hideaway hero

8/2/2019 Hideaway Hero

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Hideaway Hero

by

Kathleen O'Brian

Chapter One

Greta Kinyon stood at the window of her Hideaway Hill suite, gazing at the sunset that

shimmered on Bodega Bay and wondering why she couldn't relax. This B and B was her favorite

retreat. Ordinarily, the minute she set foot in the lobby, she felt a lovely wash of peace and her

worries fell away.

Today, though, the magic hadn't kicked in. She was restless. Nervous. Wrong from head to toe.

And she had no idea why. She'd just closed one of the biggest real estate deals of her career.

She'd been able to give a nice bonus to her assistant, who was going through a tough divorce.

Greta's father, her main investor and mentor, would be thrilled about the sale, though the bonus

would exasperate him. He had many wonderful qualities, but giving without expectation of

return wasn't among them.

Still, the sale had been a coup. And now she was starting a week's vacation at one of the prettiest

spots on the California coast and planning to spend it with Franklin Marks, the man she'd been

seeing for the past year.

Recipe for bliss, right?

And yet…

Greta stepped out of her heels, then peeled off her jacket. Plopping on the bed, she tossed a

pillow across her stomach, as if applying pressure there might settle the butterflies she seemed to

have swallowed. Just for a minute, she shut her eyes.

Suddenly someone rapped at the suite's door. As she jolted awake, the stomach butterflies

reacted to the knock, fluttering frantically.

And then she knew. Franklin. As strange as it sounded, she was dreading seeing Franklin.

"Come in," she called, noting that the last of the sunset was merely a gold shadow on the carpet.

How long had she slept?



She heard the door open in the front room, followed by the rumble of a room-service cart. She

whisked her feet down and tried to smooth the bed-head out of her hair. Franklin must have

ordered something.

"Thanks…please just put it— "

But as she entered the other room, she got a look at the man pushing the cart.

"Gabe!" Her heart lifted.

Though this was her fifth vacation at the Hideaway, the gorgeous owner, Gabriel Lennox, never

seemed to change. He always wore some version of a soft Henley shirt that molded to his sexy

chest, and faded jeans, which did the same for his lean legs. His chestnut hair still didn't have a

single strand of gray, even though he was thirty-six — six years older than Greta — and she'd

found one on her pillow just last week.

He always looked casual and earthy, as if he'd just come from building a tree house, yet he neverseemed out of place, even among his most elegant guests.

"Hey, Chicken Little." He opened his arms. "Welcome back."

She groaned at the old nickname, though secretly she loved hearing it. Her first year at the

Hideaway, she'd booked this suite for the express purpose of losing her virginity on her twenty-

sixth birthday. She'd ended up chickening out, and instead spent all night on the back porch with

Gabe, crying into her wine until he began making jokes so absurd she had to laugh.

She returned his hug warmly. As usual, she stole a glance at his left hand. Still single. Amazing.

Female guests at the Hideaway outnumbered the men five to one, undoubtedly because word hadspread that the owner was a hottie.

Some of the guests weren't subtle about what they wanted, either, and Greta wondered how often

he accepted. Last year, she had spotted a well-known actress emerging from his suite in the

predawn hours, looking dazed and delighted. It was the only time she'd seen anyone near his

room…but, then, Greta only came to the Hideaway once a year.

Still. Apparently even the actress hadn't received a permanent offer. Maybe Gabe just wasn't the

marrying kind.

His arm still around Greta's shoulder, Gabe surveyed the empty room. "So where's Mr. Lucky?"

Over the past four years, she'd come to the Hideaway with three different men. Gabe referred to

them all as Mr. Lucky.

"Franklin," she corrected. "Franklin Marks. I guess he's late."

"Guess so. He ordered this, though, so he must have expected to be here to drink it."



She looked at the champagne, glittering with condensation in its icy silver cradle. A bowl of

strawberries and cream sat beside it, and a single red rose beside that.

She imagined Franklin standing before her as midnight chimed and Valentine's Day officially

began. He'd pour their glasses and propose a toast.

Propose…

Suddenly she knew the cause of her anxiety. Deep down, she was afraid Franklin might choose

this vacation to propose.

"Maybe he'll have to cancel." Optimism sparked in her chest. "Maybe something went wrong at

work."

Gabe's brows arched, touching the hair that tumbled onto his forehead. "Wow. I've never heard

anyone sound so happy about getting stood up. You're actually hoping he won't show."

"Of course not." She dropped onto the armchair next to the sofa, lifting her feet onto the ottoman.

"Okay, maybe a little. He's getting too persistent. About…commitment."

Gabe smiled. He plucked a strawberry from the plate, then sat on the ottoman, nudging her

ankles to make room. "I can't tell you how much I enjoy the soap opera that is your love life."

"It's not a soap opera," she protested limply.

"Sure it is. Although there's never quite enough dirty stuff to make it really juicy." He consumed

the strawberry in one bite — an oddly sexy action — and tossed the stem expertly back onto the

pink tablecloth. "Out with it. What's wrong?"

***

With anyone else — especially her father — she would have denied it. But with Gabe, honesty was

easy. A relief, even. He knew all her secrets. Sometimes she wondered how much she'd spilled

that first year, over the wine.

"It's just that I'm not ready for…the next step. But Franklin thinks I should be. And I'm afraid

I've goofed by scheduling this vacation right before Valentine's Day. It's such a perfect setup for

a proposal." She lifted her hand. "I might as well have tattooed a bull's-eye on my ring finger."

