Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: Notorious in the West\Yield to the Highlander\Return of the Viking Warrior (5 page)

“Don't. All I want from you is a bit of contrition.”

“Ah. You're angling for an apology for
yourself
now, too?”

“
You
are the one who's empty-headed, Mr. Turner, if you believe I would ask for an apology for myself.”

“You only crusade on behalf of your friends?”

“It's not a crusade.” She gave him an uncomfortably comprehending look—one he didn't care for much. “It's decency. Something you're not on very close terms with, evidently.”

But Griffin knew that already. She couldn't hurt him by pointing out the truth, any more than she could wound him by asserting grass was green. He hauled in a breath, intending to tell her so. “I'm sorry,” he surprised himself by saying.

Her eyes widened in surprise. But she didn't speak.

“That's not good enough for you?” he groused, unaccountably piqued by her unsatisfying reaction to his concession. “You want a prettier apology than that? I don't have one for you.”

“Mr. Turner.” Delicately, she placed her hand on his arm. He realized, to his unwelcome dismay, that he didn't know her name—and, to his further consternation, that he wanted to. “An apology isn't only for the person who receives it. It's also for the person who gives it. It's for the person who needs to see what he's done...and to try his hardest not to do it again.”

Griffin frowned. Would she never quit saying things that confounded him? Something about her made him feel that she had
...something...
he needed. Something important and inexplicable.

Something he shouldn't allow himself to have.

“You shouldn't casually touch a man like me,” he warned in a low voice. “Especially when you're alone with him in his private hotel suite, and he's still a little drunk.”

“Drunk?” She peered at him. “That explains a great deal.”

It didn't explain enough, Griffin knew as he moved beyond her reach to stand nearby. It didn't explain why he'd apologized to her...except that he'd felt a cad for not doing so. In the past decade, few people had roused a true sense of remorse in him.

That
she
had was all the more reason to avoid her.

“Don't make excuses for me,” he said. “You'll regret it.”

“I doubt it,” she disagreed with surprising sanguinity. “Folks generally live up to people's expectations of them.”

“Or down. I'll likely stay drunk for weeks to come.”

“Is that your plan? Is that why you've come here?”

“No. I came here to confide all my secrets to a suitably nosy chambermaid.” He gave her a deliberately bland look. “I'm lucky you're here. You're exactly what I need.”

Her uncomfortable expression told him all he needed to know. She was no more a chambermaid than he was a saint.

“You're making fun of me. I see.” With abundant poise, she put her palms together. “I guess I've overstayed my welcome.”

She offered Griffin a wobbly, unpracticed chambermaid's curtsy. Despite his best intentions to remain unmoved by her, her awkward gesture amused him greatly. Her stubborn pride endeared her to him, too. They had that much in common—that, and a love of difficult books. He didn't want to see her leave.

He also didn't want to admit it.

It would almost have been worthwhile to agree to being pestered by maid service while he was here, Griffin reckoned, if it would mean seeing Miss Milky White every day during his stay. Having her attend to him would mean he didn't have to endure one rubbernecking dunderhead after another as various members of the hotel staff found reasons to “help” fulfill his requests.

This was not the first time he'd been the subject of prurient curiosity during a hotel visit. It wouldn't be the last. The difference was, Griffin now knew how to inure himself.

“I hope you enjoy your stay with us.” Her gaze lingered tellingly—yearningly—on his books. With evident effort, she transferred her attention to the door. “Good morning to you!”

Griffin tried not to watch her leave. He did. But there was something positively entrancing about the way his “chambermaid” moved. It wasn't overtly sensual. It wasn't even especially ladylike. Her movements, it occurred to him, were appealing not because of their grace but because of their inherent liveliness. Here was a woman, he understood as he watched her stride across his suite, who was interested in everything life had to offer.

Why that should appeal so strongly to him, Griffin didn't know. He only knew that it did. And that he still
wanted
her.

