. Not until Mr. Murphy called me.”

“I had to call, Regan. It was in your father’s papers, listed as a debt. I recall urging him to make the loan a priority…” The elderly lawyer shuffled those damning papers on his desk.

“You aren’t responsible for Dad’s affairs,” she quickly reassured him. Mr. Murphy looked so distressed her instinct was to soothe him. Then she got to the matter at hand—best to rip the bandage off quickly. “So, what’s the expectation?”

“You own half of The Inn. Mr. Ferguson, the other—he inherited his father’s estate. David Ferguson, your father’s older brother, and his only sibling.”

A deceased uncle she’d never met either. Uncle David. Yet her father had gone to his brother years ago to borrow money for the only place she’d remembered as home—and apparently hadn’t ever paid it back.

“Why now?”

“Excuse me?”

She faced her cousin, Maddox Ferguson. His name was as remarkable as his appearance but she focused on the immediate. “Why are you here now? If you didn’t know, haven’t missed the money…”

She trailed off, her comment lingering unpleasantly in the room. How stupid, and … and unprofessional. People simply didn’t leave money on the table, especially not when it was theirs, free and clear. It was just that he didn’t seem to need it and she had no way of buying him out. And she was grasping at the proverbial straw.

Her throat burned with shame and grief. “Excuse me. That was … irrational.”

Maddox nodded gravely, dark eyes gleaming with sympathy. “You’re under pressure.”

He spoke so kindly and was so handsome with his impeccably barbered hair and heavily lashed brown eyes that her turmoil was momentarily eased before she unwillingly told him the truth. “I don’t have the money.”

A slow nod acknowledged her confession. “Perhaps I can buy you out.”

She stilled, her nails digging into the arms of the chair again. Leave her home? Move to where? The Falls? What would she do there? What about Oscar? The questions tumbled through her brain, overlapping one another. The edges of her world crumbled inward and she struggled to take a full breath.

“Of course I’d want to see the place, get an appraisal,” he continued, watching her closely.

She wondered how he’d see The Inn through his big city eyes. Rural Vermont was a long way from Boston. She could admit her home was a little shabby, even to her biased appraisal. It all became too much. She had to get out of there.

“Is there anything else I should know?” She eased her chair back. Maybe her father had left additional horrid surprises in store.

With an embarrassed glance toward Maddox, Mr. Murphy said, “The bank account is freed up, my dear. I’ve filed the necessary paperwork. I imagine you have bills to take care of.”

She only hoped there was enough to cover them, grateful her father had prepaid his funeral expenses. Maybe around the time he’d borrowed enough money to put her in this untenable situation. Forcing her trembling fingers to gather up the proffered paperwork and shove it in her bag, she gained her feet.

“Thanks, Mr. Murphy.” With a hesitant lift of her shoulder, she managed another glance toward Maddox before stumbling toward the door. “I’ll … um, I’ll call you, cousin.”

“Can I follow you?”

“Excuse me?” She turned to find him right behind her. His scent enveloped her and she instinctively inhaled deeply. His fragrance suited him, a confident bouquet of spice and leather that sparked a flutter in her belly, a flutter that vied with all her other confused emotions. She caught herself—her future was in this man’s large, presumably capable hands and it was not the time or place for fanciful thoughts.

“If you’re heading back to The Inn, I’ll follow you, because we need to talk.” A rueful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And you don’t have my number.”

A minor detail. “Leave it with Mr. Murphy.”

“Perhaps we can get some lunch first?”

Regan shook her head. She should be thinking of him as the enemy and hardly wanted to break bread with him. “I need to get home. Oscar will be waiting.”

A curious expression passed over his features. “Your husband? I’d have thought he would have accompanied you.”

Despite the fact they were on opposite sides, she couldn’t help but laugh. Waving her work-roughened left hand, ring finger conspicuously free of ornamentation, she said, “Oscar’s my cat. But he missed breakfast. I left before he came home from his morning tour, and an unimpressed Oscar is a difficult Oscar.”

“Are you going to make lunch there? As well as feed your cat? I’d like to see the property.”

His persistence felt out of place, but it would be petty to refuse him a meal, and she had to eat too. She made herself ask, wondering at the way her perception of him kept changing. “Would you like to come for lunch?”

“Thank you.” His smile became a thing of beauty if one could apply that adjective to a man. It certainly appealed to her, even as her mind jumped to inventorying the pantry. He probably was accustomed to five-star meals…

The light pressure of his hand on the small of her back as he walked her to her vehicle felt proprietary and curiously comforting, at least until he gave the car the once over. Her small SUV had a lot of years and many miles on it, but it was what she had. She bit her lip to avoid apologizing for it, a wave of resentment shoving him back into enemy territory.