Gabe laughed. "Every time you bring a man here, Chick, the poor guy leaves with his dreams

dashed."

"Not every time."

"No?" He ticked off on his fingers. "The first year was that Roger guy. The one who slept alone

for two nights, then gave up and went home. Year two…was his name Ty?"



"Ty and I did just fine," she reminded him.

"Yeah, but by the next year things had definitely cooled. If I remember correctly, you spent a lot

of your nights helping me muck out stalls."

"That wasn't my fault," she said, poking his thigh with her toes. She couldn't help noticing thathis muscles were rock solid. He worked hard, day and night, to keep the Hideaway running at its

best…but never complained. He loved this business.

He loved building and growing and cooking — unlike Greta, who created nothing. She merely

brokered deals between other people. People who didn't have her problems with commitment.

People who were willing to say Yes. I want to put roots down here.

"Ty issued an ultimatum." She frowned. "Marriage or nothing. He should have realized that

would be a mistake."

Gabe nodded slowly. "He was in love. People in love don't always think clearly."

"Which is why the next year I brought Red Malone. Back then, Red wasn't interested in getting

serious with any woman, so I knew it wouldn't be complicated. It was great. No strings, no false

hopes."

Actually, she'd decided against having sex with Red that year, too, but Gabe didn't know that.

Red had accepted her decision so gracefully she hadn't needed to flee the suite. Red had

cheerfully made up the sofa bed and turned the week into a platonic festival of food and fun.

"Okay, Red went well," Gabe admitted, "but now this Franklin guy. Apparently he, too, is

wanting more than you can give."

Something about Gabe's thoughtful expression made Greta feel twitchy. He was usually so

nonjudgmental. Was he looking at the pattern, these five years of failure, and finding her flawed?

Did he really think she was a callous heartbreaker?

Surely he realized that she wanted to find a life partner. Sometimes her fear of ending up alone

woke her in the night and scared her breathless.

She was thirty. She'd had two lovers in her entire life.

All her relationships had fizzled out.

Still, Gabe couldn't believe she should marry the wrong man just because she feared she'd end up

alone. That would be as depressing as marrying for the reasons her father recommended —

financial security or professional advantage.

"What are you thinking?" She didn't know why Gabe's opinion mattered so much to her, but it

did. "Is there something wrong with me? Should I say yes if — "



Before she could finish, another knock came at the door. She stared at the spot, paralyzed. Gabe

shot her one unreadable glance, then stood and opened it.

But it wasn't Franklin this time, either. It was Warren, the bellboy. He held an arrangement of

yellow roses.

"Flowers for Ms. Kinyon."

Finally Greta found the use of her limbs again and joined Warren and Gabe at the door. She took

the flowers, put them on the coffee table and tugged the card off its plastic stick.

The card stuck briefly in its envelope, and she had to yank it free. But finally she could see what

was typed on the note.

She heard Gabe shut the door, then felt him at her shoulder. She registered his cool, manly

scent — of growing things and open air.

"What? Don't tell me Mr. Lucky really decided to propose."

"No." She reread the card. I'm sorry, Greta…

"Well, what, then?"

She turned and held out the card.

"He's tired of waiting. He found somebody else."

Chapter Two

This Valentine's Day was starting out colder than usual — well below forty degrees at midnight,

darn near flirting with freezing. When Gabe went out to replace a beam of rotten wood at the top

of the grape arbor, the full moon had risen, a cold, white wafer in the starry black sky. From his

perch, he could see its reflection lying on the bay like a crust of ice.

He turned away from the sight and shifted the hammer in his gloved hand, ignoring the familiar

twinge in his bad shoulder. He forced his focus back on his work. Tomorrow was an important

day, the day that could save his business from bankruptcy, and he was already behind schedule.

If he allowed his gaze to keep drifting to the bay, the repair to the beam would take twice as long

as it should.

For ten years, ever since his driven, upwardly mobile life had exploded and left him at rock

bottom, he'd worked hard to develop an immunity to stress. Even when he bought the Hideaway,

he hadn't allowed himself to invest too deeply in it — emotionally, at least. Succeed or fail, he

told himself, it didn't matter. Instead of always climbing, with his eye on the next dollar or the

next score, he tried to appreciate the simple things. Like a crisp pear, or a smart dog. Or an icy

Valentine's moon.



But somewhere along the way, he'd started to care about the Hideaway. Really care. The hotel

and its staff had become his heart, and now that he was in danger of losing it, he felt all the old

passion and ambition boiling to the surface.

Tomorrow a woman from Bay Beauty magazine was coming to do a feature spread on his low-

profile bed-and-breakfast, and to ensure the Hideaway stayed in business he needed to impressher. And he had to prevent her from pursuing the angle she'd hinted she might want to use — the

sexy innkeeper and his bevy of female guests.

Not just because it would make him, and his inn, look sleazy and ridiculous. The real problem

was that it was a dangerously short trip from "hunky hotelier" to the ugliness buried in Gabe's

past.

Which meant he'd have to keep a strictly professional distance from all his guests this week.

Including Greta.

He gripped the hammer tightly and shook his head. Could the timing be any worse? This was the

first year Greta would be staying alone. And he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

"Hey, gorgeous. Are you going to stay up there all night?"

