Compromising Positions

“IS SHE OUT THERE?” Sam asked. He peered through the small window of the kitchen door but he couldn’t see the entire dining room from his viewpoint. “What did she order?”

“Fillet of beef, potatoes Anna and the house salad with Gorgonzola. She’s also put away two glasses of our best red wine and six slices of bread with butter. Would you like me to go out and get her pulse and temperature for you?”

“She’s not a vegetarian, that’s good.”

“Good for what?” Sarah asked.

Sam shook his head and turned away from the door. “I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

Sarah slid a pie pan across the kitchen island. “Why don’t you take her some dessert? There’s ice cream in the freezer and whipped cream in the fridge. If she wants coffee, you know how to make it. And you can take care of the dishes tonight. I’ve got Pilates class.” Sarah walked out, leaving him alone in the kitchen.

He’d been searching for an opportunity to speak to Amelia again since her arrival at the inn. He’d been tempted to check on her during the afternoon but hadn’t wanted to appear as if he were hovering.

Millhaven was a small town and it was almost impossible for him to have a social life. Sam knew almost everyone in the village who was single and around his own age. Since he’d come back to the inn four years ago he’d gone from an unrepentant skirt-chaser as a college undergrad to Mr. Responsible. He wasn’t even sure if he remembered how to flirt.

And he’d need to be at the top of his game for Amelia Sheffield. He sensed that it would take a lot more than prompt service and homemade desserts to break through her icy façade. She probably expected to be entertained with witty chitchat or intrigued by important conversation about art or current events. But Sam had never been comfortable at cocktail parties. His charm was more homegrown, rising out of the humor of the moment. Then again, they weren’t at a cocktail party. They were in his inn. His territory.

He placed the pie, plates and forks, and the can of whipped cream on a tray, then carried it out into the dining room. When Amelia saw him, her gaze followed his path as he wove through the dining room tables to where she sat.

Though she was still dressed in black, she’d let her hair down and it fell in soft waves around her face, the color a deep mahogany that set off the gold in her eyes. She didn’t wear a lot of makeup and her simple, clean beauty was much more attractive to him than the paint and perfume that some women chose to use.

“I know you’re happy to see me,” he said, smiling at her.

“I am?”

“I brought pie. My sister’s apple pie. Made from the Cortland apples we grow right here on our property. They’re the best.”

“I love Cortland apples,” she said. “They’re so hard to find these days. And I’ll admit I’m always happy when pie enters the room.”

“Mind if I join you?”

She hesitated at first, then quickly shook her head. “No, sit,” she said, indicating the chair across from her.

But Sam grabbed the chair beside her and sat, placing the tray in front of him. “Did you enjoy the dinner?”

“Are we really going to talk about food? I thought you’d prefer to get right down to negotiating,” she said.

He scooped up a generous slice of the pie and plopped it on a plate, which he handed to her. “There’s nothing to negotiate. I know that Abigail will clear this up and the bed will come home with me.”

“I have every faith in our lawyers,” she countered.

If the fight came down to lawyers, Sam would lose. He didn’t have the money to hire Jerry to represent him in a lengthy court case. The inn operated on a shoestring that didn’t include hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyers. “Why is it so important you get this bed?”

“George Washington slept in it,” she replied.

“The bed has been in my family since it was first made. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

“Sure it does,” she said. “But you want to close the bed up in a little room here at the inn. I want to show it to the public.”

“What exactly do you do for this museum of yours, besides pillaging the countryside and stealing people’s furniture?”

“I acquire items for our exhibits,” she said.

Sam chuckled. “Oh, well, that sounds so much better. You acquire.”

“How we lived is just as important as what we lived. I help to preserve that,” Amelia said. She paused, as if to gather her thoughts, then continued in a less aggressive tone. “You of all people should understand. You live in a monument to history. Look at this place. It’s perfect.”

Sam glanced around. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d attached the word perfect to the Blackstone Inn.

She continued. “My last exhibition was called ‘Cabin in the Woods.’ I set up three interiors of rustic Colonial-era frontier homes, complete with everything it would take to live in the wilderness. But it was interactive, so children could touch and experience everything. It fired their imagination, and that’s really all that’s left to us of history. Museums, a few historic inns and homes like yours, and our imaginations.”

He heard the passion in her words and admired her dedication. She even made him feel some pride in his own work at the inn, and it had been a long time since he’d held any sort of affection toward the Blackstone. “And this place is called the Mapother Museum?”

“Of Decorative Arts. It focuses on interior décor—furniture, china, linens, rugs and ceramics. The kind of place that draws busloads of retired ladies and interior designers,” she added.

“I still don’t understand why you have to ‘acquire’ my bed,” he said. “Any piece from the period should do.”

“Have we determined that it is your bed?”

“The bed has belonged to my family since the inn opened. Abigail bought it when we were short of funds, but she promised to return it to its rightful place.”

“We’re opening a new children’s exhibit about George Washington for President’s Day. The bed will be the perfect centerpiece for the gallery. Kids could lie on it and take photos, and we’ll get lots of publicity. Which is always good for the museum.”

“So my bed is going to be a...a historical bouncy house? Why not throw any old bed into the exhibit? No one is going to know any better.”

“I have a reputation for authenticity to protect,” she said. “And I can’t be sentimental.”

“I think a better word might be sympathetic or kind.”

“You can’t make me feel guilty,” she said.

“What can I make you feel?” he asked. The moment the words slipped out of his mouth, Sam realized his mistake. What the hell was he thinking? A cultured woman like Amelia would never respond to such a suggestive comment.

“I—I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she murmured.

“I should get back to work,” he said quickly. “Is there anything else I can get you, Ms. Sheffield?”

“No,” she murmured. “I’m quite content, Mr. Blackstone.”

He got up and walked to the kitchen, refusing to look back. So much for charm, Sam mused. He’d been right the first time: it was going to take a lot more than awkward small talk and apple pie to seduce Amelia Sheffield. He had one more day to figure this all out. One day to take this attraction beyond the theoretical to something real. Or else she’d be on her way back to Boston—with his bed.

2 (#ulink_26e6e495-1227-58fd-a92f-42152ccad8b7)

AMELIA STARED UP at the ceiling of her room at the Blackstone Inn. Somewhere deep inside the darkened inn, a grandfather clock chimed. She counted three chimes, then threw her arm over her eyes. But nothing she did helped her find the peace of sleep.

She sat up, tossed aside the down-filled pillow and swung her legs off the bed. She needed something to eat. Just a little something to get her through until breakfast. Her mind was racing with thoughts of work and Sam Blackstone; a confusing jumble that didn’t make any sense no matter how hard she tried to put it all in order.

She grabbed her sweater and pulled it on over her T-shirt and yoga pants, then searched her bag for something to put on her feet. She found a pair of socks and slipped them on. Dragging a deep breath, she snuck out into the dimly lit hall and headed for the stairs.