“Wait,” he blurted.

She turned, characteristically inquisitive...and far too decent for the likes of him. “Yes?”

“I...”
Hellfire.
All at once, he felt as bumbling as a green youth of fourteen, all thumbs and stutters. “What is your name?”

“Hmm.” Her eyes sparkled. “You want to know my name?”

Was she
teasing
him? Incredibly, her tone suggested as much, yet Griffin knew that couldn't be possible. No one teased him. He'd become far too influential—far too fearsome—for that.

“Tell me your name.” A beat. “Please.”

This time, it was her turn to smile. “If you want to know that—if you want me to come back—then you'll have to apologize to Miss Holloway first,” she declared. “She'll let me know when you've done so to her satisfaction.”

“No.” Griffin could scarcely believe her audacity. She couldn't order him about. “Tell me now. I demand to know.”

Her laughter rang out. “Mr. Turner, you are in the Arizona Territory! I don't know or care what you've done back in the states. Here, everyone starts fresh. Before you start expecting folks to kowtow to you, you'll have to prove yourself.”

He frowned. “I'll do nothing of the kind.”

A shrug. “Suit yourself. But our coffee is mighty fine. Everyone in town says so. I can promise you that you're missing out on a wonderful brew. And a tasty breakfast, too.”

She opened the door to his suite. Griffin stopped her.

“Wait.” He couldn't help admiring the steely strength of her posture
and
the shininess of her elaborately upswept hair. He couldn't help admiring
her.
Unfortunately, that impulse was in opposition to everything he knew he ought to want. “Do you really have nothing to lose?” he asked, reminded of her words in the hallway. If that was true, it was something else they had in common. “With your friend, Miss Holloway, I heard you say—”

“I'm afraid that's not something I intend to share with you, Mr. Turner.” She cast him an indomitable over-the-shoulder look—one that, again, diligently avoided his nose. “Remember, if you begin feeling peckish, just ask for Miss Holloway at the hotel's front desk and get busy making your amends to her.”

“I'd rather eat wood chips. I'd rather wear skirts!”

“I think that could be arranged. There's Mr. Copeland's lumber mill at the edge of town. He has wood chips available. As far as skirts go, well, Mrs. Crabtree—the newspaperman's wife—is a fine seamstress. I'm sure she could accommodate your request.”

Her mischievous expression poked at his pride and his wish for seclusion alike. Suddenly, the notion of spending his days alone in the dark didn't hold quite as much soul-salving appeal as it once had. But if she thought he was going to beg...

“I'd rather shut down this hotel altogether,” Griffin told her mulishly, “than be ordered about by a chambermaid.” He didn't understand why she believed him capable of apologizing to Miss Holloway in the first place. Or why she believed him interested in doing so. The tabloid press who wrote about his ruthless business practices expected nothing of the kind from him. Unlike his “chambermaid,” they showed Griffin due respect for his reputation. Unreasoningly, he wanted her to respect him, as well. “I can do it, you know.”

Her smile flashed again, full of patient indulgence. “What
I
know is that
you've
had too much Old Orchard, Mr. Fancypants.” Breezily, she raised her hand in a farewell gesture. “Enjoy your solitude, sir. You know how to reach me, if you need anything.”

Then she curtsied again—nearly toppling over in the process—exited his suite and left Griffin on his own to brood.

Chapter Six

I
t took less than three and a half hours for everything in Olivia's life to change. She popped over to Miss Violet Benson's church-side home for her quilting bee—late, flushed and inattentively toting a parasol instead of her sewing supplies, having been rattled by her encounter with Mr. Turner—only to return to The Lorndorff later to find the whole place in tumult.

Outside the hotel, a pair of guests were hastily piling into a waiting wagon. A carriage stood behind it, obviously awaiting more departing guests. From the corner livery stable, taciturn Owen Cooper, the owner, strode toward the hotel while leading two saddled horses, undoubtedly delivering them to some out-of-town visitors who'd stabled their mounts with him.

