Midnight Heat (18 page)

The payout. The completion. The end. If only he could achieve the same with this damned book he should be writing. His smile faded fast.

“What the hell am I doing back in Star Harbor?” he groaned, shoving his chair back from the desk and abruptly standing up. An octogenarian seated on a nearby love seat flipped down Wednesday’s edition of the Boston
Globe
and gave him a disapproving look from beneath her tightly curled blue-tinted locks. In return, he gave her a dirty grin, and she let out a small gasp as her head disappeared in a rustle behind the Arts section.

Glancing around the library, he noted that nothing much had changed in twenty years. Same taupe walls, same signs over the reference desk, same green-shaded banker’s lamps on each long table. Only the posters displaying the covers of the latest bestselling books were different. Wryly, he noted that his own book wasn’t represented. Theodore Grayson, better known as T. R. Grayson—Star Harbor’s native son, bad boy made good.

But perhaps not good enough to warrant a place on the hallowed walls of the library.

No one met his eyes as he glanced around, so he sighed and slouched back down into his seat, pulling it forward until his fingers were once again aligned with the keyboard of his laptop. Then he took off his glasses—the stylish frames had been a gift from his publicist—and rubbed his eyes, willing the thoughts, phrases, and sentences to come.

They didn’t.

What the hell was wrong with him? In a few short months he’d gone from literary darling to feeling like a hack. He was in a funk, unable to make the stubborn words emerge from wherever they were hiding in his brain. A change of scenery—more accurately, a change of coast—hadn’t made a whit of difference. Trying to plot and write his latest book was just as slow-going here as it had been in San Francisco.

Worse yet, it wasn’t just the writing. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the problem, but it was obvious he was in some sort of a slump.

Over Labor Day weekend, Cole had mentioned that he might be able to find renewed inspiration in Star Harbor. At the time, he’d thought his brother’s idea was brilliant. Ditch his bohemian, intellectual lifestyle in San Francisco and reconnect with his roots by spending the fall in Star Harbor. It was the most beautiful time of year in his hometown, and he’d been certain it would give him the fuel he needed to write his book. Plenty of stimulation, ideas, and solitude.

But he hadn’t made it to town until just before Thanksgiving. Now it was December, Star Harbor was freezing, he hadn’t written a word, and the quiet was beginning to weigh on him like a millstone around his neck. Plus, he was bunking down with his brothers Val and Cole on Val’s small houseboat, which didn’t help matters at all. He’d known it would be a far cry from his spacious artist’s loft in San Francisco’s Mission district, but he hadn’t realized quite how bad it would be. How was he supposed to think, let alone write, when he couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep in that tiny berth? The two months he’d planned to stay in town suddenly seemed like a life sentence.

“Crap,” he said a bit too loudly.

He glanced up, expecting the old lady to cluck at him again. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with Emma Bishop, Star Harbor’s librarian and his friend Jimmy’s new wife. She and Jimmy had gotten married a couple of months before, but Theo had missed the wedding due to a book tour commitment. Emma looked good—shiny russet hair, sparkling blue eyes, and wire-rimmed glasses perched on a pert nose. Dressed in a tweed skirt and silk blouse, her small figure reminded him of an elegant little bird.

Before she could say anything, he raised his hand in apology. “Let me guess,” he said. “I’ve been reported.”

“You could say that,” she confirmed, shooting a quick glance at the love seat. The old lady had her face buried in the paper. Though Emma looked apologetic, there was a little twinkle in her eye. “Could you please keep it down? I’d hate to—”

“Kick me out?” Theo laughed. It wouldn’t be the first time. Except now he was thirty-two, not twelve.

“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” she said. “You’ll behave.” This was said with the hint of a smile. She knew how to handle him, all right. No surprise, given that her husband had been almost as much of a troublemaker as the Grayson boys back in the day.

Theo sighed and rose, stretching his arms up over his head. He knew his size was intimidating, but to her credit, Emma didn’t even blink. Being married to Jimmy, whose nickname was—appropriately—“the Bear,” must have inured her to intimidation by large men. He jerked his head in the direction of the lady. “You can tell my good friend over there that I’m leaving for the day.”

