better be going,” Nina said, interrupting his thoughts. “My car’s clear across the lake at the municipal boat shed.” She bent to relaunch her kayak.
“Forget that,” Greg heard himself say. “Let’s go inside and dry off.”
He gestured toward the inn. The main building was a house of wonders, having been built in the 1890s as a vast family summer compound by a railroad baron with more money than common sense. Over the generations, the place had undergone a number of transformations, ultimately becoming the sort of cozy lakeside resort people thought of when they needed to escape somewhere.
“What do you mean, let’s go inside?” Nina asked. “The place is closed.”
“True.” He dug in his pocket. “Luckily, I have a key.”
She gaped at him. Her face paled and her voice was a rasp of disbelief as she said, “I don’t understand. What are you doing with the key?”
Oh, boy. This wasn’t the way he’d planned to tell her. He’d envisioned a business meeting, both of them in dry street clothes. What the hell? he thought. “The Inn at Willow Lake belongs to me now.”
Not only did Nina Romano have a Sophia Loren face, with those large, gorgeous eyes and full lips; she had an expressiveness about her that showed every emotion. She wasn’t reserved and cool like the girls Greg had grown up with—bloodless, sleek-haired schoolgirls or the queen of all suppressed emotion, his ex-wife, Sophie. Nina instantly expressed everything she felt. Maybe that was why Greg found her a little scary. Unlike the Brooke Harlows of the world, he sensed Nina could be a real threat, because she might actually make him feel something besides plain lust.
At the moment, she had an entire succession of emotions on display—shock, denial, hurt, anger … but no acceptance.
“So you’re the one who bought this place while I was away,” she said, anger shaping every word.
“Gilmore didn’t tell you?”
She glared at him. “I didn’t actually give him a chance.”
Greg didn’t know why she was so pissed off, or why he felt defensive. “It’s probably serendipitous that we both ended up here. I know you hold the general management contract. We’ll need to renegotiate that.”
Still radiating fury, she said, “Renegotiate.”
“You made the agreement with the bank. The contract was sold with all the other assets, but we’ll have to change some things.”
“No shit,” she said, and marched toward the inn.
The moment she stepped from the wraparound porch into the sunroom of the inn, Nina was transported. Even though the place had seen better days, an air of faded gentility and elegance lingered in the arched doorways and carved wooden mouldings and railings, the tall ceilings and carpenter-Gothic window casements. She had spent a lot of time here, both in person and in her dreams. The smell of fresh plaster and paint indicated that renovations were already underway.
When she was a little girl, she and her best friend, Jenny, used to watch the Rainbow Girls in their white dresses and gloves going there for their monthly meeting. The Rainbow Girls were a group of privileged young ladies who gathered to work on charitable pursuits, and they’d always seemed like a breed apart to Nina, like fairies who lived on a special diet of meringues and cream. She never actually wanted to be one of them—they seemed a bit boring to her—but she wanted to be their hostess. When she and Jenny would ride their bikes past the inn, she’d say, “I’m going to own that place one day.”
The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Weller, lived on the premises and ran the place as a quiet retreat for tourists and people from the city. Nina had worked there each summer, beginning when she was thirteen. The work was not glamorous, but she’d been fascinated by the operation of the hotel, the array of guests from all over. Later, as a young mother, she’d moved up from housekeeper to desk clerk, bookkeeper and assistant manager, learning every aspect of the business. Even dealing with plumbing woes and cranky guests hadn’t discouraged her. After Mr. Weller died, Mrs. Weller carried on, but never with the same spirit she had when he was alive. When she passed away, she left the place—along with its mortgage—to her only living relative, a nephew in Atlantic City. He entrusted its management to a contract firm that let everyone go and sent in their own staff. Nina went to work as the mayor’s assistant while she finished her education. The experience had led to her being appointed to office when the mayor had been incapacitated by illness. Her friends and family thought her head would be turned by city politics, but she always came back to the idea of the Inn at Willow Lake.
Due to neglect and mismanagement, the inn went into foreclosure. It seemed a perfect opportunity for her, a time to take a risk, to start something new.
Her first step had been to approach Mr. Bailey, the bank’s asset manager, and propose to him that she reopen the inn, managing it on behalf of the bank while she applied for a small-business loan. It seemed like the perfect arrangement.
Now she stood dripping on the faded cabbage-rose carpet in the salon and stared at Greg Bellamy, the new owner of the inn.
Funny, he didn’t look like the kind of guy who stomped people’s dreams into the ground. He looked—God—like Mr. Nice Guy. Like Mr. Nice Guy with an incredible body and killer smile and hair that was great even when it was wet.
Still, she had no trouble hating him as he hurried to a supply closet and grabbed some towels and a spa robe and slippers. “You can dry off and put these on while I throw our stuff in the dryer,” he said.
The man was clueless, she thought, grabbing the bundle and heading into the closest guest room. The Laurel Room, it used to be called. Oh, she remembered this place, with its beautiful woodwork and lofty ceilings, the white porcelain sink set into an antique washstand. Apparently, Greg had wasted no time fixing the place up. The walls bore a fresh coat of sky-blue paint and a new light fixture hung from the ceiling. From the window, she could see Max out on the dock, casting with a fishing rod.
She tried to numb herself to all feeling as she peeled off her cold, clammy things and put on the robe. The thick terry cloth fabric felt wonderful against her chilled skin, but she was in no mood to feel wonderful. Bitterness and resentment filled her up like poison, and it was hard not to feel utterly persecuted by fate. It seemed that every time her turn came up, something happened to snatch it away.
All her life, she had made every choice for practical reasons, governed by what was best for Sonnet. Finally she had reached a point where she could take a risk. If not the inn, then something else. It was true that because of area covenants, there could never be another inn on the lake, but there were other options. She could become a painter, a bookseller, she could train for a triathlon, open a dog-grooming parlor, drive a bus … a thousand possibilities lay before her.
The trouble was, she wanted this. The Inn at Willow Lake. Nothing else would do. Only she wanted it on her terms, not Greg Bellamy’s.
Snap out of it, she scolded herself, cinching the robe’s belt snugly around her waist. She had a great kid, a loving family, the chance to serve as mayor. She ought to be counting her blessings, not tallying up her losses.
Yet when she marched back to the lobby with her clothes in a squishy bundle, she was far from calm. She was still a seething ball of fury.
Greg had managed to scrounge up a pair of painter’s pants and had paired them with a slightly-too-tight T-shirt. His hair was attractively mussed. The fact that he looked completely hot only made her madder. The friendly, warm gas fire he’d ignited in the salon’s fireplace made her madder still.
“I’m glad I ran in to you,” he said. “I’d heard you were back from your trip. Is Sonnet okay?”
“She’s fine.” All right, so he was being nice, asking about her daughter. Of course, he could afford to be. He already had what he wanted.
“I wanted to set up a meeting this week. We have a lot to talk about.”
Hugging