Megan's Mate

Chapter 2

As far as Coco was concerned, Niels Van Horne was a thoroughly unpleasant man. He did not take constructive criticism, or the subtlest of suggestions for improvement, well at all. She tried to be courteous, God knew, as he was a member of the staff of The Towers and an old, dear friend of Nathaniel's.

But the man was a thorn in her side, an abrasive grain of sand in the cozy slipper of her contentment.

In the first place, he was simply too big. The hotel kitchen was gloriously streamlined and organized. She and Sloan had worked in tandem on the design, so that the finished product would suit her specifications and needs. She adored her huge stove, her convection and conventional ovens, the glint of polished stainless steel and glossy white counters, and her whispersilent dishwasher. She loved the smells of cooking, the hum of her exhaust fans, the sparkling cleanliness of her tile floor.

And there was Van Horne—or Dutch, as he was called—a bull in her china shop, with his redwood-size shoulders and cinder-block arms rippling with tattoos. He refused to wear the neat white bib aprons she'd ordered, with their elegant blue lettering, preferring his rolled-up shirts and tatty jeans held up by a hank of rope.

His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a stubby pony tail, and his face, usually scowling, was as big as the rest of him, scored with lines around his light green eyes. His nose, broken several times in the brawls he seemed so proud of, was mashed and crooked. His skin was brown, and leathery as an old saddle.

And his language... Well, Coco didn't consider herself a prude, but she was, after all, a lady.

But the man could cook. It was his only redeeming quality.

As Dutch worked at the stove, she supervised the two line chefs. The specials tonight were her New England fish stew and stuffed trout a la frangaise. Everything appeared to be in order.

“Mr. Van Horne,” she began, in a tone that never failed to put his back up. “You will be in charge while I'm downstairs. I don't foresee any problems, but should any arise, I'll be in the family dining room.”

He cast one of his sneering looks over his shoulder. Woman was all slicked up tonight, like she was going to some opera or something, he thought. All red silk and pearls. He wanted to snort, but knew her damned perfume would interfere with the pleasure he gained from the smell of his curried rice.

“I cooked for three hundred men,” he said in his raspy, sandpaper-edged voice, “I can deal with a couple dozen pasty-faced tourists.”

“Our guests,” she said between her teeth, “may be slightly more discriminating than sailors trapped on some rusty boat.”

One of the busboys swung through, carrying plates. Dutch's eyes zeroed in on one that still held half an entree. On his ship, men had cleaned their plates. “Not too damn hungry, were they?”

“Mr. Van Horne.” Coco drew air through her nose. “You will remain in the kitchen at all times. I will not have you going out into the dining room again and berating our guests over their eating habits. A bit more garnish on that salad, please,” she said to one of the line chefs, and glided out the door.

“Can't stand fancy-faced broads,” Dutch muttered. And if it wasn't for Nate, he thought sourly, Dutch Van Horne wouldn't be taking orders from a dame.

Nathaniel didn't share his former shipmate's disdain of women. He loved them, one and all. He enjoyed their looks, their smells, their voices, and was more than satisfied to settle in the family parlor with six of the bestlooking women it had been his pleasure to meet.

The Calhoun women were a constant delight to him. Suzanna, with her soft eyes, Lilah's lazy sexuality, Amanda's brisk practicality, C.C.'s cocky grin, not to mention Coco's feminine elegance.

They made The Towers Nathaniel's little slice of heaven.

And the sixth woman... He sipped his whiskey and water as he watched Megan O'Riley. Now there was a package he thought might be full of surprises. In the looks department, she didn't take second place to the fabulous Calhouns. And her voice, with its slow Oklahoma drawl, added its own appeal. What she lacked, he mused, was the easy warmth that flowed from the other women.

He hadn't decided as yet whether it was the result of a cold nature or simple shyness. Whatever it was, it ran deep. It was hard to be cold or shy in a room filled with laughing people, cooing babies and wrestling children.