“I think I’ll leave well enough alone,” Emma said without rancor as she tilted her head at him. “But I hope you don’t mind my saying that you look tired, Theo.”

He began to pack up his laptop. “Let’s just say I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in over a week.”

“Out on Val’s boat? I’d imagine not. Are you sharing a cabin with Cole?”

Theo nodded. “Yep. As if the tiny berth wasn’t uncomfortable enough, I have my big brother in there to keep me company.”

Emma touched her forefinger to her chin and looked thoughtful. “There are some nice places in town where you could stay. Why don’t you look into it?”

Pulling on his thick, lined pea coat, he nodded. “Best advice I’ve gotten in a long time.”

“Try the Inn. And Theo, perhaps you’d like to do a reading for us? I’m sure folks would love to hear T. R. Grayson read from his critically acclaimed bestseller,
The Pirate’s Sextant
. It’s not every day we have a famous author in our midst.”

“Sure,” Theo said, happy that Emma thought highly enough of him to ask. “Just let me know when.”

“The next spot we have available for our Evenings with an Author series is a week from today. I hope that’s not too soon, because we’ll have to get a poster of your book before you come in.”

Way to stroke his ego. “Call my agent. He’ll overnight one. I’ll even autograph it for you.”

“Thank you, Theo. That would be lovely.” She gave him a sweet smile.

Theo flipped the collar of his coat up. “Tell Jimmy I’ll catch him later this week at the Rusty Nail. ’Bye, Emma.” He stepped around her to leave, but as he walked to the front door, he couldn’t resist giving the old lady on the couch one parting shot. “See you tonight, baby,” he growled, raising one eyebrow.

Rewarded by her shocked gasp, he grinned. Yeah, he still had it. Too bad he’d never use it on anyone who counted.

#

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Avery Newbridge finally spoke the words that had been running through her head for weeks, her voice echoing off the wood-paneled walls in the foyer of the Star Harbor Inn. Ostensibly, she was in Star Harbor, Massachusetts, to mind the Inn while Aunt Kate underwent treatment for breast cancer. But Avery knew what she was really doing.

Hiding.

She couldn’t even pretend anymore. At first, it had been nice to think that she was helping out family, but Kate had finished recovering from her last round of chemo two weeks ago and had resumed most of the duties of managing the Inn. While Kate sometimes suffered from bouts of weakness, she was doing all right. Still, Avery stayed in this tight-knit little town where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s name—and their business.

Sighing loudly, Avie leaned back in her little chair behind the large, walnut-wood reception desk, trying to release some tension. It didn’t make her feel better. At this point, she didn’t know what would. Not after what she’d been through in Boston and all the weird stuff that had been happening at the Inn lately.

At least what had happened at the Back Bay Recovery Center made sense. Losing a client would be enough to make anyone feel emotional, but she worked with the most serious substance abuse cases, not all of whom had it in them to stay sober. What didn’t make sense were the odd sounds she and Kate had been hearing at night in the Inn. Sure, it was an old building—one of Star Harbor’s registered historical sites, something of which Kate was proud—but in its three hundred years of existence, no one had ever said that the Star Harbor Inn was haunted. There was simply no explanation for the strange, ice-cold drafts and the creepy thumping sounds at night. Avery herself had heard them a few times since she’d been in town, but Kate told her she’d been hearing them for months before that. And over the last week, there’d been some even stranger stuff. A few times the furniture had been shifted into slightly different locations—even though no one admitted to moving it—and some supplies had gone missing. She and Kate had taken to saying “boo” at each other whenever the Inn creaked or the wind moaned.

And Avery didn’t even want to get started on the odd guests. Such as the group of women from Australia who’d been drunk for three days. They must have spent every evening at the Rusty Nail. Or the guy last week who’d looked like some upscale mobster, complete with a slick Italian suit and a ridiculously heavy gold watch. He’d stayed all of one night, leaving behind a stack of old newspapers that was almost a foot high.

Good Lord, what
was
she doing here?

Avery couldn’t stop thinking about her work at the Recovery Center. Still, she didn’t feel ready to return. She needed to come to terms with what had happened, and until she did, she’d stay in Star Harbor. How long that would take, she had no idea. But as each day passed, Avery felt her future slipping farther and farther away.