He peered over the edge of the arbor. The voice had come from the pool, back toward the main

building, and it was decidedly female.

He kept the pool light on until three, since many of his guests liked moonlit dips in its heated

waters, so as he peered in the direction of the pool, the glowing turquoise rectangle blinded him

for a minute. But after a few seconds, he made out the body stretched across a cushionedlounger. A curvy body —but oddly…well, hairy.

She looked like a long, undulating…ferret.

He squinted, then groaned. Not ferret. Mink. Above the ankle-length mink coat, the platinum-

blond tresses helped him put a name to the body. Katie Marchada. Bay-view suite, second floor

west.

Where her twelve-year-old son and her husband were undoubtedly sound asleep right now.

Damn it. The truth was, the Bay Beauty reporter had a point. He did have a lot of femaleguests — a lot of lonely women who enjoyed getting a few days of TLC from a handy, attractive

guy like Gabe.

Some of them wanted a lot more than that, though, and it wasn't always easy to convince them

that simple TLC would actually make them happier in the long run.



And something told him it would be extra difficult to convince Katie Marchada of that. He'd had

a rotten sense about this woman from the minute she checked in. It hadn't taken a rocket scientist

to interpret the way she twirled the shiny end of one platinum curl while she scanned Gabe from

head to toe.

"So are you coming down?" She shifted, the glossy fur catching the moonlight. "Because a girlcould freeze out here, you know."

Maybe not mink, after all. More like cougar.

He thanked his lucky stars the reporter wasn't on-site yet. What a great photo this would make

for the Bay Beauty magazine spread! The cornered hunter run up a tree by the hungry predator.

He stuck the hammer into his belt like a gun and stepped onto the ladder with a sigh. His to-do

list was already long enough without adding pest control to his chores.

No choice, though. Somehow, without wounding her self-esteem, he had to maneuver her back into her room before her husband woke up.

And before he found out what, if anything, she had on under that coat.

As his foot hit the ground, the perfect idea came to him. "I'm sorry you can't sleep," he said as he

picked up his tool bag and headed her way across the pool deck. "But I'm actually glad to see

you."

"Ditto," she said, her eyes half closed and a smile like the Cheshire cat playing on her full lips.

"I don't know if you heard about the magazine reporter coming tomorrow." He didn't wait for ananswer. "But just my luck — the garbage disposal chose tonight to go kaput. I could really use

someone to help me clear out the gunk."

Her eyes widened suddenly. Somehow, he managed not to laugh.

"Well, I'd love to, of course I would." She licked her lips nervously. "But if I were gone that

long, my husband might — "

As she fumbled her way through her excuses, Gabe could hardly bring himself to pay attention.

All he could think was…

Greta would have said yes.

***

"What's wrong with me?"



The face in the mirror repeated Greta's question back to her, like some annoying elementary

school monkey-see-monkey-do game. As she lifted her hair and piled it on her head, the woman

in the mirror did the same with her own dark red hair — which, in all honesty, seriously needed

brushing. Greta stuck out her tongue, and the mirror woman did the same.

"This is not a joke. He dumped me in a card. And he didn't even write the card himself. Hedictated it to the florist. What's wrong with me?"

The woman in the mirror just blinked stupidly.

About half an hour ago, Greta had realized that opening the bottle of champagne and drinking

two-thirds of it had been a mistake. Especially with only strawberries and cream in her stomach

to absorb the alcohol.

But hey. No use crying over spilled milk.

Spilled champagne.

Whatever .

She sat on the big canopied bed, cross-legged, wearing nothing but her underclothes, a slip and

the beautiful green scarf she'd bought herself after last week's triumphant closing. Frivolous, her

father would have said about the purchase, if she'd mentioned it to him. Plow the money back

into the business, and you'll have time for self-indulgence later.

"Well, I needed it now," she told him, or at least an imaginary version of him. "Later I'll be a

dried-up, lonely spinster, and no one will care that I absolutely rock this scarf."

The woman in the mirror rolled her eyes and chose that moment to speak. "Well, no one cares

now, either. I don't see anyone else in this bed. Do you?"

To her horror, her eyes started to glisten. She put her hands up to her face, hard, as if they could

form a dam to hold the tears in. She wasn't going to cry over Franklin Marks. She wasn't going to

cry over anything or anyone.

And not because, for as long as she could remember, her father had always called weeping a

form of cowardice. Your mother died bringing you into this world, he'd say coldly. And you're

going to repay her with whining?

She wasn't going to cry because…

Because it was ridiculous. She hadn't even loved Franklin.

And because suddenly she felt a lot more like getting sick than crying. She flattened her hands

against her stomach, groaning. She needed food. She hadn't eaten all day…except for thestrawberries.



Shakily, she got to her feet. She put on her nice wool coat, new this winter — take that, Dad — and

the heels she'd tossed off earlier. She remembered that her hair could use brushing but she'd

forgotten where she'd put her purse, and finding food was more urgent.

The hotel was silent as she wobbled her way to the kitchen. Of course it was, at two in the

morning. Gabe wouldn't mind, though, if she grabbed a hunk of bread. Carbs. Nice, spongy carbswould soak up the champagne.

Her high heels were tricky on the stairs, and she had to catch herself twice to avoid

somersaulting down to the landing. Every time she found her footing, she gave a thumbs-up to

her invisible audience below, and soldiered on.

