Cinderella Search (7 page)

“But he doesn’t even like me,” Ginny said.

“That’s crazy, Men always like you!”

“Phil didn’t.”

“I thought you divorced him, not he you.”

“Sure. But I divorced him because he didn’t like me. He wanted me to be something I wasn’t cut out to be—a corporate wife. Never marry a lawyer, Lissa.”

“Don’t worry. I have no intention of marrying anyone.”

“Girls, girls, knock it off.” Rosa thumped on the table with the bottom of her empty glass. “Nobody’s asking you to marry the man, Liss, just, well, like your dad said, sort of make up to him, be nice. Keep him busy, off balance, and out of his room so the guys can do things.”

“What things?” Lissa asked. “Aren’t mysteriously opening and closing drawers enough? And when Larry gets the CD player properly positioned in the attic—by the way, Larry, thank you for offering to do that. No way was I going up there again with the spiders. Anyway, when he gets them up and running again, Mr. Jackson will take one night of ghostly wails and be out of here.”

“I don’t think so.” Reggie shook his leonine head and folded his big, work-worn hands around his coffee mug. “I talked to him today and he doesn’t come across like a guy who scares easy. And he doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

“So what good is it going to do, doing stuff in his room?” Lissa asked in exasperation.

“One of these nights,” Reggie said, grinning, “his bed just might collapse. Once my ankle’s better, there’s all sorts of things I can do to earn my keep as handyman.”

“Not on your life!” Lissa’s father said vehemently. “You harm that bed, mister, and you’re in big trouble!” He really loved his grandparents’ old furniture and couldn’t understand why everyone else, Lissa included, didn’t see each piece as the valuable artifact he did.

“I was joking, Frank,” Reggie said patiently.

“Good thing, too,” Lissa said, “Or Steve Jackson would be calling downstairs for me to do something about it.”

“Which you wouldn’t be able to,” Reggie said. Reggie liked to think, and might have been right, that without his skills, the inn would have long since disintegrated.

“Hmm.” Lissa considered it. “Maybe we should collapse his bed, then. I’ve already wrecked his first room. The lack of a bed in his second one might force him to pack up and leave.”

“Maybe so,” her dad replied, “but our purpose will be better served by keeping him here and making his stay uncomfortable.”

How? Lissa was about to ask, when Rosa broke in, taking the idea one step further. “I could serve him the worst breakfasts I can come up with. Burned bacon, cold toast, watery eggs. And Jock,” she went on, grinning at the red-headed dinner cook, “if you’d make a point of ruining his dinners, that would help. Lunch, being buffet, we can’t do much about.”

“We have to look at the big picture here,” Frank interjected. “We have to accept the fact that we might fail. If we do, do we want Jackson Resorts Incorporated mad at the whole staff? Do we want Steve Jackson, in particular, mad at us? No,” he answered for himself. “Because if we don’t come up with the money this year, and our bid is lost, we might need him on our side. Who better to influence Jackson Senior than Jackson Junior?”

“I guess you have a point,” Reggie admitted, scratching his head. “If we do lose out, we don’t want to ruin our only chances of getting jobs in whatever kind of place Jackson Resorts puts in here.”

“Do you honestly believe for one minute that he’d hire locals if he puts in a big, splashy modern resort?” Lissa asked. “I think we can forget that. Historically, it hasn’t been done.”

“Which is why, since we’ve been forewarned, we have an advantage no one else had,” her father argued. “And getting Steve Jackson on our side can only add to that advantage. Lissa, you’re the one who has the most to gain in this. After all, it’s your heritage we’re talking about here. Inn keeping’s in your blood. If the town owns the inn, when I retire for good, you can become manager. Right, everyone?”

Everyone nodded.

Lissa bit back a groan. Her father knew perfectly well Madrona Inn wasn’t a heritage she wanted any more than she wanted her great-grandparents’ musty old junk. He knew, too, that she had other plans for her life.

“It’s your heritage, Dad, not mine;” she said firmly. “And that’s why we’re not going to fail. I know how much you want it, and I’m sure this summer’s festival will put us over the top. When the town owns the inn, and appoints you manager again, we’ll be home free.”

