farther up the road indicated homes tucked back in the trees. The only vehicle to be seen, however, was hers. With no sign of life in either direction, she was about to pull out her cell phone to check the address with Phil Granger when she remembered what the woman had said.
She’d warned her to keep an open mind when she saw the place. To look for possibilities.
The potential goose chase was also, apparently, a scavenger hunt.
A narrow driveway curved around the back of the building and disappeared down a slight hill. Thinking there might be a house or cottage beyond the gate blocking it, she grabbed the shoulder bag that held everything from animal crackers to a Zen meditation manual and gamely told her little boy they were going to look around while they waited for the person they were to meet to show up.
The damp breeze whipped around them, scattering leaves in their path as they left the car. With a glance toward the threatening sky, she was about to reconsider her plan when the relative quiet gave way to a squeak and the hard slam of a door.
Tyler froze.
Across twenty feet of gravel, she watched six feet two inches of broad-shouldered, purely rugged masculinity in a fisherman’s sweater and worn jeans cross the store’s porch and jog down its three steps.
“Sorry about that.” His apology came quickly, his voice as deep as the undercurrents in the distant water. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I keep forgetting to fix the spring.”
The breeze blew a little harder, rearranging the otherwise neat cut of his slightly overlong dark hair. He didn’t seem to notice the wind. Or the cold bite that came with it. All lean, athletic muscle, he strode toward them, his glance shifting between her and the child who’d smashed himself against her leg.
That glance turned questioning as he stopped six feet from where she’d rooted herself in the driveway.
“Are you Mrs. Linfield?”
Surprise colored the deep tones of his voice. Or maybe what she heard was disbelief. His pewter-gray eyes ran from the wedge of auburn hair skimming her shoulders, over the camel peacoat covering her black turtleneck and jeans and up from the toes of her low-heeled boots. His perusal was quick, little more than an impassive flick of his glance. Yet she had the unnerving feeling he’d imagined her every curve in the brief moments before she realized he was waiting for her to speak.
“I didn’t think anyone was here.” The admission came in a rush. “I didn’t see a car, so we were just going to look around—”
“I flew over. Floatplane,” he explained, hitching his head in the direction of the water. “It’s down at the marina.
“I’m Erik Sullivan.” Stepping closer, he extended his hand. His rugged features held strength, a hint of fearlessness. Or maybe it was boldness. Despite its lingering shadow, the square line of his jaw appeared recently shaved. He looked hard and handsome and when he smiled, faint though the expression was, he radiated a positively lethal combination of quiet command and casual ease. “I’m handling the sale of this property for my grandparents.”
“You’re a Realtor?”
“Actually, I build boats. I’m just taking care of this for them.”
Her hand had disappeared in his.
She could feel calluses at the base of his fingers. He worked with his hands. Built boats with them, he’d said. What kind, she had no idea. The white-gold Rolex on his thick wrist seemed to indicate he was successful at it, though. The words capable and accomplished quickly flashed in her mind, only to succumb to less definable impressions as she became aware of the heat of his palm, the strength in his grip and the deliberate way he held that strength in check.
What she felt mostly, though, was a wholly unexpected sense of connection when her eyes met his.
Everything inside her seemed to go still.
She’d experienced that sensation only once before; the first time Curt had taken her hand. It had been a fleeting thing, little more than an odd combination of awareness and ease that had come out of nowhere, but it had dictated the direction of her life from that moment on.
As if she’d just touched lightning, she jerked back, curling her fingers into her palm, and took a step away. The void left in her heart by the loss of her husband already felt huge. It seemed to widen further as she instinctively rejected the thought of any sort of connection to this man, imagined or otherwise. Because of what she’d learned since Curt’s death, it was entirely possible that what she’d thought she’d had with her husband—the closeness, the love, the very rightness of the life they’d shared—hadn’t existed at all.
Having struggled with that awful possibility for over a year, she wasn’t about to trust what she’d felt now.
Conscious of the quick pinch of Erik’s brow, totally embarrassed by her abrupt reaction, she rested her hand on her son’s shoulder. Just as she would have introduced her little guy, the big man gave the child a cautious smile and motioned her toward the building.
“The main entrance to the living quarters is around back, but we can go through the market. Come on and I’ll show you around.”
Whatever he thought of her reaction to him, he seemed gentleman enough to ignore it.
She chose to ignore it, too.
Living quarters, he’d said?
“There isn’t a separate house here?” she asked, urging Tyler forward as the sky started to leak.
“There’s plenty of room to build if that’s what a buyer wants to do. The parcel is a little over three acres. Living on premises has certain advantages, though.” He checked the length of his strides, allowing them to keep up. “Shortens the commute.”
If she smiled at that, Erik couldn’t tell, not with the fall of cinnamon hair hiding her profile as she ushered the boy ahead of her.
Mrs. Rory Linfield wasn’t at all what he had expected. But then, the new owner of the building next door to Merrick & Sullivan Yachting hadn’t given him much to go on. He wasn’t sure what the elegant and refined wife of Harry Hunt was doing with the building Harry had apparently given her as a wedding gift—other than providing Erik and his business partner an interesting diversion with her total renovation of its interior. It had been his offhand comment to Cornelia, though, about a place he’d be glad to sell if Harry was still into buying random pieces of property, that had led him to describe the property his grandparents had vacated nearly a year ago.
The conversation had prompted a call from Cornelia yesterday. That was when she’d told him she knew of a widow in immediate need of a home and a means to produce an income.
When she’d said widow, he’d immediately pictured someone far more mature. More his parents’ age. Fifty-something. Sixty, maybe. With graying hair. Or at least a few wrinkles. The decidedly polished, manicured and attractive auburn-haired woman skeptically eyeing the sign for Fresh Espresso and Worms as she crossed the wood-planked porch didn’t look at all like his idea of a widow, though. She looked more like pure temptation. Temptation with pale skin that fairly begged to be touched, a beautiful mouth glossed with something sheer pink and shiny, and who was easily a decade younger than his own thirty-nine years.
He