Finally she found the kitchen. It was completely dark, except for the moonlight reflected in the

flat metallic surface of the fancy refrigerator. She could see herself in it, almost as well as she

could in the mirror upstairs. Her unbuttoned coat had flopped open, and her bra and slip gleamed

white through the gap, with the green scarf dangling near her rib cage.

She looked darn good. The reflection was too fuzzy to show the messed-up hair, and a little warp

in the refrigerator's surface had the happy effect of making her usually ordinary legs seem long

and sexy.

"What's wrong with me?" She lifted her chin and burped softly, which made her giggle. She put

her hands on her hips, accenting her waist like a runway model. "Well, Franklin Marks, I'd have

to say absolutely nothing."

"And I," Gabe's voice said from out of the darkness, "would have to wholeheartedly agree."

Chapter Three

Gabe had to laugh at the look on Greta's face. Her mouth fell open at his words, and the blood

drained out until she was as white as her bra.

"I — I — " She yanked her coat closed and fumbled frantically with the buttons. "I didn't know

anyone was down here."

"No problem." He smiled. "I'm actually getting used to running into women wearing nothing but

a coat and lacy underthings."

She frowned. "You are?"

"Yep." He flipped on the kitchen's overhead light and took a bowl of eggs out of the refrigerator.

He had to make the casseroles for breakfast, anyway, and if he read that sickly expression

correctly, Greta could use some food. She'd obviously spent the evening with her new Mr.

Lucky, Perrier-Jouët.



She frowned, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, a habit she said she'd struggled to break

in her teens because her father had told her it made her look coarse. Gabe thought it made her

look sexy as hell.

Not that he had any business noticing that.

Still, the reporter wasn't coming until the morning. Surely he could spend a little time with an old

friend.

Friend. That was all Greta thought of him as. The good buddy, the guy whose shoulder she cried

on when her love life hit a pothole. He'd been very, very careful not to let her know how he

really felt about her.

"Actually, it's kind of funny," he observed as he put on coffee, then started whisking eggs for an

omelet. He hadn't eaten since lunch himself, so they could share. "You'd be surprised how

different two women wearing the same outfit can be."

She frowned harder, obviously bewildered. She pressed her hand against her stomach and

winced. "I feel sick."

He reached into one of the glass canisters and extracted a grissini breadstick. "Eat this. The

omelet will be ready in three minutes."

She nodded and took a bar stool, then planted her elbows on the counter and started nibbling on

the breadstick like a bunny. He could tell the instant the breadstick began to ease her wooziness,

because her frown deepened and a flush rose on her cheeks. She was sobering up enough to be

embarrassed.

"You probably won't believe this," she said, staring down at her breadstick miserably. "But I

don't drink."

He smiled as he circled the butter in the pan. "No kidding."

"Really." She looked up, her eyes all dewy and earnest. "At home, I have a bottle of merlot I

bought for last year's Christmas party, and it's still there. All of it. I honestly never drink."

"Maybe you should," he observed as he poured the egg mixture onto the butter. "You know. Get

some practice."

She stared at him a second, and then, slowly, began to smile. The curve of her strawberry-stained

lips was so sweet and sexy he had to shift to hide a swelling heat that suddenly pressed against

his jeans.

"I like you, Gabriel Lennox," she said, tapping his arm with the stub of the breadstick. "Did you

know that? I really, really like you."



It was just the champagne talking, but he enjoyed watching her form the words carefully, being

extra meticulous with the Rs.

"If you like me now, you'll love me when you taste this," he said. He slid the omelet onto a plate,

the cheese bubbling around the crisp brown edges, just the way she always ordered it.

He put the plate on the countertop and handed her a cup of coffee and a fork. "Have some. It'll be

good for what ails you."

For a while, they ate in silence, each coming at the eggs from their own end, carving toward the

middle. She shut her eyes reverently as she ate, and the only sound was an occasional murmur of

delight as she chewed.

Finally, they were down to the last inch, and though he could tell she wanted more, she was too

polite to take the only piece left.

He knuckled the plate toward her. "Go ahead," he said. "It's yours."

She didn't argue. She popped it into her mouth and chewed. When she swallowed, she took a

deep breath, then exhaled as if she were releasing tension from every muscle of her body.

"You've saved my life," she said. Her voice sounded nearly normal. "I owe you, Gabe. Really.

Anything. I can't cook like this, but…there must be something I can do to thank you."

He reached out with his napkin and blotted a glistening spot of butter at the corner of her mouth.

Their eyes met.

"Just be happy," he said in a low voice. "I want you to be happy."

"I am." She looked thoughtful a moment, before she began to smile again, hesitantly at first, then

broadly, without inhibition. "I really am."

"Good." Forcing himself to break eye contact, he turned his attention to the real work of the

moment — the breakfast casseroles.

She watched a few minutes, sipping at the coffee. "When Meg checked me in, she said you were

absorbed with a big project. What's up?"

He was surprised she hadn't heard — the whole hotel was abuzz with expectation about the

reporter. Of course, she'd been closeted in her room all night.

" Bay Beauty magazine is considering doing a photo spread on the Hideaway. A reporter is

coming tomorrow to check us out, so I've been trying to spruce things up. I thought I ran a pretty

tight ship, but when you look closely — "



"The hotel is perfect," she broke in, her face cloudy with offended loyalty. "If that reporter

doesn't see how fantastic everything is — " She waved her hand. "Well, then he's a fool, and to

heck with him."