The door cracked open before his determined grip and made the usual creaking, wrenching sound. Thank goodness the front seat was clean. The rest of it, not so much. She hauled stuff in the back because the U in SUV stood for utility. Hers wasn’t like the four-wheel drive vehicles city folks bought, maybe imagining themselves in a situation where they’d need one. Like driving through a lump of mud and snow left by a semi on the freeway.

He waited until she settled herself and fastened the seat belt before he shut her in. She kept an eye on him as he strode toward his own vehicle. His suit fit admirably and moved right along with his fluid stride, the expensive fabric showcasing his muscular frame.

Regan sighed. She was so outclassed. And of course the Mercedes he unlocked and slid into made her American-built Ford look even shabbier. She was glad he didn’t hear how rough the engine ran, but a tune-up simply wasn’t affordable right now.

True to his word, he followed her back to The Inn, pulling up beside her in the wide drive. She chose to use the front door, the back being a trifle muddy after the recent rain and the plugged downspout.

Studying the façade, forcing herself to see it through outside eyes, she winced. If a house could look scruffy, this one did. Not the greatest first impression for her guests—or for her cousin. She told herself there were good bones behind the cosmetic and knowledgeable people would see it, but right now it appeared clunky and unkempt.

When Maddox met her at the foot of the stairs, his stern visage gave away nothing but she sensed his assessment wasn’t at all favorable. Was it her imagination or did the porch floor feel a bit soft? The repairs never ended.

Working the big key into the lock, she pushed inward and felt the cool, welcoming interior envelop her. She hoped Maddox experienced it as well, and that it made up for the outside. Thank goodness she’d cleaned only yesterday. The woodwork gleamed from the care lavished on it, and the scent of the wildflowers she’d cut for the entrance table filled the air.

Of course, once a person got closer to the furniture, the age and wear were apparent, but antiques should look old, even if they weren’t particularly attractive antiques. That was her story and she was sticking to it.

“You’re very proud of it.” His tone was conspicuously free of any inference.

She thought she was, but in trying to view it through his lenses, objectively, it wasn’t as impressive as say, it would have been a hundred years ago. “It’s home.”

A caterwaul emanated from the direction of the kitchen and Maddox stared. “Mountain lion?”

“Maine Coon.”

“Ah, an admirable breed.”

And she was back to feeling comfortable with him, regardless of the fact they’d only just met and the fact he held the fate of The Inn in his hold. Perhaps it was the familial connection. Or maybe she was coming to accept the inevitable—except she wasn’t a quitter. Shrugging at her ambivalence, she led the way to the heart of the home.

It too showed signs of wear, but the huge butcher block island, scarred surface and all, was mute testament to countless meals prepared there over the years. She hustled to the corner cabinet and found a tin of cat food, Oscar fixing her with a malevolent stare.

His wealth of gray and silver fur made him look even larger than he was, although he was a hefty armful without it. “We have company, animal. Try to remember your manners.”

To her astonishment, the big cat turned his attention from the food container and sauntered over to Maddox and sniffed his shoes. Likely it was a case of two alpha males positioning, but her cousin allowed the scrutiny and didn’t seem to mind the careless sweep of Oscar’s tail over his pant cuff. Regan made a mental note to find a fabric brush.

“He doesn’t care for people much, so aside from the sunroom and in here, he doesn’t go where the guests are. If anyone’s allergic they don’t stay at The Inn.” She knew she was shooting herself in the foot, but since her father died, Oscar had been the only living thing in her life—until today. She searched for another accolade. “He takes care of the mice. And he never goes on the counters or the table.”

Maddox merely nodded, and she thought he saw more than he let on.

She set out the food and her cat fell to, clearly ravenous. The mighty hunter tended to turn his nose up at his fresh kills, preferring the slop she provided. Washing her hands, she crossed to open the huge fridge, speaking over the smacking and gobbling noises. “He eats a lot.”

“I can imagine.”

“A sandwich or an egg casserole?” She brandished a loaf of bread in one hand and held out a dozen eggs in the other.

He slipped his jacket off and laid it over the back of a chair. Rolling his sleeves up, he said, “What can I do to help?”

Dragging her stare away from his thick, tanned forearms, she stuttered, “Um… Depends on what you crave.”

Had she made a double entendre? She looked away, but not before she caught the quirk of his brow—and a flare of interest in his eyes.

