about her endless wait that morning, and the formality that had never happened. She didn’t know what stupid game Shelby was playing, but he was going to find out, and find out quite swiftly, that she wasn’t going to be jerked around. She and her mother might not have had a loving relationship by any definition, but he was going to learn that there was, in fact, a bit of Louisa Slavine, secretary from the Bronx, in the daughter. Kate had already put a call in to her attorney to see what leverage she had in bartering her inheritance back from Shelby. He wasn’t the only one who could jerk the marionette strings.
Her determined smile slipped a little when she saw the neon orange spray paint streaking across the trunks of several red spruce and old-growth hemlocks that crowded the steep camp terrain down to the lake. Not again. Hadn’t she suffered enough setbacks for one foul day?
Apparently not.
GO HOME, RICH BITCH!
Same as before. If she hadn’t been so emotionally drained, she would have laughed. Rich bitch. If only. On a heavy sigh, she continued past the fresh graffiti, driving through the entrance, past the defunct guard building and equally defunct electric gate, on past the central lodge that housed the kitchens, dining rooms, and staging areas. Or would once the roof and the flooring were replaced. And the porch. She looked away, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead. So much work to do. None of which she could officially start until the paperwork was signed.
Normally she was a determined optimist, but her spirit had suffered a bit too much of a beating today. She’d go home, call Sheriff Gilby about the graffiti—again—and try to figure out what Shelby’s latest ploy was all about. But first she was going to indulge in a long, steamy bath. The truck’s heater left a lot to be desired, and though April had finally arrived, spring was taking a bit longer to officially show up this year. The breezy days still carried a bite in the higher elevations, and the evenings were downright chilly. Her toes were already numb. She made a mental note to check her firewood before going to bed. She’d have to stack the stove carefully tonight. It felt like it might get close to freezing. Praying for an early summer, she swung into her spot in front of the camp director’s cabin. Or what she’d decided was going to be the camp director’s cabin.
Her cabin.
A little of the smile returned as she climbed out of the cab and rubbed at the ache that had settled in her lower back. There would be no opening of the champagne she’d reserved for her own private celebration, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a glass of wine. Yes, a glass of chilled White Zinfandel and a long bath were in her immediate future. She deserved that much.
Tomorrow she’d tackle Shelby, the as yet unresponsive sheriff, and…whatever else she could handle.
She climbed the five steps up to the screened-in side porch, balancing her purse and briefcase as she bumped the door open with her hip and simultaneously kicked off her low-heeled pumps. To think she used to collect shoes like some people collected earrings. To think you actually enjoyed wearing them, she thought, letting out a heartfelt groan of relief as she flexed the soles of her feet and wriggled her toes into the stiff pile of the doormat just inside the porch door. She couldn’t wait until it was warm enough for flip-flops.
“Bagel?” she called out, summoning the one male in her life she could always count on. “Where are you, buddy? Mommy’s home and she could use a slobbery hug.” She was surprised he hadn’t been waiting for her at the door, tail thumping, whining with excitement at the sight of her. You couldn’t beat a dog for giving a great welcome home. “Did you get into something? Listen, whatever you chewed up, threw up, or peed on, today you get a pass. Come on out.”
She let everything slide from her hands onto the small wooden bench that was currently doubling as a side table by the front door. She’d worry about all that later. Right now, the only decision she had to make was red wine or the chilled white. She’d found a stash of both along with a few bottles of champagne in the wine cellar of the main lodge while doing her initial walk-through assessment and brought a couple of each to her cabin. She’d put the champagne in the fridge before leaving, thinking she’d celebrate closing the deal with a little private toast. Now the white would have to do. “Might just drink the whole damn bottle, too. So there.”
“I have some spare beer, if you’re interested.”
She let out a little scream of shock and spun around, heart lodged in her throat as she searched the far shadows at the opposite end of the wraparound porch. The light had dimmed quickly in the falling twilight. “Who’s there?” she demanded, wishing like hell she had her truck keys in her hand. Not much of a weapon, but they’d have been better than nothing. They were still in the ignition, where she always left them. Though she’d been debating changing that policy with the recent vandalism. But they’d never locked things up around camp, and old habits died hard.
She tried not to think about that dying part.
She was debating just making a run for the truck and driving straight down to Gilby’s office, when the disembodied voice stepped from the shadows…and she froze to the spot, unable to move or breathe. No. Her mind spun wildly, trying to make some sense of it all. It couldn’t be.
“Hello, Kate.”
But it was. Eighteen years melted away in a blink of an eye. Though he’d been only seventeen the last time she’d laid eyes on him, she’d know those eyes anywhere. That chin.
And that voice. That slow, lazy, sexy-as-hell voice.
“Donovan?”
There was a pause; then he said, “It’s been a long time. My condolences on your mother’s passing.”
She accepted the platitude with a jerky nod of her chin, but her mind went immediately to the graffiti that had started popping up shortly after her arrival. But that made no sense. As far as she knew, Donovan had left the day he’d turned eighteen and hadn’t even returned for his father’s funeral. Did he think with Louisa gone he had some right to the place? She knew there had been some talk in the papers about her wild deal with Shelby, but certainly he didn’t think—“Is—is that why you’re here? Because she died this past December. The funeral was a long—”
He shook his head. “I didn’t come to pay my respects, though you have them.”
“Then…why?”
He took a scant step forward, and she was suddenly painfully aware of her appearance, which was ridiculous, but true nevertheless. He’d always had that effect on her. And it had always been ridiculous. Growing up, he’d been Donovan MacLeod, son of drunken Donny Mac, the camp handyman. Hardly a member of her peer group. Most times when their paths had crossed, he’d been in little more than ragged cutoffs, with callused hands and hair in desperate need of a cut. While she’d been clad to the nines in the latest styles, her hair and makeup nothing less than perfect, as she’d intended when she’d made certain he’d see her.
Her cheeks heated now as they always had when he looked at her with those silver-gray eyes of his, somehow always managing to make her feel like the discombobulated one. This time he probably could make a case for it. She resisted the urge to push her hair behind her ears, smooth the rumpled suit jacket she’d forgotten to take off when she’d stormed out of Shelby’s attorney’s office.
“I read about you—your camp, I mean—in the paper.”
It was the slight hesitation in his voice that snagged her attention, dragging it from past to present. He’d always been laconic, with a bit of a cocky edge. Or maybe the challenging edge to his tone had been exclusively