"Her. And unfortunately, I can't afford to brush her off. With the economy going downhill, I

need the publicity if I'm going to stay in business."

Greta didn't speak for a minute, but her eyes widened. As a real estate agent, she obviously knew

all about the economy, but she clearly loved the Hideaway so much she hadn't considered the

possibility that its doors would ever close.

She chewed her bottom lip hard. "It's that bad?"

"I'm afraid it is. I expanded too much a couple of years ago when things were going strong. And

now that bookings have dropped, I have more rooms and more employees than I strictly need."

Somehow, the Hideaway had become a safe haven for a dozen or more wonderful oddballs. LikeWarren, the bell "boy," a seventy-year-old poet who wore his hair down to his knees and did odd

jobs in exchange for a room with a view. Or Meg at the front desk, who knitted incessantly, and

tried to cover every table with her handiwork.

"I haven't let anyone go, though I probably should have."

Greta nodded, but she didn't suggest he start layoffs. He knew she understood. Like him, she'd

always treated the employees as friends, not servants.

"What can I do?"

He put the first casserole into the oven. "Nothing. Really. Just relax and have a good time."

"There must be some way I can help. I'm not lazy, and I'm not stupid. Let me support you for

once."

He shook his head. "Everything's covered. Well, except for brunch tomorrow. Cordelia called in

sick, so I'm short one waitress. Want to sling hash?"

"Yes." Her eyes brightened. "Of course. I can do that."

He laughed. "I'm kidding."

"Well, I'm not. You think I can't wait tables? I was a server in high school."

He came around the counter and put his hands on her shoulders. "I think you could do whatever

you set your mind to. But you're a guest here. I'm not going to put you to work."

The space between her brows creased. "But, Gabe, with the reporter coming — "



"Seriously. If you want to help me, just enjoy yourself. If anything will impress the magazine

people, it's a hotel full of happy guests."

She smiled. "No problem," she said, her shoulders relaxing under his palms. "I'm always happy

when I'm here, with you."

And then, without warning, she lifted up on her toes, and kissed him.

He stood still, paralyzed by surprise. Her lips were warm, and sweet from the butter. She tasted

of strawberries.

He'd imagined kissing her a hundred times over the years. He'd imagined what came after, too.

His body responded, even as his mind was saying, Damn it, why now? Why this year, when he

couldn't risk making a move?

"Hello?" A cool, cultured female voice sounded from the kitchen doorway. "I'm sorry to arrive

so late. No one was in front, but I heard voices back here, so…"

Greta pulled away, her cheeks flushing. The woman smiled, her eyes tilted and amused.

"You must be — " Looking at Gabe, she licked her lips subtly. "Yes, you absolutely must be the

irresistible Gabriel Lennox."

"Yes, I'm Gabe." He held his composure. "And you are?"

Chapter Four

Gabe was right, Greta thought. She should practice drinking more often. She was absolutelyrotten at it.

When she got up just before dawn the next morning, a hundred tiny woodpeckers were banging

away at her skull as if it were their favorite tree. She tried to evict them with a scalding shower, a

black cup of coffee and a couple of industrial-strength aspirin.

The woodpeckers were still there after all that, but at least now she could hear over their din.

She knew better than to think Gabe had changed his mind about letting her fill in for his sick

waitress, so she went straight to the kitchen and sought help from Leslie Landers, the most senior

of the Hideaway's waitstaff.

Leslie didn't blink when she heard Greta wanted to pitch in. She just said, "Thank God," noted

approvingly that Greta had worn the obligatory black pants and white shirt, and began giving

directions.



Thankfully, the job didn't sound too difficult. The brunch was buffet-style, so once they got

everything set out it would be mostly a matter of taking drink orders and solving problems as

they cropped up.

The Hideaway's brunch was popular around Bodega Bay, so Leslie warned her to expect chaos —

and very sore feet at the end of her "shift."

Her final warning: keep an eye out for the writer from Bay Beauty magazine, that uppity cat who

had arrived in the middle of the night. Only good thing about her late arrival was that she would

probably sleep late and skip breakfast.

"I hear she's gorgeous," Leslie said in her gravelly voice. "She's probably just here to flirt with

the boss. Half the women in the hotel are. And that estimate is lowballing it."

Greta cringed slightly inside, remembering that last night she'd added herself to the list — in front

of the reporter.

For distraction, she picked up a huge platter of fruit. Shocked at the weight, she balanced it on

her shoulder and wobbled her way to the sunny, all-glass dining room, where she set it down

carefully on a bed of ice, thanking heaven she hadn't dropped it.

At six, two other waiters joined them, twenty-year-old Brandon who apparently was trying to

channel Marlon Brando, and Meg's husband, John, who inevitably wore one of Meg's knitted

sweater-vests.

Because today was Valentine's Day, his vest had huge, looping pink hearts everywhere, but he

wore it proudly, as he always did. He considered his wife a great artist, and his loyalty made

Greta want to give him a big hug.

By the time Gabe made it into the dining room at eight, all the tables were full. Greta was

pouring orange juice for a family from Mendocino, but she felt his gaze on her from across the

tables, and her cheeks grew warm. She'd been too busy to think much about last night's kiss, but

her lips tingled now, as if he might be staring at them.

When she finished topping off the glasses, she made her way back toward the buffet, where he

stood, still watching her.