As if on cue, the antique black phone on the reception desk rang.

“Star Harbor Inn, how may I help you?” she said in her best telephone voice. “All right. Let me check the reservation book for next year. Please hold on a moment.” Avery placed the phone on the counter and bent down to retrieve the leather ledger from underneath the desk. Why Aunt Kate couldn’t go digital was beyond her. Just as she bent her head, the front door to the Inn opened and snapped shut, letting in a biting gust of cold air.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she said as she continued to fumble for the heavy reservation book. “Ah, got it.” She pulled it out from under the desk and plopped it onto the wood. Unfortunately, the book hit the pen she was about to use and it began to roll toward the edge of the desk. Standing on her toes, she leaned over to grab it, catching it just before it fell off the side. Then she looked up.

Directly at the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life.

He was huge, easily six-four, and he filled the small foyer so completely that all the air seemed to be sucked out from her lungs. Despite the thick coat he wore, she could tell he was in impeccable shape from the way the cloth was stretched over his broad shoulders and how his jeans hugged his long legs. And his boots? Enormous.

Embarrassed that she was even considering the size of his feet, she jerked her gaze up, cheeks beginning to flush. It was a mistake.

Because now she was staring at his face. Hair as black as a raven’s wing swung over his forehead, tousled by the winter wind. Prominent cheekbones and full, lush lips made him look both angular and alluring. But his eyes were what really got her. A curious mix of green and amber, they seemed to glow behind the glasses he wore. He was sinfully beautiful. Could you call a man beautiful? This one was, despite the hard line of his jaw and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. It was the imperfection that made him gorgeous. So gorgeous it was scary.

And as she appraised him, he was surely returning the favor, those oddly colored eyes sweeping over what he could see of her behind the desk. His mouth dropped open a little—was he about to say something?—and his gaze sharpened. And then it happened. The thing that robbed her of any ability to function. His lips curled up on one side, displaying straight white teeth, and he smiled. Directly at her.

The small quaver in her belly told Avery one thing: this man was trouble with a capital “T.” And for her, a woman who attempted never to take anything at face value, who tried to look impartially at every issue before making a decision, the fact that her body wasn’t listening to her brain was bad. Really, really bad.

A moment passed. Or maybe it was two.

“Hello? Hello?” the woman on the end of the line squawked.

“I think you’d better get that,” the man rumbled bemusedly in a low, deep voice that warmed her from within.

She blinked and scrambled off the desk before snatching up the ancient phone and flipping the huge book open. “Yes, I’m here,” she said. “March twentieth? Yes, we have availability that week. When would you like to come? Okay, to reserve that I’ll need a credit card number.” She took down the woman’s information, giving her the cancellation information in turn. “Wonderful. See you next March.” She hung up the phone and for a moment, tried to gather her thoughts. Then she returned her attention to the fallen angel before her.

“You must be a Grayson,” she said coolly, trying her best to sound dispassionate.

“I see that my reputation precedes me,” the man said smoothly. “You look familiar, too, but I know we’ve never met.”

“Emma Newbridge—now Emma Bishop—is my sister.”

“You look like her, except for the hair.”

“Oh,” she said, self-consciously sweeping the mass of it over her shoulders, hiding the length from him. “Yes, a lot of people say that.”

Orange. There was no delicate way to put it. Her hair was bright orange. Always had been. While Emma had been gifted with deep, auburn hair that shone like mahogany in the sun, she’d been cursed with hair the color of a ripe pumpkin. Most of the time she wore it in a long braid down her back or up in a twist so people wouldn’t gape so much. And when she met with her clients it was always in a tight bun. Not anticipating any guests at the Inn today, she’d worn it down. From the way this man was staring, she wished she hadn’t.

“So how may I help you?” Despite her jitteriness, she met his gaze evenly.

Without breaking eye contact, he stepped closer to the desk and leaned one large forearm against it. “I need a room.”

With difficulty, she swallowed. He was making it impossible to be rational. “Why don’t you stay with one of your brothers? I’m sure they’d be happy to have you.”