He was holding one of his favorite females at the moment. Jenny was bouncing on his lap and barraging him with questions.

“Are you going to marry Aunt Coco?”

“She won't have me.”

“I will.” Jenny beamed up at him, an apprentice heartbreaker with a missing front tooth. “We can get married in the garden, like Mom and Daddy did. Then you can come live with us.”

“Now that's the best offer I've had in a long time.” He stroked a callused finger down her cheek.

“But you have to wait until I get big.”

“It's always wise to make a man wait.” This from Lilah, who slouched on a sofa, her head in the crook of her husband's arm, a baby in her own. “Don't let him rush you into anything, Jenny. Slow is always best.”

“She'd know,” Amanda commented. “Lilah's spent her life studying slow.”

“I'm not ready to give up my girl.” Holt scooped Jenny up. “Especially to a broken-down sailor.”

“I can outpilot you blindfolded, Bradford.”

“Nuh-uh.” Alex popped up to defend the family honor. “Daddy sails the best. He can sail better than anybody. Even if bad guys were shooting at him.”

Territorial, Alex wrapped an arm around Holt's leg. “He even got shot. He's got a bullet hole in him.”

Holt grinned at his friend. “Get your own cheering gallery, Nate.” “Did you ever get shot?” Alex wanted to know.

“Can't say that I have.” Nathaniel swirled his whiskey. “But there was this Greek in Corfu that wanted to slit my throat.”

Alex's eyes widened until they were like saucers. From his spot on the rug, Kevin inched closer. “Really?” Alex looked for signs of knife wounds. He knew Nathaniel had a tattoo of a fire-breathing dragon on his shoulder, but this was even better. “Did you stab him back and kill him dead?”

“Nope.” Nathaniel caught the look of doubt and disapproval in Megan's eyes. “He missed and caught me in the shoulder, and the Dutchman knocked him cold with a bottle of ouzo.”

Desperately impressed, Kevin slid closer. “Have you got a scar?” “Sure do.”

Amanda slapped Nathaniel's hand before he could tug up his shirt. “Cut it out, or every man in the room will be stripping to show off war wounds. Sloan's really proud of the one he got from barbed wire.”

“It's a beaut,” Sloan agreed. “But Meg's is even better.”

“Shut up, Sloan.”

“Hey, a man's gotta brag on his only sister.” Enjoying himself, Sloan draped an arm around her shoulders. “She was twelve—hardheaded little brat. We had a mustang stallion nearly as bad-tempered as she was. She snuck him out one day, determined that she could break him. Well, she got about a half a mile before he shook her off.”

“He did not shake me off,” Megan said primly. “The bridle snapped.”

“That's her story.” Sloan gave her a quick squeeze. “Fact is, that horse tossed her right into a barbed-wire fence. She landed on her rump. I don't believe you sat down for six weeks.”

“It was two,” she said, but her lips twitched.

“Got herself a hell of a scar.” Sloan gave her butt a brotherly pat.

“Wouldn't mind taking a look at it,” Nathaniel said under his breath, and earned an arched-eyebrow look from Suzanna.

“I think I'll put Christian down before dinner.”

“Good idea.” C.C. took Ethan from Trent just as the baby began to fuss. “Somebody's hungry.”

“I know I am.” Lilah rose.

Megan watched mothers and babies head upstairs to nurse, and was surprised by a quick tug of envy. Funny, she mused, she hadn't even thought of having more babies until she came here and found herself surrounded by them.

“So sorry I'm late.” Coco glided into the room, patting her hair. “We had a few problems in the kitchen.”

Nathaniel recognized the look of frustration on her face and fought back a grin. “Dutch giving you trouble, darling?”

“Well...” She didn't like to complain. “We simply have different views on how things should be done. Oh, bless you, Trent,” she said when he offered her a glass. “Oh, dear, where is my head? I forgot the canapes.”