He wore a suit. She couldn't remember ever seeing him so dressed up. He looked wonderful, all

crisp and leanly tailored. But the unaccustomed formality made him seem a little like a stranger.

Or maybe the sudden awkwardness was caused by the memory of their kiss. And the fear that

that kiss, as innocent as it had been, was going to change everything. She half wished she hadn't

given in to the impulse. She didn't want to lose his friendship.

On the other hand, it had been an extraordinary kiss.



"Hi," she said. She hoped he wouldn't be annoyed that she had disregarded his wishes about not

pitching in. He hadn't actually said he wouldn't allow her to wait tables. He'd just said he wasn't

going to put her to work.

Well, he hadn't. She'd put herself to work.

"Hi," he responded wryly.

"Are you mad?" She smiled. "I'm actually doing pretty well. I haven't spilled coffee on anyone.

Yet."

"Mad?" He raised his eyebrows. "No. But I have to admit I'm surprised."

"Because I was able to wake up so early after last night?"

One side of his mouth lifted. "Because you even remember last night."

"Of course I do. I wasn't that drunk." But she felt herself blushing. Remembering last night

meant remembering the kiss.

"Boss, you need to come look at the fridge." Leslie was at his shoulder suddenly, her brow knit

tight in worry. "The thermometer might be wrong, but it 's not registering cold enough."

He took a deep breath. "Wouldn't you know it?" He tossed Greta a glance. "We'll talk more later,

okay?"

"Sure." She watched him go, then swept an appraising gaze over the dining room, searching for

customers that required tending.

"Uh-oh," she said under her breath. Over at table four, Miranda Blake had suddenly arrived.

She'd seated herself, and was already taking notes in a small pad as another woman — the one

who had been sitting at table five until Miranda walked in — talked animatedly to her.

A wriggle of anxiety twisted in Greta's stomach. She didn't really know what Gabe thought about

the table-five woman, but Greta had pegged her as a wannabe for the show Housewives Behaving

Badly from the first. Beautiful, if a bit overgroomed. But a horrible snob. She'd conspicuously

inspected the silverware before using it, and had held her water glass up to the light, looking for

spots or bits of food debris from inadequate washing.

As if the Hideaway were a diner.

And now she and Miranda Blake were laughing in that snide, closed-lip way, and Miranda was

scribbling furiously in her notebook. Greta's glow faded, replaced by a protective tension. She

hurried over, wondering if she could do any damage control.



John arrived at the table just about the same time Greta did, and one glance at his homemade

sweater made the housewife's face squeeze up as if she'd sucked a lemon.

"I'm sorry," the woman said, still puckered. "But…is there not a dress code for the waitstaff?"

Greta gripped the handle of the pitcher so hard she feared the glass might break. But sweet Johndidn't seem to notice. He merely saw an opening to discuss his wife's talent.

"Yes," he explained eagerly. "But Mr. Gabe makes an exception for my vests. My wife makes

them, one for every holiday. Isn't it beautiful? She can do anything you want. If you asked her

for a picture of your pet poodle, she could sew it in there and it would look exactly like your dog.

Not expensive, either. And these days, everyone's trying to save money, right?"

The woman's pursed lips tightened almost to invisibility. "No," she said with disdain. "Not

everyone, I'm afraid."

The icy tone pierced even John's happy bubble. His face fell, then reddened. Greta felt her bloodbegin to boil.

"Sure they are," she said brightly, smiling at the woman. "I can tell you agree that saving money

is the smart thing to do. I mean — look at your purse. That's one of the best knockoffs I've ever

seen. No one would guess it's not really a Louis Vuitton."

It had been a shot in the dark. But it had also been a direct hit. Miranda Blake chuckled

appreciatively, but the other woman's eyes narrowed, and the tips of her elegant cheekbones

turned as cherry-red as her handbag.

"Indeed," she said tartly. "You don't seem to be wearing a name tag. What is your name?"

"Greta. Greta Kinyon."

"Well, Greta, would you mind finding Gabriel Lennox for me?"

So she was the tattling kind. She probably thought she could get Greta fired. If she only knew!

Still, Greta regretted letting her temper get away from her. She hadn't wanted to cause Gabe any

trouble. She'd wanted to help.

But picking on someone as defenseless as John…

"Certainly," she said meekly, hoping she could placate the woman a bit. "I'll bring Mr. Lennox

right over."

"No, wait — " Miranda put the tip of her pen to her lips and gave Greta a sharply curious once-

over. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"



Darn it. Greta had been an idiot to call attention to herself. As a rule, waitresses were invisible to

people like Miranda. But now she'd been spotted, and she'd have to explain that she was a guest.

"I —I'm not sure…"

Miranda's smile spread out from the edges, slowly. "But of course I do! Aren't you the woman Isaw in the kitchen last night…kissing Gabriel Lennox? He said you were a guest." She used her slim, designer-clad foot to nudge out the chair at right angles to her own. "Sit down, Greta,

honey. I've been dying to talk to you."

Chapter Five

Sore feet was an understatement. After several hours waiting tables for Gabe, Greta sat on the

edge of her suite's circular tub, with the Jacuzzi jets on high, and let the pulsing water pummel

her aching arches. What a morning! She'd never had so much respect for waiters in her life.

Saints, every one of them.

