she said. But she wasn’t really. She was in a hurry.
As she paddled toward the historic property with its long dock projecting out into the lake, her heart lifted. This was the only hotel on the lake, thanks to deed restrictions that had been enacted after it was built. The property consisted of a collection of vintage residences around a magnificent main building, which lay upon the emerald slope like another place in time. The Stick and Italianate architecture was a superb example of the irrational exuberance of the Gilded Age. There was a wraparound veranda and gables along the upper story. There was an incredible belvedere rising like a wedding cake, its turret crowned by an ornate dome. The mullioned windows offered a matchless view of Willow Lake. From her perspective on the water, Nina could imagine the place in the old resort days, when the grounds were dotted by guests sunning themselves or playing croquet, and lovers walked hand-in-hand along the shady paths. There was a part of Nina that was a shameless romantic, and the inn fed that fantasy; it always had. Her favorite building was the boathouse, built in the classic style of the lakes of upstate New York with covered boat slips at water level, and living quarters above. It was made of the same whimsy and luxury as the main building of the inn.
In accordance with her agreement with the bank, the upper level of the boathouse was to be her private residence, and she had plans to move within the week. The boathouse had originally served as a lavish playroom for the children of the original owner, with quarters for the nanny. Lately, however, it had been used for storage.
Ever since she was a little girl, she’d pictured herself here, warmly welcoming guests from the world over as they gathered for lemonade and croquet on the lawn in the summer or for hot chocolate and cozy reading by the library fireplace in winter. She had always known exactly how each room would look, what low-key music would be playing in the dining room, what the baking muffins would smell like in the morning.
Her plans had been derailed by a teenage pregnancy and the responsibility of raising a child alone. No, she thought. Not derailed. Delayed. Now an opportunity had opened up and Nina was determined to seize it. She was ready for something new in her life. With Sonnet gone, she needed it.
To some people, being an innkeeper might not have sounded like much. To Nina, it was the start of a long-held dream. As they glided close to the dock, she felt a warm thrill of excitement, not unlike the sort of thrill she was supposed to feel for her date.
“So there it is,” she said. “I can’t wait to get started.”
He was quiet. She wondered if he was checking her out and twisted around in her seat. “Shane?”
“Yeah, about that,” he said, jerking his helmeted head in the direction of the inn. “There’ve been some interesting developments at the bank.”
Nina frowned. “‘Interesting’ sounds a bit ominous.”
“While you were away, Bailey retired and moved to Florida.”
She relaxed. “I know. I sent him a card.”
“And we brought in a new asset manager from the main branch, a woman named Brooke Harlow. She made some changes in her department. She had orders from the home office to improve her bottom line.”
Nina’s heart faltered. “She’s still going to honor my contract, right?”
“Rest assured, that contract is considered a valuable part of the package. You have a fantastic reputation. No question you’re the best general manager for the job.”
“Why doesn’t this sound so good to me, Shane?” she asked.
“Well, actually, it could be very good. The Inn at Willow Lake has been sold, and your contract with it.”
She turned again and scowled at him. “Not funny.”
“I’m not telling you to be funny. It’s just something that happened.”
“It can’t happen.” Yet the churning of her stomach told her that indeed, it could. “I expected the bank to give me the option to buy the place as soon as I’m able to qualify for a loan.”
“I’m sure you knew it was a possibility that the bank would divest itself of the property if a buyer came along.”
“But Mr. Bailey said—”
“I’m sorry, Nina. That’s what happened.”
She’d been aware of the risk. She’d known it when she signed her contract, but Mr. Bailey had told her the possibility was highly unlikely. As soon as Nina qualified for a small-business loan, she would be in a position to buy the place.
The Inn at Willow Lake. Sold.
For a few moments, she couldn’t get her mind around the reality. It just seemed like such a foreign concept. Of course the inn would be sold one day—to her. That had always been the plan.
“Anyway,” Shane went on, ignoring the fact that every word that came out of his mouth was another hammer blow, “it belongs to someone else now. You won’t believe who the buyer is.”
Nina Romano felt something snap inside her. This clueless man, this spray-skirt-wearing lousy kisser, was sitting there informing her that her entire future, the one thing she had counted on to fill her life now that Sonnet was gone, had been taken away. It was too much.
“Hey, are you all right?” he asked.
Not the smartest question to ask an Italian-American woman with steam coming out of her ears.
Nina’s body was not her own. As though possessed by demons, she reared up in the kayak and went for his throat.
Two
“Isn’t it a bit early in the season for swimming?” Brooke Harlow asked Greg Bellamy.
Curious, Greg turned to see what she was pointing at—a couple with a kayak in the distance. A dark-haired woman and a guy in a crash helmet appeared to be locked together in the kayak in a passionate embrace, churning up water all around them as the craft bobbed and rolled. Stillwater kayaking was supposed to be a relaxing sport, Greg thought. But it was none of his business. Whatever floats your boat. Ha, ha.
He tried to shake off his sour mood. It was a blue-sky, summer’s-coming day and he damn well better enjoy it. He was spending the afternoon with a woman who looked like a lingerie model. His twelve-year-old son was actually behaving like a human being for once. It didn’t take long for Greg to figure out why. Max was … Damn, he was checking out Brooke Harlow. The kid was only twelve. That was way too young to be interested in women. Wasn’t it just yesterday that Max was playing with Tonka trucks, making motor sounds with his mouth?
Brooke shook the water from her hand. “Brr. I think I’ll wait until later in the season to try swimming. How about you, Max?”
“I don’t mind cold water,” he said.
Greg suspected Max would be agreeable to walking across hot coals if Brooke suggested it. He tried to send his son a telepathic message—you’re too young to be thinking what you’re thinking. But Max was oblivious to everything except Brooke.
Greg told himself not to worry about the situation. But of course, these days, he worried about everything, including the fact that
