Forgotten Honeymoon

He’d just said a perfunctory “Glad to meet you” and gotten no response. When he dropped her hand, she suddenly looked at him.

He had the distinct impression that she was only partially here. Which was fine with him. He’d like it even better if none of her were here. June and the others did a fair job of maintaining the old place, and he firmly believed in the adage that if it wasn’t broken, it shouldn’t be fixed.

He damn well didn’t want this intruder “fixing” anything. “You look a million miles away.”

Kristina cleared her throat, embarrassed at having been caught. “Sorry, I was just thinking of what I want to hang over the fireplace.”

There was a huge, colorful tapestry hanging over the fireplace now. His foster mother had spent long hours weaving it herself. He remembered watching her do it. Her fingers had seemed to sing over the loom. She was one-quarter Cherokee; the tapestry represented a history that had been handed down to Sylvia Murphy by her grandmother’s people. He was very partial to it.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with what’s over it now?”

It was natural for him to challenge her. She’d already made up her mind that he would resist change. The unimaginative always did.

“It doesn’t fit the motif,” she said simply.

What the hell was she talking about? They hadn’t discussed anything yet. They hadn’t even gotten past hello. “Motif? What motif?”

“The new one I’ve come up with. We’re turning this into a Honeymoon Hideaway.” She watched his expression, to see if he liked the name. He didn’t.

Kristina paused and blew out a breath. Since he was the other owner, she supposed she had better explain it to him, even though she hated explaining herself to anyone. She preferred doing, and letting others watch and see for themselves.

Kristina got the distinct impression that Cooper wasn’t going to be as amenable to her methods as Frank was. “I guess I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Now there was an understatement. Max exchanged a look with June and missed the fact that it annoyed Kristina. It would have been a bonus, as far as he was concerned.

After pushing his hat back on his head, he hooked his thumbs on the loops of his jeans. “I’d say you were getting ahead of just about everyone. What makes you think we need a ‘motif’?”

He said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Well, you certainly need something.”

He didn’t care for her condescending tone of voice. “The inn is doing just fine.”

“Just fine,” she repeated softly. She gave him a long, slow look, as if she were appraising him again, and this time finding him mentally lacking. He could feel his temper rising. It was the fastest reaction he had ever had to anyone. “I take it that you don’t bother looking at the inn’s books.”

No, he didn’t, not really, but he didn’t care for her inference. “June handles the books.” He nodded at the woman, who was once again safely ensconced behind the counter. “I review them.”

“Not often enough.” Probably every leap year, Kristina guessed.

He’d had just about enough of this. His real business needed him, not the inn. The inn would do just fine continuing the way it had. Without her fingers all over it. “Just what gives you the right to come waltzing in here—”

She had to stop him now, before he got up a full head of steam and wasted both their time. He might have time to kill, but she didn’t.

“I didn’t ‘waltz,’” she corrected sharply. “I walked—nearly breaking my neck on the loose board in the front, I might add.”

He set his mouth hard, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Pity.”

She got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t apologizing for the presence of the loose board, he was lamenting the fact that she’d avoided the injury.

Ignoring that, she continued, getting to her point. “And I’ve had a good hour to look around—”

One hour, and she was passing judgment on his foster parents’ lives’ work. “That makes you an expert.”

She raised her chin as she took up the challenge in his voice. “No, I arrived being an expert.”

God, talk about brass. Hers was glinting in the sun, and could have served as a beacon to guide ships home in a fog. “On inns.”

Kristina ignored the obvious sarcasm. “On profit margins, and how to sell something.”

He took his time in responding, instinctively knowing that it annoyed her. “And what, exactly, is it that you sell?”

She could have slapped him for what he was obviously thinking, but it wouldn’t have gotten them anywhere. After all, she’d come here to work. Even with an insufferable mental midget like him. “I’m an ad executive. I’m responsible for the Hidden Sin campaign.”

He was vaguely aware that she was referring to a perfume. The latest copy of a magazine he subscribed to had arrived in the mail smelling to high heaven, because one of the pages had been impregnated with the scent. “Congratulations. I heard sin came out of hiding.”

“The perfume,” she retorted.

Inexplicably enjoying the fact that he could bait her, Max responded, “Never heard of it.”

If he thought he was getting to her, he was mistaken. “I don’t doubt it. We haven’t found a way to pipe the commercials into people’s sleep yet.”

He heard her message loud and clear. At another time, it might have amused him. But she, and her manner, irked him beyond words. “You’re implying that I’m lazy?”

Kristina crossed her arms before her chest. Her expression congratulated him on finally catching on. “The inn is run-down, the bookings are off,” she pointed out, warming up. “You’re in the red—”

He cut in curtly. “It’s the off-season.” From the corner of his eye, he saw June shaking her head in disapproval. What was he supposed to do, humor this crazy woman?

Right there was the beginning of his problem, Kristina thought. “There shouldn’t be an off-season in southern California.”

He looked at her, completely mystified by her reasoning. “Is this something you just made up?”

She sighed. She was trying to hold on to her temper, but he wasn’t making it easy for her. She’d carried on better conversations with her parakeet. “If you’re going to challenge everything I say, Cooper, we’re not going to get anywhere.”

He took a moment to compose himself. “What makes you think I want to get anywhere with you, Ms. Fortune? I like the inn just the way it is.”

He might, but what he wanted alone didn’t count. She eyed the wide sofa before the fireplace. If it had a style, it might have been Early American. That, too, would have to go.

“Not good enough.” She ran her hand along the floral upholstery and wondered when it had last been cleaned. “I’m half owner.”

He read her intentions loud and clear. Very deliberately, he removed her hand from the sofa. “And you can’t do anything without my half.”

Can’t had never been part of her vocabulary. “I can buy you out.”

Ironic, wasn’t it? He had wanted to sell his ownership in the inn. Ever since his foster parents had given it to him, he’d wanted to sell it and devote himself completely to his business. Now the perfect opportunity was presenting itself, but he wasn’t about to take it.

He wasn’t about to sell his share to her, because that would mean selling out, selling out and abandoning people he’d known for a long time. He had no doubt that within ten minutes of his signing the deed over to her, Kristina Fortune would send the staff packing and hire some plastic people to take their place.

He’d be damned if he was going to let her fire people he had known and liked for years. There was a place for loyalty in this world, even if fancy ad executives with creamy skins didn’t know it.

“No, you can’t,” he told her. “Not if I don’t want to sell.”