do you mean?” Colleen wondered.
Deidre shrugged, not wanting to give the impression she actually had thought about the topic overly much. Even though she had.
“I think he’s testing me by acting interested every once in a while. He already thinks I’m a conniving, immoral female. Maybe he thinks if he can seduce me, he’ll get me to show my true colors. He’ll prove to himself that I’m a gold digger by using himself as bait.”
Colleen set her coffee mug down heavily on the table. “Do you really think so? Nick has struck me as cool and unapproachable at times—intimidating, even—but do you really believe he could be that manipulative?”
“He certainly suspects I’m that manipulative, so I don’t feel very guilty for thinking the same of him,” Deidre said.
She turned pensive as she stared out the window on to Main Street, which had been festively decorated for the holidays. Christmas in Harbor Town, she thought with wistful sadness. How lovely it would be to be like Colleen, to feel that she truly belonged here … that she wasn’t an outsider looking in. She’d belonged there once, as a child.
That was the past, though. She felt like even more of an imposter at the idea of being Lincoln’s heiress in the present.
“I don’t know what to think, Colleen,” she admitted after a pause, meeting Colleen’s gaze. “The only thing I know for certain is that Lincoln made me a player in a game with stakes so high, I can’t even comprehend them. I’m a fish out of water. And truthfully? I don’t know what a man like Nick would do to ensure he maintains control of a company that possesses the revenues of some small countries’ entire economies. Do you?”
Colleen’s face settled into a solemn expression, and Deidre had her answer.
Deidre promised her sister she’d rest and take it easy that afternoon. Colleen had been expressing concern for her lack of appetite and difficulty sleeping since Lincoln had died. Her life had been a blur since Lincoln’s death last week and her hurried trip to Harbor Town for Liam’s wedding.
She returned to Cedar Cottage and took a long, hot shower. The premises of the vacation rental were roomy, but not too large to take away from the cozy ambience. Since it was the off-season in the quaint beachside community, she’d gotten a week-to-week lease for a steal.
She dressed for a lazy day in a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. Afterward, she curled in front of the gas fireplace with a book in her lap, losing herself in the story.
A car door slammed in the distance. Deidre looked up, holding her breath. She heard the stomp of boots on the front steps, then a brisk knock at her door. The book she’d been reading slid heedlessly onto the couch cushion.
Somehow, she just knew it was Nick.
She hesitated for only a second before standing decisively.
“Hello. How are you?” he asked quietly, his gaze running over her face when she opened the door. He wore a pair of well-worn jeans and a hip-length black insulated jacket. He hadn’t shaved today. Dark whiskers shadowed his jaw.
“Fine,” Deidre replied warily.
He nodded, and she found herself shifting on her feet in the awkward silence that followed. Realizing she couldn’t stand there forever with the door wide open, she reluctantly waved her hand into the kitchen. Nick entered. She shut the door and faced him.
“I drove around Harbor Town a little. It’s nice. You must have loved coming here as a kid.”
She attempted a smile. “Winter isn’t the best time to be here. Harbor Town is a beach town, pure and simple.”
He nodded. “It’s still charming, decked out for the holidays like it is. I remember once when we were both with Linc you told him Christmas was your favorite holiday.”
She blinked in surprise. She didn’t remember ever having said such a thing in his presence. It made her feel exposed that he’d recalled the trivial detail.
“It was a favorite holiday when I was a child,” she admitted. Longing ripped through her unexpectedly when she thought of Christmases when she was a kid—back in the days when she never doubted she was a true Kavanaugh. It was stupid, of course. She could return to her mother’s house anytime—this very second if she chose. Her refusal to go there was a self-imposed sanction.
She looked up reluctantly when he placed a gloved finger beneath her chin and lifted it. She couldn’t avoid his eyes now.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She merely nodded, her throat convulsing uncomfortably when she swallowed.
His gaze moved over her face. “Why don’t we go into the living room? It might be a little warmer?” he suggested, nodding toward the interior of the cottage.
“All right,” she conceded.
She studied him while he removed his gloves and coat and draped his coat on the back of a kitchen chair. When he wasn’t dressed in a suit, he favored jeans and shirts that weren’t the classic cowboy variety, perhaps, but still possessed a Western flavor. They usually had snaps instead of buttons and fitted his lean, muscular torso to perfection.
When he glanced at her, she just raised her eyebrows in polite expectation, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way she’d been detailing his form. She led him into the living room. The sitting area before the flickering fire looked much more cozy and intimate than it had when she’d been there alone.
“Did Lincoln ever speak to you about whether or not you were interested in running DuBois Enterprises?” he asked after he’d stood before the fire for a moment.
“Yes.”
He turned and speared her with his stare. “He did? When?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. A month or so before he passed? He asked me if I’d ever consider taking up business. Then he asked me if I’d like to run his company. I thought he was kidding.”
“And what did you say?” Nick asked intently.
“I told him ‘no way.’ I have no interest in working in an office. Medicine is my career. I love being a nurse. Did Lincoln really ask you to get to know me better in that letter?” she blurted out, unable to contain her curiosity anymore. She’d been obsessing about Lincoln’s reasoning and state of mind all day.
“Yes. Why would I lie about something like that?”
She gave him a small, cautious grin. “Your reasoning escapes me, as usual.”
He laughed and turned toward her, one hand on the mantel. His silvery-gray eyes looked a little softer than usual. “My reasons are hardly Machiavellian.”
“I just can’t comprehend why he’d ask you to do it.”
“Maybe he trusted me. Maybe you should, too.”
She looked up into his face. He hadn’t moved, but he somehow seemed closer. “Why should I trust you when you clearly don’t trust me?”
“I haven’t decided