“Then you’ll do it?” he said, clearly seeing her words as capitulation. “I mean, keep Steve Jackson sweet and in a good mood? Make him like us as a community?”

“No,” she said, jumping to her feet. “Oh, I’ll be polite, I’ll be friendly, the same as I would with any other guest, but that’s as far as it goes. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m out of here.”

She was tired from the sleep she’d lost the night before, thanks to Steve Jackson. She had a million things to do with the festival only two weeks away, and she wouldn’t have time to keep him occupied.

Nor did she have the inclination. The sooner everyone believed that, the better off she’d be.

But, one of the hardest parts, she realized, might be convincing herself …

Hell and damnation! There they went again, his dresser drawers, opening and closing, one after the other. And just when they settled down, the clothes in his closet began their nightly migration. That, Steve knew, could go on for the better part of an hour. Over the past two nights, he’d discovered that even if he left his hangers where he thought they wanted to be, within minutes, they’d change their minds. Jeez! What was he thinking? Hangers don’t have minds. And if this kept up many more nights, he wouldn’t have one, either. He was even beginning to hope there was a ghost, after all. At least then he’d have an explanation for all this.

He sighed with frustration as the hangers started to shake, rattle and slide.

He needed some peace and quiet and rest. He certainly wasn’t going to get it here in his room listening to hangers slide back and forth on the closet rod. He got out of bed, dressed and headed downstairs.

To his disappointment, there was no sign of Lissa in the lobby. On the front desk stood a little brass bell with a long, slender handle, just back of a sign saying Ring for Service. If he did, would she come running down the stairs, all flushed and breathless from having to hurry away from whatever she was doing to make his room appear haunted? Or would she come from that back room she’d disappeared into early Sunday morning when he’d made such a fool of himself? If she did, would she be tousled from sleep?

Did she have to stay awake all night when she was on duty, or did she simply have to be on the premises and available?

He thought about ringing the bell—after all, he owed her an apology. His joke about proposing to her had been completely out of line. No wonder she’d walked away from him and shut the door in his face. In the three days since then, he’d seen nothing of her. An apology was best given as soon as possible, he knew. So he really should ring that bell and get her out there where he could talk to her. But not if she was sleeping.

He turned from the desk and wandered down into the lounge where there were plenty of comfortable chairs and sofas. He’d sit down here and read till he was damn good and tired. Hopefully then, the odd goings-on in his room wouldn’t keep him awake. Nothing would.

He tried reading his book for a while. It still didn’t grab him so he picked up a magazine. While leafing through it, he stopped suddenly at a shampoo ad. He smiled.

The woman in it, her back to the camera, had long, molasses-colored hair, thick and sleek as he remembered Lissa’s was when released from her braid the night they had danced. The model’s hands and arms were raised, lifting the hair from her nape, letting it cascade down over her shoulders and back. It looked silky.

He could almost imagine smelling it, almost imagine stroking the smooth strands.

He imagined Lissa, sitting at a dressing table, brushing her hair. He would approach quietly, slip up behind her, take the brush from her hand. Slowly, gently, he’d run it through her thick tresses. He’d let them slide over and through his fingers, fall loose on his wrists and arms. The scent of her shampoo would rise to engulf him with its sweetness as he massaged her scalp. She’d sigh, lean back against his chest and tilt her head on his shoulder. He’d turn her half-around and lower his head toward her welcoming lips and taste them fully for the first time.…

Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, letting the fantasy play out.

Under her nightgown, her breasts, firm and round, would fill his hands with their warmth and heaviness. He would tip her back over his arm, then bend and take one of those delicious globes in his mouth, hearing her soft moan of pleasure and her voice encouraging him, telling him to take what he wanted because she was his, she belonged to him, she would do anything for him.… Don’t stop, she’d beg. Don’t ever stop, and he would promise her he never would and tell her in graphic detail all the things he was going to do to her, while she whispered yes, yes, yes, to each one …

Lissa tossed on the narrow cot in the back room where she spent a few hours of the night whenever she had a chance. She punched her pillow, turned it over and tried to find a cool spot on it.

