would pop out of the woodwork at any moment and berate him for his lack of chivalry. But until he knew who Marnie was and what she was after, he planned to keep her at arm’s length.
From the outside, his home looked barely more habitable than the one Marnie was renting. J.T. intended it that way. No one would guess a billionaire vacationed there when he really needed to get away. And he really needed to get away right now, what with the government threatening an antitrust lawsuit.
He heaved a sigh and reached for the remote on the nightstand. With a click of a button, Smokey Robinson was singing about the tears of a clown. Despite the home’s rough exterior, the inside was another story. The furnishings of its six rooms were state-of-the-art, from the stainless steel six-burner oven and wine cooler in the kitchen, to the plush leather upholstery in the living room and the elaborate computer setup in the den.
When he’d returned that evening, he’d booted up his computer—thanks to a backup generator, he never lost power. And thanks to the onward march of technology, even in this small outpost, he had access to the Internet. A Google search had turned up nothing on Ms. LaRue. Chance Harbor, Michigan, had scored a few hits, but nothing that really told J.T. anything useful except that she had at least given him the name of a real city, tiny though it was.
And that only turned up more questions. She said she’d come here for quiet and isolation. Couldn’t she get that without leaving home? Chance Harbor was located about as far north as one could go in Michigan without taking a dip in Lake Superior. And the population of that bustling metropolis: 793.
Something didn’t add up. J.T. wasn’t deterred. His company’s logo was a bloodhound—specifically, Tracker, the beloved dog he’d had as a boy. J.T. would figure it out. He was determined to rework the numbers until they did add up.
Marnie spied the lights at the house just up the beach, the place where she assumed J.T. now sat enjoying his evening. Was he renting it, too? If so, he’d gotten the better deal. It didn’t appear to be much larger than the one she was paying for, and it hardly looked more habitable, but it had electricity at this point, whereas she had nothing but a fire in the primitive hearth to roast hot dogs over.
God, she hated hot dogs. But she’d brought them with her in the small cooler she’d packed because they were easy. The perfect multipurpose food. No one knew better than the mother of a finicky four-year-old how quickly boiling water, a bon fire or a gas grill could turn pressed meat into a meal. And Noah loved them.
Truth be told, she wasn’t much of a cook. Never had been. In fact, Hal had prepared most of the meals during their marriage, for which she was eternally grateful. Still, surviving on her own cooking did have one nice side benefit. At least she never had to watch her weight.
She pulled the blackened dog from the fire and sighed. Nope. No calories to worry about here.
Marnie tossed her dinner into the fire, stood up and stretched. She really wasn’t that hungry anyway. Without bothering to locate the flashlight, she stumbled to the home’s only bedroom and felt her way along in the dark until her knee rapped smartly against the bed’s wooden footboard.
With a sigh of exhaustion, she flopped onto the lumpy, unmade mattress still wearing her clothes, too tired to bother to hunt up her toothbrush or take out her gritty-feeling contact lenses.
Sleep. When she didn’t have any of the disruptions or responsibilities of motherhood to intrude, Marnie Striker LaRue was remarkably good at it.
CHAPTER TWO
BRIGHT beams of light stretched through the unadorned window the following morning, rousing Marnie from sleep. She ignored them, or tried to, rolling over and reaching for the covers only to discover the small bed had none.
“So much for sleeping in,” she muttered.
Her eyelids fluttered opened, dried up contacts making her blink rapidly to clear the film over her vision, and then she glanced around the small, sparsely furnished room, perplexed. She had just two thoughts.
Where was she?
And, was there any coffee?
She stumbled to the window and smiled as her memory returned. Just yards away, the ocean rose up in gentle swells before spilling itself on the beach.
La Playa de la Pisada.
She supposed she should find a pay phone. Her cell didn’t work here. She needed to call her folks, check on her son. She knew he was in good care. Actually, she thought with a smile, it was her parents she worried about. Noah could be quite a handful when he wanted to get his own way, which tended to be all of the time.
Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her of the need for food and the fact that she had not eaten dinner the night before. But more than anything, she wanted a hot shower and that first glorious jolt of caffeine.
It was just her rotten luck, Marnie decided, that the electricity was still off and the water coming out of the faucet in the bathroom was a rusty brown color and cold to boot.
Well, no sense complaining about it, especially since she was alone and doing so wouldn’t accomplish anything. She settled for a glass of lukewarm juice and a slice of buttered bread. Then she pulled on the swimsuit she’d brought to Arizona for her parents’ pool and slathered on sunscreen.
As she passed the car parked just outside, she flipped on its stereo, sliding in a CD of Aretha Franklin’s greatest hits before heading down to the beach. A quick dip would clear the cobwebs, especially since the water was bound to be cool. But she’d grown up on Lake Superior, which was hypothermia-inducing even in August. She was no stranger to cold water, but that really wasn’t the main attraction anyway. Give her a beach, a towel and a block of free time, and she could sunbathe with the best of them. She figured she’d earned a couple hours of lazing around before she went into town. It had been ages since she’d last stretched out on sand with nothing more pressing to do than flip over every so often to keep her tan even.
Besides, hadn’t her own mother said she needed a vacation? Marnie planned to make the most of her break from responsibility.
The morning air was cool on her exposed skin, but the sun’s warmth was already promising. She was just spreading her towel out when J.T. startled her by saying, “If you’re planning to go in, I hope you’re a good swimmer. There can be a nasty undertow around here, and I’m not going to jump in and save you.”
As if she would accept his help anyway, she thought sourly, but when she turned to tell him so, the words died on her lips. Forget the sexy, wind-tossed blond hair, stubble of sandy beard and well-muscled arms. What really had her mouth watering was what he held in his hand.
“Is that coffee?”
He drank deeply before replying, apparently having noted the reverence in her tone.
“Yes it is.”
“Black? No sugar or flavored creamer or anything?”
“Why mess with a good thing?” he replied, and she agreed completely.
“You wouldn’t happen to have more of it?”
“An entire pot. Just made it before I came out for my morning walk.” He sipped it again and she swore her mouth began to water. “Ground the beans myself. Starbucks, French roast.”
She couldn’t help it. A soft moan escaped her lips. He raised his eyebrows when he heard it, but he made no comment.
“I don’t suppose you’re feeling…neighborly?”
He smiled, and Marnie told herself it was only the promise of caffeine that had her pulse shooting off like a bottle rocket. Certainly, it wasn’t the more than six feet of gorgeous man standing five yards in front of her, wearing tan cargo shorts and a wrinkled white T-shirt that appeared to be on inside out, as if it had been pulled on hastily.
“Is that a yes?” She tipped her head to one side and offered a slow, sensual smile in