“I'll get them.” Max unfolded himself from the sofa and headed toward the family kitchen.

“Thank you, dear. Now...” She took Megan's hand, squeezed. “We've hardly had a moment to talk. What do you think of The Retreat?”

“It's wonderful, everything Sloan said it would be. Amanda tells me all ten suites are booked.”

“It's been a wonderful first season.” She beamed at Trent. “Hardly more than a year ago, I was in despair, so afraid my girls would lose their home.

Though the cards told me differently. Did I ever tell you that I foresaw Trent in the tarot? I really must do a spread for you, dear, and see what your future holds.”

“Well...”

“Perhaps I can just look at your palm.”

Megan let go with a sigh of relief when Max came back with a tray and distracted Coco.

“Not interested in the future?” Nathaniel murmured.

Megan glanced over, surprised that he had moved beside her without her being aware of it. “I'm more interested in the present, one step at a time.”

“A cynic.” He took her hand and, though it went rigid in his, turned it palm up. “I met an old woman on the west coast of Ireland. Molly Duggin was her name. She said I had the sight.” His smoky eyes stayed level with hers for a long moment before they shifted to her open palm. Megan felt something skitter down her spine. “A stubborn hand. Self-sufficient, for all its elegance.”

He traced a finger over it. Now there was more than a skitter. There was a jolt.

“I don't believe in palmistry.”

“You don't have to. Shy,” he said quietly. “I wondered about that. The passions are there, but repressed.” His thumb glided gently over her palm's mound of Venus. “Or channeled. You'd prefer to say channeled. Goaloriented, practical. You'd rather make decisions with your head, no matter what your heart tells you.” His eyes lifted to hers again. “How close am I?”

Much too close, she thought, but drew her hand coolly from his. “An interesting parlor game, Mr. Fury.”

His eyes laughed at her as he tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “Isn't it?”

By noon the next day, Megan had run out of busy-work. She hadn't the heart to refuse Kevin's plea to be allowed to spend the day with the Bradfords, though his departure had left her very much to her own devices.

She simply wasn't used to free time.

One trip to the hotel lobby had aborted her idea of convincing Amanda to let her study the books and files. Amanda, she was told by a cheerful desk clerk, was in the west tower, handling a small problem.

Coco wasn't an option, either. Megan had halted just outside the door of the kitchen when she heard the crash of pots and raised voices inside.

Since Lilah had gone back to work as a naturalist in the park, and C.C. was at her automotive shop in town, Megan was left on herown.

In a house as enormous as The Towers, she felt like the last living soul on the island.

She could read, she mused, or sit in the sun on one of the terraces and contemplate the view. She could wander down to the first floor of the family area and check out the progress of the renovations. And harass Sloan and Trent, she thought with a sigh, as they tried to get some work done.

She didn't consider disturbing Max in his studio, knowing he was working on his book. As she'd already spent an hour in the nursery playing with the babies, she felt another visit was out.

She wandered her room, smoothed down the already smooth coverlet on the marvelous four-poster. The rest of her things had arrived that morning, and in her perhaps too-efficient way, she'd already unpacked. Her clothes were neatly hung in the rosewood armoire or folded in the Chippendale bureau. Framed photos of her family smiled from the gateleg table under the window.

Her shoes were aligned, her jewelry was tucked away and her books were stored on the shelf.

And if she didn't find something to do, she would go mad.

With this in mind, she picked up her briefcase, checked the contents one last time and headed outside, to the car Sloan had left at her disposal.

The sedan ran like a top, courtesy of C.C.'s mechanical skills. Megan drove down the winding road toward the village.

She enjoyed the bright blue water of the bay, and the colorful throngs of tourists strolling up and down the sloped streets. But the glistening wares in the shop windows didn't tempt her to stop and do any strolling of her own.

Shopping was something she did out of necessity, not for pleasure.