“There are a few things I crave, Regan, but we don’t know one another well enough to discuss those.” He flashed her a smile. “If we put together an egg thing you can take me for a tour while it bakes.”

We. A gorgeous, sexy man who was at home in the kitchen, talking about cravings. Under other circumstances, she might be seeing this as some kind of sign. But she had to keep her eye on the prize and not be diverted by something as mundane as … lust. Somehow, she had to find a way to persuade Maddox to let her keep The Inn, and that meant not treating him like the enemy, but not as an … object of interest, either.

Out of necessity, her libido had been in hibernation for a long time. The Inn being her love concern, it was trying that this man—her cousin—had piqued her interest in that regard. Inconvenient and bizarre, though she’d have to be blind not to notice his appeal.

He efficiently chopped scallions, peppers, broccoli, and mushrooms while she heated butter in one of the big copper skillets. Her father had been the chef, if without the letters to his name, who kept the paying guests happy with his food, but she could put together a tasty breakfast and cook most basic meals well. If she had the time.

She softened the vegetables in the hot pan while she beat several eggs with a hit of cream and seasonings. Maddox grated sharp cheese at her request. A few slices of country ham lined the bottom of a glass baking dish and he layered the mushrooms and scallions over them before she poured in the eggs. They worked well in tandem, like a pair of horses newly harnessed, and it fed her sense of unreality.

As the cheese alternately sank and floated in the mixture, she dotted in some breadcrumbs and surveyed the results. Maddox loomed beside her and she felt, more than saw him nod, intensely aware of him. “Looks great.”

The dish went in the oven and she set the timer. An hour seemed an eon away, seeing as Oscar wasn’t the only one who’d missed breakfast. Except hers had been skipped because of a tightly drawn stomach. And hadn’t she been right to be concerned?

Adopting a formal tone, trying to build a little distance, she said, “I’ll show you around.”

She started with the sunroom, off the kitchen. There was a seating area for guests, but she used it primarily to dry herbs and such from the vegetable gardens, and the air was redolent with their aromas, from savory to earthy. The afternoon sun slanted through the old glass panes, the heat absorbed by the flagstone floors. Somehow, all the glass had survived but the frames sagged, and the floors dipped in the center of some of the slabs.

“Do your guests spend a lot of time here?”

He was trespassing into her space again. She could feel the heat of his body, smell his fragrance, and she hastily stepped away before she did something rash, like stroke one of those firm forearms. “A few. Mostly older guests. They like to read out here.”

He didn’t have a clipboard or notepad but she knew he was making notes. She hoped there were more pros than cons.

Next was the dining room, all dark wooden paneling, and heavy furniture. It was an imposing room with the tapestry-like draperies drawn back from the tall windows, their wavy glass freshly washed, but maybe it looked depressing to him. She could admit it was dated and not in an appealing, historical way. Maddox looked around but said nothing.

The stairs creaked as they climbed them and she hoped he didn’t feel the tremor in the banister.

“There are six guest bedrooms up here. Four have their own baths. The others share one. My father’s room can easily become another guest bedroom with a private bath.” She showed him each one, proud of the size and brightness, never mind that the linens were a bit dated.

“I haven’t told you I’m sorry for your loss.” He stared into her eyes and she blinked.

“Thank you. It was a shock.” Having the police turn up mid-afternoon during a deluge had been discomfiting, and their news about her father’s car accident spoke to them being bearers of bad news. It had been over a month ago, but it sometimes felt as if it had happened only yesterday.

“It takes time.”

His quiet response felt like a balm, accepting and certain, and she managed a smile. Until he turned on taps and flushed toilets and the plumbing rattled in the walls and two toilets made ominous, gurgling noises. Any sense of comfort faded rapidly.

When he flicked a switch in one of the bedrooms, the overhead light flickered before settling into a warm glow. Unfortunately, while everything was well maintained, the age was apparent.

“What’s the state of the wiring?”

“I’m not sure…” Her first lie couldn’t make it past her lips.

“Knob and tube?” He made it sound like a death sentence and it could well be.

“Up here, yes. We’ve rewired downstairs. We have lots of smoke detectors and emergency exits.”

His silence spoke volumes as he moved to a closed room. “What’s in there?”

“My room.” She wasn’t opening that door and kept walking. Her narrow bed and sparse belongings made it look like a monk’s cell, though nothing about this man had her thinking celibate thoughts, damn it. Despite his obvious antipathy for the state of The Inn, all she had, and he was making her feel more threatened by the moment.