Why wasn’t she sleeping? Dammit, she knew why. She knew it all too well. In her head was a vision of Steve Jackson’s hands, large and square and warm on her back, his body cradling hers, his thighs against hers and the sound of his voice, a low rumble, singing to her just as he had the night they’d danced together.

Did he sing to every woman he danced with? Who was she kidding? Of course he did! She knew that. It was his style. It was the style of all the men just like him she’d ever met, and she’d met plenty. Too many. Too many, at least, to be losing sleep over the guy.

She only wished Larry had gotten the CD all set up as he’d promised, but when a big powerboat with a bent propeller had limped into his marine machine shop, he’d been tied up with work about fifteen hours a day. Then Janie, his wife, arrived home on this evening’s ferry after a week at her grandmother’s, and Larry had naturally had other things on his mind. Tomorrow, he’d promised. Tomorrow, the spook-stuff would be in position.

She flopped on her back. At least she’d been spared the task of keeping Steve occupied since her dad and the committee had asked her to do it. Yesterday, he’d gone fishing with the Allenda sisters, and today, he’d gone out on his own, according to Merv, the marina manager. That suited her just fine. As long as he was fishing, he was out of her jurisdiction.

If he went fishing again tomorrow, and Larry had no emergency jobs come in, everything would be in place by noon.

The cot felt lumpier than it usually did. Her pillow was too thin. The top sheet tangled around her bare legs so she had to fight to get rid of it. Heat seemed to have baked into the stone walls all day and was now being released into this small room. If she couldn’t sleep now for thinking of Steve Jackson in his bed on the top floor, then she’d sleep tomorrow aboard her boat while he was out fishing, something at which she’d truly hate to join him.

She sat up quickly and flung her legs over the side of the bed. Not that she’d really like to join him upstairs, either, but well, a girl couldn’t always control her mind’s fantasies.

However, the reality was that she wasn’t going to sleep any time soon. Fine. She’d go into the lounge and try to read some more of that big, boring book on medieval times. Not that it had given her a lot of ideas for the festival. She’d done better with the picture book of fairy tales she’d checked out of the library at the same time—along with The Paper Bag Princess, which she’d meant to offer Steve as bedtime reading only to do so, she’d have had to meet him face-to-face or leave the book on his pillow, whereupon he’d feel obliged to come down from his room to thank her and … Nah. Best not to go there.

She laughed softly. That was a princess with attitude: the right kind of attitude, one she could relate to—and would do well to emulate.

She rose, pulled on a skirt, straightened her scoop neck cotton knit top and tidied her hair as best she could without rebraiding it. Then she went to the desk, hefted the big book of medieval times, all without bothering to turn on a light.

A light shone in the lounge and just as she was about to enter, she came to an abrupt halt, taken aback by the sight of Steve sitting quietly in a chair, his bare feet on a coffee table, a magazine on his lap.

He was completely unaware of her presence, so she took the opportunity to study him, trying to figure out just what it was about him that attracted her so strongly when every bit of good sense told her to steer clear.

Oh, he was a sexy devil, all right, and bantering with him had been fun. How long was it since she’d met a man who excited her, amused her, entertained her as much as he did? Too long, obviously, because she was way too interested in him.

She found herself wishing the light from the lamp at his side didn’t cast such a golden glow over his hair and skin.

If only he’d go away!

He shifted slightly and she hoped he wouldn’t look in her direction. His head began to nod, the magazine fell to the floor, and he lolled sideways against the wing back of the chair.

Sleeping! In the lounge! Now what was she supposed to do?

One thing, obviously. Her duty as night clerk demanded she march over there, grab his shoulder, shake him hard and wake him up. Send him back up to his room. Guests weren’t supposed to sleep in the lounge, for Pete’s sake! Pete. Right. All she needed was for Pete Hoskins, the manager, to make one of his rare surprise inspections and find Steve sleeping down here with her on duty. Pete didn’t like her and would take any good excuse to get rid of her. She was lucky he’d never heard of the ceiling episode. Not that he’d have cared about the damage; Pete had, through managerial inaction, allowed the inn to deteriorate more in the two years of his tenure than all the absentee owners had throughout the years of her grandfather’s and father’s management. Sometimes, she thought it was almost willful neglect, as if he wanted to see the inn tumble into the ocean.