Once, long ago, she'd loved the idle pleasure of window-shopping, the careless satisfaction of buying for fun. She'd enjoyed empty, endless summer days once, with nothing more to do than watch clouds or listen to the wind.

But that was before innocence had been lost, and responsibilities found.

She saw the sign for Shipshape Tours by the docks. There were a couple of small boats in dry dock, but the Mariner and its sister ship, the Island Queen, were nowhere to be seen.

Her brows knit in annoyance. She'd hoped to catch Holt before he took one of the tours out. Still, there was no reason she couldn't poke inside the little tin-roofed building that housed the offices. After all, Shipshape was now one of her clients.

Megan pulled the sedan behind a long, long T-Bird convertible. She had to admire the lines of the car, and the glossy black paint job that highlighted the white interior.

She paused a moment, shielding her eyes as she watched a two-masted schooner glide over the water, its rust-colored sails full, its decks dotted with people.

There was no denying the beauty of the spot, though the smell and look of the water was so foreign, compared to what she'd known most of her life. The midday breeze was fresh and carried the scent of the sea and the aromas of lunch from the restaurants nearby.

She could be happy here, she told herself. No, she would be happy here. Resolutely she turned toward the building and rapped on the door.

“Yeah. It's open.”

There was Nathaniel, his feet propped on a messy and ancient metal desk, a phone at his ear. His jeans were torn at the knee and smeared with something like motor oil. His mane of dark mahogany hair was tousled by the wind, or his hands. He crooked his finger in a come-ahead gesture, his eyes measuring her as he spoke on the phone.

“Teak's your best bet. I've got enough in stock, and can have the deck finished in two days. No, the engine just needed overhaul. It's got a lot of life left in it. No problem.” He picked up a smoldering cigar. “I'll give you a call when we're finished.”

He hung up the phone, clamped the cigar between his teeth. Funny, he thought, Megan O'Riley had floated into his brain that morning, looking very much as she did at this moment. All spit and polish, that pretty rosegold hair all tucked up, her face calm and cool.

“Just in the neighborhood?” he asked. “I was looking for Holt.”

“He's out with the Queen.” Idly Nathaniel checked the diver's watch on his wrist. “Won't be back for about an hour and a half.” His cocky mouth quirked up. “Looks like you're stuck with me.”

She fought back the urge to shift her briefcase from hand to hand, to back away. “I'd like to see the books.”

Nathaniel took a lazy puff on his cigar. “Thought you were on vacation.”

She fell back on her best defense. Disdain. “Is there a problem with the books?” she said frostily.

“Couldn't prove it by me.” In a fluid move, he reached down and opened a drawer in the desk. He took out a black-bound ledger. “You're the expert.” He held it out to her. “Pull up a chair, Meg.”

“Thank you.” She took a folding chair on the other side of the desk, then slipped dark-framed reading glasses from her briefcase. Once they were on, she opened the ledger. Her accountant's heart contracted in horror at the mess of figures, cramped margin notes and scribbled-on Post-its. “These are your books?”

“Yeah.” She looked prim and efficient in her practical glasses and scooped up hair. She made his mouth water. “Holt and I sort of take turns with them— that's since Suzanna tossed up her hands and called us idiots.” He smiled charmingly. “We figured, you know, with her being pregnant at the time, she didn't need any more stress.”

“Hmmm...” Megan was already turning pages. For her, the state of the bookkeeping didn't bring on anxiety so much as a sense of challenge. “Your files?”

“We got 'em.” Nathaniel jerked a thumb at the dented metal cabinet shoved in the corner. There was a small, greasy boat motor on top of it.

“Is there anything in them?” she said pleasantly.

“Last I looked there was.” He couldn't help it. The more prim and efficient her voice, the more he wanted to razz her.

“Invoices?” “Sure.”

“Expense receipts?”

“Absolutely.” He reached in another drawer and took out a large cigar box. “We got plenty of receipts.”

She took the box, opened the lid and sighed. “This is how you run your business?”