Confused, Olivia picked up her pace. That was when she glimpsed the hotel's employees clustered worriedly in the lobby. Annie was there, along with the other maids. So were the desk clerk, the bellman and the dining room staff. Through the open doors leading inside, an unfamiliar, well-dressed man was visible, too. He stood on the lower steps of the hotel's oak staircase, addressing the staff from that elevated position.

Olivia ducked inside, feeling—as she always did—gratefully enveloped by The Lorndorff's cozily familiar furnishings, fine upholstered settees and sparkling crystal chandeliers.

Oddly enough, her father was nowhere in sight.

“...the future of the hotel is as yet undecided,” the stranger was saying in an assured tone. “The Lorndorff may remain a hotel, much as it is today. Or it may close to guests and become Mr. Turner's private residence in Morrow Creek.” He gave the hotel employees an amiable shrug. “If you don't want to work for Mr. Turner in either capacity, you may accept your final pay envelopes and be on your way. Or you may remain here, on staff, to fulfill Mr. Turner's wishes. It's your decision.”

Galvanized by his words, Olivia stopped cold, surrounded by bewildered employees, gossiping guests and the workaday sounds of industry going on in the lively street outside the hotel.

Mr. Turner's wishes?
As far as Olivia recalled, the cranky, hard-drinking Mr. Turner's wishes had extended to exactly three things: being left alone, making sure no one gossiped about him—especially right under his nose—and shutting down the hotel if he didn't get his way in the first two instances.

I'd rather shut down this hotel altogether than be ordered about by a chambermaid,
she recollected him saying before she'd left his suite.
I can do it, you know.

Oh, sweet heaven. Could he possibly have truly done it?

She hadn't dreamed he'd actually had the wherewithal.

The hotel
seemed
to still be functioning. But it was doing so perfunctorily, Olivia realized as she took an observant look around. It was doing so without her father's guidance. Without her father's heart and attentiveness and care. Without the very qualities that had made The Lorndorff legendary in the West.

This hotel was her home. Its staff was a family to her. She loved...all of them. Now, possibly because of her—because she'd accidentally pushed ornery Mr. Turner into making a rash and foolhardy decision—the hotel's operations were threatened.

Queasily, Olivia remembered her earlier, unfortunate reaction to Mr. Turner's threat about closing The Lorndorff.

You've had too much Old Orchard, Mr. Fancypants.

Her flippancy had been unwise, to be true. Still, that didn't explain who this man was or how this was happening to the hotel. Only one of her father's wealthy investors could have...

Oh, dear.
Mr. Turner
was
one of her father's wealthy investors, Olivia realized, and she'd offended him.
Why
had she let her father convince her to step away from the hotel's day-to-day business? If she'd been aware of Mr. Turner's identity—and less incensed at his treatment of Annie—she might have avoided this. She might have placated him instead of riling him.

“You
do
realize that you must make a choice today,” the stranger called out when the staff remained in their places, muttering unhappily among themselves. “You can't have it both ways. Mr. Mouton no longer runs The Lorndorff. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better things will be for you.”

A swell of fresh dissent met his announcement. One of the bellmen grumbled. A maid wrung her handkerchief in her hands, staring up at the stranger through disbelieving, defiant eyes.

Olivia didn't know who this man was, but he'd have to go through
her
before assuming control of her family's hotel.

“Excuse me!” She made her way to the front, then came to stand directly at the foot of the staircase. She stared up at him as determinedly as she could. “I am Olivia Mouton. My family owns this hotel. I don't know who you think you are, but—”

“I am Palmer Grant.” He extended his hand. “Mr. Turner's associate.” A smile creased his youthful face, making him appear far more likable than he deserved to, under the circumstances. “I was expecting to see you earlier in the proceedings, Miss Mouton. Given what Mr. Turner told me about you, I'd thought you'd be in the fray straightaway. He said you're a fighter.”