They made their way downstairs to the sitting room and he stood in the middle, like a lion surveying his territory. Or maybe a panther. And it wasn’t all his. She still owned half. Maybe the top half with the crappy wiring and suspect plumbing.

More roiling resentment coursed through her and she fought the urge to tell him to get the hell out. The Inn was still her home, as old and worn as it appeared, and no good-looking man was worth a change in her opinion.

She got herself under control, aware Maddox was observing her, giving her time. Was he watching her with something other than familial interest? Her experience with men left her guessing. She only knew the air in the room felt thicker when he was in the space and it confused her.

She gazed around. This area was brighter than the dining room, with more windows and gossamer curtains. Various arrangements of furniture dotted the large area and invited—to Regan’s eye—a person to sit and relax. To read or simply look out on the views.

“This is pleasant.” He moved to the big fireplace anchoring the room and tapped on the chimney breast.

Regan held her breath against any of the stone falling free, and she was in luck. The chimney itself needed cleaning before it could be used this winter and a thorough check of the mortar had to be undertaken. She’d been setting a few dollars aside, just for that purpose.

“Can we sit down? But not in that dining room.” His distaste came through loud and clear, evident in the furrow in his brow and his set lips.

“We can sit in the kitchen, at the island. I’ll make tea while the casserole finishes.”

Maddox winced, slightly, but she caught it. “Would you prefer coffee?”

“I don’t suppose you have anything stronger.”

She had a bottle of wine stuck in the back cupboard, a full-bodied red, but she wasn’t sharing. So he didn’t love The Inn the way she did. He was doubtless used to big city extravagance. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t getting her wine. “Sorry.”

“Coffee’s fine.”

He checked out cabinets while she set up the brewer and located plates and silverware. He set the island with the place settings close together and she casually moved them so they were facing one another with the width of the island between them. She wanted to keep it appearing businesslike, away from his intriguing scent.

That meant not changing into more comfortable clothing, and she decided to view her dressed-up look as armor. She didn’t really want to sit down and talk, certain what he had to say was nothing she wanted to hear, so she bought a few more minutes by locating some cream and sugar.

Pouring him a large cup of coffee, she doctored her own, smaller version and sat on a stool where she could keep an eye on the stove. Sometimes the pilot light went out unexpectedly.

“Black’s fine,” he said when she slid the cream his way.

Of course, he drank it black, all sophisticated, no-frills—unless he favored those bistros. He was out of luck in The Falls. The best he’d get would be one of those frothy, chemical drinks from the units at the gas station on the outskirts, although Sally at the bakery was making noises about stocking fancy coffees. She sipped at hers and nearly moaned at the flavor that burst over her taste buds. Her belly was glad of the sustenance too.

“So, we’re cousins.” Not actually, but she debated whether or not to share that fact. “Who knew?”

Those dark, mysterious eyes regarded her, set deeply in his strongly featured face. She knew she was staring but couldn’t seem to help herself. Besides, she didn’t want to hear his take on The Inn. It seemed far more important to decipher what message he was conveying at the moment. Unless she was imagining things.

“Our fathers must not have had any relationship, at least not since I can recall,” he said. “I knew he had a brother, I saw a family bible in his effects, but nothing to indicate they’d been in contact.”

And he hadn’t been interested enough to find out. That chapped her a little. Chances were they’d never have connected if it hadn’t been for those damn loan papers. “So, no contact over the past few decades.”

Nodding, he drank his coffee and she had the sense he was choosing his words. “My mother’s alive, and I have a sister.”

Regan blinked. She cautiously explored the idea of actually having living family—if pseudo-family members. “Is your sister older or younger?”

“Younger. Her name is Naomi. Married and with two kids. Expecting another.” He drank more coffee. “My mother became a bit of a recluse when my father died some time back. Heart attack.”

“I’m sorry. You must worry about her.”

“She lives in a gated community and prefers her own company, though I do try to stop by often.”

She didn’t have a lot to offer about her family. “My … mom passed from cancer some time ago and Dad and I rubbed along okay. We had The Inn to keep us going.”

“Again, I’m sorry for your loss.” And he looked sorry, his mouth slightly pursed and his eyes warm with sympathy. She supposed he knew what it was like, having lost his own father. He likely knew that time was the only thing that helped a little.

“It’s been difficult,” she admitted. “But life goes on.”

They sat in relatively comfortable silence, broken only by the sounds of the appliances and the ticking of the clock. A faint drip in the sink reminded Regan to change out the washer when she found a moment.

“This place is a money pit.”

Wow. So much for a little bonding. Straight for the jugular. “There are some repairs outstanding,” she allowed.