“No. We run the business by taking people out to sea, or repairing their boats. Even building them.” He leaned forward on the desk, mostly so he could catch a better whiff of that soft, elusive scent that clung to her skin. “Me, I've never been much on paperwork, and Holt had his fill of it when he was on the force.” His smile spread. He didn't figure she wore prim glasses, pulled-back hair and buttoned-up blouses so that a man would yearn to toss aside, muss up and unbutton. But the result was the same. “Maybe that's why the accountant we hired to do the taxes this year developed this little tic.” He tapped a finger beside his left eye. “I heard he moved to Jamaica to sell straw baskets.”

She had to laugh. “I'm made of sterner stuff, I promise you.”

“Never doubted it.” He leaned back again, his swivel chair squeaking. “You've got a nice smile, Megan. When you use it.”

She knew that tone, lightly flirtatious, unmistakably male. Her defenses locked down like a vault. “You're not paying me for my smile.”

“I'd rather it came free, anyhow. How'd you come to be an accountant?”

“I'm good with numbers.” She spread the ledger on the desk before opening her briefcase and taking out a calculator.

“So's a bookie. I mean, why'd you pick it?”

“Because it's a solid, dependable career.” She began to run numbers, hoping to ignore him.

“And because numbers only add up one way?”

She couldn't ignore that—the faint hint of amusement in his voice. She slanted him a look, adjusted her glasses. “Accounting may be logical, Mr. Fury, but logic doesn't eliminate surprises.”

“If you say so. Listen, we may have both come through the side door into the Calhouns' extended family, but we're there. Don't you feel stupid calling me Mr. Fury?”

Her smile had all the warmth of an Atlantic gale. “No, I don't.” “Is it me, or all men, you're determined to beat off with icicles?”

Patience, which she'd convinced herself she held in great store, was rapidly being depleted. “I'm here to do the books. That's all I'm here for.”

“Never had a client for a friend?” He took a last puff on the cigar and stubbed it out. “You know, there's a funny thing about me.”

“I'm sure you're about to tell me what it is.”

“Right. I can have a pleasant conversation with a woman without being tempted to toss her on the floor and tear her clothes off. Now, you're a real treat to look at, Meg, but I can control my more primitive urges—especially when all the signals say stop.”

Now she felt ridiculous. She'd been rude, or nearly so, since the moment she'd met him. Because, she admitted to herself, her reaction to him made her uncomfortable. But, damn it, he was the one who kept looking at her as though he'd like to nibble away.

“I'm sorry.” The apology was sincere, if a trifle stiff. “I'm making a lot of adjustments right now, so I haven't felt very congenial. And the way you look at me puts me on edge.”

“Fair enough. But I have to tell you I figure it's a man's right to look. Anything more takes an invitation—of one kind or the other.”

“Then we can clear the air and start over, since I can tell you I won't be putting out the welcome mat. Now, Nathaniel—” it was a concession she made with a smile “—do you suppose you could dig up your tax returns?”

“I can probably put my hands on them.” He scooted back his chair. The squeak of the wheels ended on a high-pitched yelp that had Megan jolting and scattering papers. “Damn it—forgot you were back there.” He picked up a wriggling, whimpering black puppy. “He sleeps a lot, so I end up stepping on him or running the damn chair over his tail,” he said to Megan as the pup licked frantically at his face. “Whenever I try to leave him home, he cries until I give in and bring him with me.”

“He's darling.” Her fingers were already itching to stroke. “He looks a lot like the one Coco has.”

“Same litter.” Because he could read the sentiment in Megan's eyes perfectly, Nathaniel handed the pup across the desk.

“Oh, aren't you sweet? Aren't you pretty?”

When she cooed to the dog, all defenses dropped, Nathaniel noted. She forgot to be businesslike and cool, and instead was all feminine warmththose pretty hands stroking the pup's fur, her smile soft, her eyes aught with pleasure.