Luckily, she'd been too busy to sit for an interview with the reporter, and had escaped without

discussing her kiss with Gabe in the kitchen. For now, anyhow. She would have to check with

Gabe to see how he wanted to handle it.

Her phone rang long before she was ready to stop soaking, so she just answered it right there,

with her pants rolled up around her knees, and her legs calf-deep in the tub.

"Hi, Dad," she said after a quick look at the caller ID.

"Where are you, Greta?"

She shut her eyes, wishing her father had some other mode than flat-out. "I'm in Bodega Bay. I

told you. I'm here for a week. Remember?"

"Well, you need to come back. Today. The Swillingtons are going to put their house on the

market."

She searched her mind. Maybe it was interference from her aching bones, but she came up blank.

"Remind me again who the Swillingtons are?"

The momentary silence told her eloquently how disappointed he was in her ignorance. "They

own the neoclassical on the way to Carmel? We spent Christmas there when you were aboutfifteen?"

"Oh." She remembered them now. It was hands-down the most amazing house she'd ever set foot

inside. "But I specialize in Sonoma. Maybe a little bit on either side. Carmel's way out of my

orbit."



Not to mention her league. But her father didn't allow her to say self-denigrating things…even if

they were true.

"Nonsense. A Realtor can represent any property anywhere. And you'll have the inside track on

this one, because of the family connection. But you have to get over there today. By tomorrow,

the other Realtors will be circling like vultures."

"No. I really can't leave right now. I need this vacation, Dad."

"More than you need a million-dollar commission and the biggest boost your career has ever

had?" His voice was cold.

She stared down into the tub, where her feet floated, pink and wrinkled. They looked like the feet

of a child.

Just the way her father always made her feel.

"Maybe," she said softly.

"Why? I ran into Franklin and he told me he'd broken things off. I'm sorry about that. But all the

more reason for you to focus on your career."

If she was going to end up an old maid, he meant. She'd have to be successful at being a

businesswoman to overcome the shame of failing at being a trophy wife.

What crap!

The mutinous thought caught her by surprise. But then, in about three seconds, she got used tothe feeling, and she decided she liked it.

Because it was crap. It was complete and utter, old-fashioned, chauvinistic baloney! For the first

time she could ever remember, her father sounded foolish to her. Out of touch, not only with

modern culture but with Greta's reality.

She'd been happier today than she'd been in…years. Far, far happier than she'd be if she racedhome and fought with the other vultures for the million-dollar commission.

"Dad, I'm sorry, but I…"

She considered explaining that she had to stay because Gabe needed her again tomorrow to fill in

for a sick waitress. She smiled, imagining how that would go over, and decided against it.

She didn't really want to give her father a heart attack.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I appreciate that you're trying to help me out, but I don't want to try

to snag the Swillington listing. Gabe could use a hand right now, and I've told him I'll pitch in."



"Gabe?"

"Gabe Lennox. He owns the Hideaway. He currently has a big project and — "

To her surprise, her father began to laugh. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Gabriel Lennox? Don't tell

me you've gotten involved with that slick hound dog who calls himself a hotelier."

Greta almost lost her grip on the phone. What on earth? How did her father know Gabe? Could

he be thinking of someone else? "Gabe is a very nice man, actually. He needs help with this

project, and — "

"Don't be an idiot, Greta. You're not helping Gabriel Lennox with a project. You are his project."

***

By the time they reached the end of the official tour of the interior, Gabe was hoping the

Hideaway had impressed Miranda enough to persuade her to give up the whole sleazyHeartbreak Hotel angle.

When she walked in on him with Greta last night, he'd assumed he was doomed. And then Leslie

alerted him that Miranda had been pumping all the female guests all morning, looking for

scuttlebutt. She'd spent breakfast chatting up Katie Marchada, who probably wasn't Gabe's

biggest fan after he'd shuttled her back to her room last night without so much as a snuggle on

the pool deck.

But he didn't have the luxury of tossing either woman out on her upturned nose. He hadn't been

exaggerating when he'd told Greta he might go out of business. Unless the economy turned

around or he got a jolt of new business, it wasn't "might." It was "definitely would."

He had been trying to convince himself that he didn't mind. The Hideaway had been his dream,

sure. But he could find another dream. He'd done that before. The hard way.

For the two dozen people who worked for him, though… For people tied to Bodega Bay with

mortgages, parents and children, finding another job wouldn't be so easy.

But who was he kidding? It wouldn't be easy for him, either. He loved this hotel. He loved every

inch of it, most of which he'd built and restored and maintained with his own two hands. He

wasn't the same man he was, back when he'd made such a mess of his life. He had changed. He

had left that selfish bastard behind. If only Miranda Blake wouldn't dredge it all back up….

If only she could judge the Hideaway purely as a hotel — not as a juicy scandal that might sell a

few extra copies of the magazine.

So he toured her, and he flattered her, and he introduced her and her photographer, Charles, to

everyone on the property as if they were visiting royalty.



By the time they were finished going around the inside and had settled at a table by the pool

overlooking the bay, Miranda seemed to finally be taking it all seriously.

She dispatched Charles to get some preliminary shots. Then she crossed her legs, leaned back

and held her face up to the sun, which was beginning to warm the day that had begun with such a

chill.

Leslie brought out a tray of hot tea options, which seemed to please Miranda. Gabe let himself

relax a little.