“He doesn't know me.” Baffled, Olivia rejected the very idea. As far as she'd been aware, Mr. Turner hadn't even known her name. Yet in the space of a few hours, he'd learned her name and accomplished much more, besides. Resolutely, she clutched her parasol. “But he's right about one thing—I
am
a fighter. And I'll fight to keep this hotel in my family, where it belongs.”

The staff gathered around her, nodding and murmuring among themselves. They seemed to realize that Olivia knew something about this dire situation that they did not. Annie, in particular, sidled nearer. She stood staunchly beside Olivia.

“I'm afraid it's too late for fighting,” Mr. Grant informed the crowd. “Mr. Turner owns a very large share of The Lorndorff Hotel. Furthermore, he owns one hundred percent of the land it's built on and the neighboring properties. The management of the hotel is his decision. It's my job to make that decision clear.”

“Is he incapable of doing that himself?” Olivia asked. “Why doesn't he come downstairs to attempt this coup on his own?”

At her questions, the crowd of staff members shifted in anticipation. But Palmer Grant merely gave a knowing grin.

“Mr. Turner is more than capable of doing...whatever he wishes, in whatever fashion he wishes, to whomever he wishes.” Mr. Grant gave her an unnervingly perceptive look. “You, of all people, must realize that by now, Miss Mouton.”

Olivia lifted her chin. “And my father? What about him?”

A shrug. “He disappeared into his office an hour ago.”

Olivia felt her heart turn over. She cast a worried glance at Annie. Had her father given up on the hotel, just like that?

She knew he could be...retiring at times. Despite having founded The Lorndorff, Henry Mouton had never been the most aggressive of men. At heart, he was a genial host—a friend to everyone. He wasn't overly ambitious, but Olivia didn't mind that. She considered her father easygoing and loved him for it.

But surely even
he
wouldn't have surrendered the management of his hotel—his pride and joy—to Griffin Turner. Would he?

Exactly how formidable
was
Mr. Turner anyway? He hadn't earned all those nefarious nicknames for nothing. In this instance, at least, he really
was
behaving like a beast.

There was only one manner in which to handle this, Olivia decided. Courageously. And quickly. She turned to the staff.

“Everyone, I'm sorry about this confusion.” Nervously, she stared out at their expectant, hopeful faces. “Clearly, there's been some sort of gross misunderstanding here. If you'll all just be patient, I promise I'll get to the bottom of this.”

“It's not a misunderstanding,” Mr. Grant objected easily. “The Lorndorff Hotel is under new management. From now on, Griffin Turner's word is law. The sooner you fall in line with that, the happier you'll all be.” He cast an amused look at Olivia. “Or you can allow a woman whose greatest achievement is having her likeness appear on a nostrum bottle to ‘lead' you.”

As one, the gathered staff members turned to Olivia. She had never felt stronger—or more ready to take on a challenge and win. For her father's sake. For her friends' sake. For her home's sake. For the sake of what was the right thing to do.

The desk clerk cleared his throat. “I don't suppose Mr. Turner has asked you to marry him yet, has he? If he has, well...then we might have us a fighting chance of winning.”

Everyone seemed plumb perked up by the possibility. Olivia almost hated to disabuse them. “No. He hasn't.” In fact, he'd seemed unaccountably unmoved by her looks overall. “But I—”

“That's it, then. We're done for!” the bellman moaned. “If he ain't able to see how marriageable Miss Mouton is, I reckon he ain't right in the head, anyhow. There's no winnin' that.”

A general murmur of assent rippled through the crowd.

Aghast, Olivia looked out at them. These were her friends and neighbors. They were practically her family. Yet even they didn't believe she could take on Mr. Turner and win...at least not on the merits of her intelligence and ingenuity and fortitude.

