style="font-size:15px;"> That was a lie, but it was worth it to see his face fall, his confidence shaken. This was a guy used to having his charms work on members of the opposite sex—she added that brick of insight into the wall she was building around herself against him. “I suppose I should ask how you’re feeling.” A show of sympathy could go a long way toward keeping a lawsuit at bay, after all.
“I’m a little sore, but nothing I can’t handle.” He rubbed his arm, where she remembered he’d been hit. She studiously kept her eyes above his belt and her mind away from any kind of speculation. “I’ve done paintball before. Do you play a lot?”
He was trying to engage her in conversation. Maybe he was simply a friendly guy, but she was certain these were just tactics for making her linger and talk. There was only one thing he was here for. “No. Now, if that’s all, I have work to do.” She started to close the door.
“The sheriff caught one of the young men who broke in last night,” he said quickly, and that made her pause. “I ID’d him earlier. I think he’ll tell on the others, too. Will you press charges?”
She thought about it briefly. “No. They’re just a bunch of bored kids. Sheriff’ll scare ’em straight.”
“You should reconsider. They’ll come back. Might try to look for revenge.”
“Or they might figure out that they should leave me alone unless they want a crotchful of paintballs.” Unlike some people who couldn’t take a hint. She gave him her most unimpressed look. “You and your nut clusters should go now, Mr. Patel. You have nothing I want, and I have a lot of work to do.”
“What is it you do, exactly?” he asked, sliding his words in as effectively as a foot in the door.
“Work.” Some guys didn’t know how to take no for an answer. “And it’s not getting done. Now please, get off my property. I have absolutely no intention of selling to you or anyone else. The Crown is my grandfather’s legacy. No dollar amount could make me give it up.”
“Ms. Bateman—”
She closed the door firmly and bolted it tight, the booming sound punctuating the end of their interaction. It echoed through the building, shuddering through the cavernous halls until it was swallowed up by darkness and silence.
She waited one minute more for her cell phone to chime, indicating that Shane Patel had left the premises. It beeped once. Gone.
She let out a breath. Well. If that wasn’t a clear enough message, she wasn’t sure what would be.
SHANE STUDIED THE mostly blank profile he’d composed of Miriam Bateman as if it would provide some clue about the mysterious theater owner. He’d never met anyone so obstinately unfriendly—especially in Everville. Everyone was nice, or at least, that’s how he remembered them. The kids at the beach on Silver Lake and in town had all been cool with him and his sister, and he’d gotten along with everyone he met. Of course, he’d been gifted with the ability to charm people—something his mother had warned him about. But Miriam was a conundrum.
Arty Bolton had suggested chocolates, but clearly, the old man didn’t know what she liked. He supposed a gift basket might be more appropriate than flowers. He reserved fancy bouquets for hospitalizations, funerals and first dates. He didn’t want Ms. Bateman getting the wrong idea.
Yet.
The problem was, she was hard to read. She had an almost-impenetrable stare, narrow and glassy at the same time, as if she were studying a festering lump underneath a microscope and trying to decide if it was fascinating or disgusting. She used that look liberally on him. It was a little disconcerting. He could usually pick up when a woman was attracted to him and then leverage that attraction for professional gain. Amma disapproved, mainly because her son wouldn’t settle down.
At the very least, Miriam hadn’t completely dismissed him. She’d been intrigued enough to speak to him, even if it was crisply and briefly. She could’ve called the sheriff if she’d really wanted him gone. But she’d answered his innocuous questions. That was a start. A crack in her facade. Now all he had to do was figure out how to chip away the rest of her defenses.
He scanned the profile, adding notes as he went.
Miriam Bateman, mid to late twenties.
Brown hair, blue eyes.
Proprietor of the defunct Crown Theater in Everville, NY.
Friends/Allies: Arty Bolton, grocery store owner?
He added the question mark because while the old man had come to her aid when she was in trouble, he was a lot older, making him more of a father figure who’d protect her rather than dish out any good intel. Shane had been hoping to find someone who was closer to Miriam’s age, maybe a girlfriend, a confidante, someone he could charm.
Did she even have friends? He shook his head. He wasn’t going to take her prickly attitude personally. She had every right not to like or trust him. He’d just have to figure out what made her tick and get her to open up. With that in mind, he headed out to explore the town, maybe have a beer. He’d talk to locals and see what they could tell him about the Crown’s elusive owner. It would take as long as it took. Persistence was the key—what had always made him a winner.
He’d convince her to sell him the Crown one way or another. Personal pride depended on it.
* * *
“IT’S FROM WHO?” Mira studied the potted orchid suspiciously. As pretty as it was, and as much as she was thrilled to receive it, she couldn’t imagine anyone in town wanting to buy her such a gift.
“A secret admirer, according to the tag.” Janice Heinlein grinned. “He came in while I was out, made the order with Pete. Even if I knew who it was, which I don’t, I’m not allowed to say more than that. Customer right to privacy and all that, you know.” She winked.
Mira sighed. It had to be from Shane Patel. He’d come by twice more over the past week bearing gifts, which she’d reluctantly accepted, though she’d reiterated both times that she wasn’t selling the Crown. He hadn’t seemed fazed by her rebuttals—in fact, he’d looked as though he was simply happy to bring her presents. The first had been a basket of assorted baked goods from Georgette’s Books and Bakery, along with two pounds of fresh ground coffee beans from the Grindery, a café on Main. There was simply no way to turn that down—Saul, the café owner, would be insulted. And no one could resist cookies from Georgette’s.
The second gift had been just as nonrefundable: a deli tray from Everville Grocery. Apparently, Mr. Patel was bent on feeding her and ingratiating himself with the local businesses. Since the platter had come from Arty’s, she couldn’t say no.
Mira had no doubt that the real estate developer was buttering her up for negotiations. She imagined he’d come by to show her his plans for whatever he was going to build, tell her how it would benefit the community, do some song and dance while avoiding any actual discussion of sales or price tags. The initial offer for the building had been reasonable, she supposed, for what most people thought was an abandoned building. But it wasn’t nearly enough in Mira’s estimation. Of course, she wouldn’t sell the place for anything, unless Shane could magically