He had to remind himself the invitation was for a dog, not for him. “What's his name?”

“Dog.”

She looked up from the puppy's adoring eyes. “Dog? That's it?”

“He likes it. Hey, Dog.” At the sound of his master's voice, Dog immediately cocked his head at Nathaniel and barked. “See?”

“Yes.” She laughed and nuzzled. “It seems a bit unimaginative.” “On the contrary. How many dogs do you know named Dog?”

“I stand corrected. Down you go, and don't get any ideas about these receipts.”

Nathaniel tossed a ball, and Dog gave joyful chase. “That'll keep him busy,” he said as he came around the desk to help her gather up the scattered papers.

“You don't seem the puppy type to me.”

“Always wanted one.” He crouched down beside her and began to toss papers back into the cigar box. “Fact is, I used to play around with one of Dog's ancestors over at the Bradfords', when I was a kid. But it's hard to keep a dog aboard a ship. Got a bird, though.”

“A bird?”

“A parrot I picked up in the Caribbean about five years ago. That's another reason I bring Dog along with me. Bird might eat him.”

“Bird?” She glanced up, but the laugh froze in her throat. Why was he always closer than she anticipated? And why did those long, searching looks of his slide along her nerve ends like stroking fingers?

His gaze dropped to her mouth. The hesitant smile was still there, he noted. There was something very appealing about that touch of shyness, all wrapped up in stiff-necked confidence. Her eyes weren't cool now, but wary. Not an invitation, he reminded himself, but close. And damn tempting.

Testing his ground, he reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. She was on her feet like a woman shot out of a cannon.

“You sure spook easily, Megan.” After closing the lid on the cigar box, he rose. “But I can't say it isn't rewarding to know I make you nervous.”

“You don't.” But she didn't look at him as she said it. She'd never been a good liar. “I'm going to take all this back with me, if you don't mind. Once I have things organized, I'll be in touch with you, or Holt.”

“Fine.” The phone rang. He ignored it. “You know where to find us.”

“Once I have the books in order, we'll need to set up a proper filing system.”

Grinning, he eased a hip onto the corner of the desk. Lord, she was something. “You're the boss, sugar.”

She snapped her briefcase closed. “No, you're the boss. And don't call me 'sugar.'“ She marched outside, slipped into her car and eased away from the building and back into traffic. Competently she drove through the village, toward The Towers. Once she'd reached the bottom of the long, curving road that led home, she pulled the car over and stopped.

She needed a moment, she thought, before she faced anyone. With her eyes closed, she rested her head against the back of the seat. Her insides were still jittering, dancing with butterflies that willpower alone couldn't seem to swat away.

The weakness infuriated her. Nathaniel Fury infuriated her. After all this time, she mused, all this effort, it had taken no more than a few measuring looks to remind her, all too strongly, that she was still a woman.

Worse, much worse, she was sure he knew exactly what he was doing and how it affected her.

She'd been susceptible to a handsome face and smooth words before. Unlike those who loved her, she refused to blame her youth and inexperience for her reckless actions. Once upon a time, she'd listened to her heart, had believed absolutely in happy-ever-after. But no longer. Now she knew there were no princes, no pumpkins, no castles in the air. There was only reality, one a woman had to make for herself—and sometimes had to make for her child, as well.

She didn't want her pulses to race or her muscles to tense. She didn't want to feel that hot little curl in her stomach that was a yearning hunger crying to be filled. Not now. Not ever again.

All she wanted was to be a good mother to Kevin, to provide him with a happy, loving home. To earn her own way through her own skills. She wanted so badly to be strong and smart and self-sufficient.

Letting out a long sigh, she smiled to herself. And invulnerable.

Well, she might not quite achieve that, but she would be sensible. Never again would she permit a man the power to alter her life—and certainly not because he'd made her glands stand at attention.

Calmer, more confident, she started the car. She had work to do.