“Regan. Please don’t minimize.” He watched her with those dark eyes. Deep set beneath sooty brows, the lashes were swoon-worthy and complemented the now charcoal-black irises. She admonished herself to quit writing sonnets to them. He was saying things she didn’t want to hear!

Exasperation tightened the skin over his cheekbones, and his handsomeness nearly made her speechless. How was he so familiar to her? She’d known him maybe two, three hours and she could read him, or at least sense his moods. Not that it made his assertion any easier to swallow.

“We’ve been holding our own,” she argued.

“But now there’s only you,” he said, his tone gentle and understanding.

Her heart twisted at the reminder. She tried hard not to think about her father, torn between sadness and anger, both over his careless driving and careless financial acumen. “I can do it.”

The oven timer buzzed, a welcome distraction, so she hopped up and carefully removed the egg dish. It steamed and the aromas it gave off were fantastic. She breathed them in, craving the momentary comfort, and then set it on the island. A spatula would work as a serving spoon, so she dug one out of the utensil drawer.

“Do you have the capital to fund the repairs?” Maddox watched her over the rim of his coffee cup.

Shoveling egg mixture onto their plates, giving him an extra heaping spoonful, she shook her head. “I have to do everything in stages.”

He waited for her to be seated before matching her enthusiasm for the meal, his utensils flashing as he placed eggs onto his fork. “It’s a shame you don’t have siblings to help.”

Taking a deep breath, she told him the truth, knowing someone would eventually spill the beans. “My … parents couldn’t have children, Maddox. I’m adopted.”

Something took place in that instant. He stilled, his fork midway to his mouth, and this time she couldn’t read him, although something inside of her leaped to interpret the message. It was over as quickly as it transpired and he took another taste of the meal.

“This is really good. I haven’t had something like this since I was a kid and our housekeeper baked stuff for me and my sister.”

Curiosity pricked her interest hard, what with that strange reaction, but his praise seemed honest. He actually did like it, she supposed, even if it was lowbrow. He didn’t reference her adoptive status, so he was either trying to avoid the subject, spare her, or it didn’t matter.

Her appetite wasn’t as sharp, what with his less than stellar impression of The Inn, but she took a few bites. He didn’t seem to mind sharing with her so she asked, “Are you married?”

“No. Still single. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five, nearly. You?”

“Thirty-four.”

“What do you do for work?”

“I have a finance company in Boston and some subsidiaries.”

He had a company. Didn’t run it. He owned it. An idea niggled in the back of her brain. She thought it through, using the food and drink to give herself a little time.

Gathering her courage, she put it out there. “Could you … loan me the money to make the necessary repairs? With the appropriate interest, of course. I’d pay you back. I don’t owe the bank too much.”

A moment passed before he said, “Have you approached the bank for additional funds?”

She ducked her head. “I have. But they weren’t really willing.”

“Did you have trouble making payments in the past?”

It killed her to admit it, but if he checked things out—and he had a right to—he’d find out anyhow. “We got behind sometimes.”

A tiny silence stretched out and she forced herself to look at him. Now, his eyes were like melted chocolate, warm and soft, somehow. “Regan, I wonder if you shouldn’t take a step back and really look at your situation. Perhaps I can help you—”

“The Inn is important to me,” she hurried to say, effectively cutting off whatever help he might offer outside of a loan. She couldn’t let him tempt her, driven by the need to hang onto something familiar.

“I understand that. But have you considered the fact The Inn is far off the beaten path? And the other little things?”

“Like wiring and plumbing?” she asked, bitterness coloring her tone.

“And the fact people don’t like sharing bathrooms. And there’s little for people with children to do. That means you’re catering to an older group. And those who are still traveling have money and will expect so much more.”

How did he know all of that to be able to throw the facts out there so blithely? She hardly knew how to respond. “There are still people who appreciate historical charm.”

He was kind enough not to challenge her assertion that The Inn and its contents had a claim to historical. “Enough to make it worth your while? And make you a living?”

Her lack of bookings probably meant he was right on the money, but she was stubborn and this was all she knew. “If I had the money to fix things up, it would be different. And you haven’t even seen the grounds.”

“Then, if you’re finished, show me.”

With a final sip, she wiped her lips and squirmed off the stool. Maddox’s gaze swept over her once again and that spark flared. She blinked, and it was gone, leaving her wondering if it had even happened. Whatever it was. A fire lit in her belly and had nothing to do with the peppers in the omelet.

At this rate, the way her emotions kept flipping she’d never keep her head straight.