Dismayed, she shifted her gaze to Mr. Grant. He had obviously read the situation as astutely as she had, because he'd already withdrawn a stack of pay envelopes from his valise.

“Do you all quit?” Mr. Grant asked, raising the envelopes. “Or will you get back to work under Mr. Turner's management?”

Breath held, Olivia waited. But it was no contest at all. One by one, all the staff members made their way dispiritedly back to their posts. They began dealing with guests, carrying baggage and refilling oil lamps...in the
new
Lorndorff Hotel.

The one that didn't feel like Olivia's home anymore.

Left alone with Palmer Grant, she watched him return the pay envelopes securely to his valise, his head tactfully bowed.

“For a man who just won,” she said as she glanced at him, “you don't seem particularly happy about your triumph.”

But Mr. Grant only shook his head. “This wasn't a triumph.”

“Not for you, perhaps, but for Mr. Turner—”

“Not for him, either.” Mr. Grant lifted his solemn face to hers, then mustered a halfhearted smile. “But if you're really as special as Griffin seems to think you are, you'll find that out for yourself soon enough.” With surprising affability, he shook her hand. “Good luck, Miss Mouton. I think you'll need it.”

Then Palmer Grant hefted his valise, cast one final look at the now bustling hotel and took himself off—leaving Olivia alone to figure out how she was supposed to regain her father's hotel...whether anyone believed she could accomplish it or not.

* * *

Any minute now, Griffin figured as he lay in the darkness on his hotel suite's bed, he would start to feel better.

Any minute now, the crushing weight on his chest would ease. The urge to grip a whiskey bottle would lessen. The compulsion to draw the curtains would disappear and the need to forget everything and everyone would vanish. Any minute now, a sliver of hopefulness would nudge its way into his hardened heart and carry him toward the next day and the next conquest, the way it always had in the past. The way it
had
to do today.

Under most circumstances, exercising his authority made Griffin feel better. That had been true for years. After his forced takeover of The Lorndorff Hotel yesterday, however, he felt...worse, if anything. He didn't understand it. Flexing his influence and power and wealth had always improved his outlook.

This time, inexplicably, it hadn't.

But he'd be damned if he'd back down on his decision now.

After all, what else was he supposed to do? Admit he'd made a stupid mistake, hand over the hotel to Henry Mouton—who hadn't even had the gumption to fight for it—and pull foot for someplace new? If he did that, Griffin knew, he'd lose another kind of hope: the hope that he'd see Olivia Mouton again. He wasn't ready to face that. In his darkest hour, she'd gotten to him. She'd moved him. For whatever reason, he needed her.

She made him feel...
something.
So he doggedly stuck to his original plan. He sent out Palmer Grant for additional whiskey and cigarillos, dragged himself into bed with the lot of them and then did his utmost to forget who he was and why he was there while he waited for his supposed “chambermaid” to return.

While he waited to see if she could make him
feel
again.

Naturally enough, just when Griffin had given up hope for the fifteenth time in twenty-six hours, a gentle feminine humming came from outside his suite's door. A knock sounded. An instant later, the door swung open...and Olivia Mouton herself walked in. She looked like a dream. She smelled like roses and coffee. Still humming, she sounded like an angel.

She did not
behave
like an angel, however.

“I warned you, Mr. Turner,” she said in a suspiciously cheery tone of voice, “that'd you'd underestimated me.”

She deliberately opened the curtains, flooding his suite with skull-crushing daylight. She resumed her humming while she did it. Then, with that atrocious act accomplished, she turned to face him with her arms akimbo and her skirts swaying. Well, if her posture wasn't outrageously—and unjustifiably—triumphant!

Wincing from his rumpled bed, Griffin could only squint at her outline, silhouetted as it was against the stark territorial skyline outside, and wish it was midnight outside.

“You misunderstood me yesterday,” she reminded him in a voice like warm butter on hotcakes. “I aim to make myself clearer from here on, so that it won't happen again.”