"I think we can make this work," Miranda said as she dunked a bag of mint-flavored green tea

into her cup. "This view is perfect, and the lobby will show well. The bay-facing suites will be a

little trickier, as the space is a bit broken up, but Charles is a genius. He can hide anything."

Gabe smiled noncommittally, though he wondered what needed hiding. He'd hired the best

decorator in San Francisco to dress those suites. It wasn't as if he'd done it himself with leftovers

from his grandmother's attic.

"But of course, the best angle is still your allure for women."

His chest tightened. "What?"

Miranda watched as two young bikini-clad college women peeled off their Hideaway robes and

slowly lowered themselves into the heated pool, laughing and squealing with delight. For a

minute, Gabe wished they were eighty. And male.

"The women," Miranda said again. She smiled at Gabe, but her gaze was sharp. "Why does that

bother you so much? It's not as if you can deny it. Meg ran the numbers for me. Over the pastfive years, your clientele has been seventy-eight percent female."

He shrugged. "Is that significantly higher than most B and Bs?"

"I suspect so." Miranda tapped her fingernail against the edge of her cup. "I've got a fact-checker

looking into that right now."

Irritation coiled hot in his chest. "So even before you've got the facts, you've already decided

how you're going to play the article? I didn't realize that's how Bay Beauty operated."

If he thought he was going to shame her, he was wrong.

She laughed. "Look, Gabe. You want this story because it'll help your bottom line. Well, that's

our reason for writing it, too. We need sales to stay in business, just as you do. It's not as if we're

making anything up. We're just highlighting the element that has the most human interest. And

that's you."



He frowned, which made her tilt her head coquettishly. "Sorry. It's not my fault you're a magnet

for lovelorn ladies. Take Greta, for instance. What's the deal with — "

"Leave Greta out of it."

Miranda's eyebrows shot up.

Smooth, Lennox. Now he'd painted a target on Greta's back, too. "I mean, leave all the guests out

of it. I don't believe they're here just because of me, but even if they are, I'm not interested."

"Really? Didn't look that way last night."

"Last night was… Greta and I are friends. She was thanking me for helping her out."

Miranda nodded so slowly it was almost as skeptical as a laugh. "If you say so. But what about

the actress? Last year? Was she just a friend, too? Because if that's how you define 'friend'…"

God, how much did she know? What kind of digging had she and her fact-checkers been doing?

And how long before they found out about…

Liza.

"Come on, Gabriel," Miranda said, putting her hand on his arm. "It's just a cute gimmick. Why

are you so opposed to it? It's not as if you have anything to hide." Her brows went up once more.

"Do you?"

Chapter Six

Gabe always felt most at peace in the stables. In the shadows of the overhanging trees, he spoke

quietly to Hotshot, a rusty brown Irish Hunter that was his personal mount. The horse responded

by neighing tranquilly, and nudging him with its glossy nose.

He made an effort to momentarily block awareness of Miranda, who was prowling in the corners

of the building, taking notes and occasionally texting her photographer. When she finally moved

around to the outside of the barn, he took a deep breath, and tried to relax. But what a joke.

What a rotten, dirty joke. He wasn't going to be able to talk her out of her "hook."

"Gabe?"

He glanced over his shoulder. A woman's form, outlined in sunlight, stood in the open door. She

hesitated only a second, and then she moved into the stable, walking right up to where he stood.

It was Greta.



"I've been looking for you," she said softly. Then she reached out and put her hand around the

back of his neck, where the curling edges of his soft hair tickled her fingers.

And she kissed him.

For one half-fraction of a second, Gabe didn't even have a brain. He didn't think, didn't ask questions, didn't remember why this was wrong. He wrapped his arms around Greta and pulled

her in. A sudden fiery hunger shot through him, and he met her lips with a driving passion that

clearly surprised her.

With a low murmur, her lips fell open, and her entire body melted against him. He ran his hands

up the delicate, well-defined muscles on either side of her spine, then let his hands fall to the

sexy hollow at the small of her back. He pressed softly, and she tilted forward, meeting him hip

to hip, heat to heat.

Hotshot whinnied behind him. And suddenly reality rushed in. He pulled away roughly, pushing

Greta from him with the heels of his palms.

Greta stepped back an inch or two, clearly confused. She put her fingers up to her hair and

smoothed it nervously, though it wasn't mussed. She seemed unsteady, her eyes unfocused and

her swollen lips still parted.

"You need to go," he said, his voice strangely grating as he fought to tamp down his beating

heart. He wanted her out of here before Miranda returned. He couldn't let Greta become a part of

this circus. In fact, he thought maybe he should ask her to leave. He could tell her he'd

accidentally double- booked her room….

"I — I'm sorry." She tugged the hem of her white shirt, the same one she'd worn to wait tables thismorning. "That was…that was silly. An overreaction. I just wanted to thank you. You gave me

the inspiration I needed to do something I've wanted to do for a long time."

He realized this was an important moment for Greta, something they should celebrate — but not

with a reporter. He listened for a second, but didn't hear Miranda walking around. He wondered

if she'd gone far enough that she was out of earshot. Or was she standing on the other side of the

wall, listening?

"What did you do?"

Greta laughed shakily. "I told my father to go to hell."

In spite of himself, Gabe wished he'd been there to hear that. He'd never met August Kinyon, but

she'd said enough over the years to make it clear the man didn't get put in his place anywhere

near often enough.

"I may not actually have used those words." Her voice had steadied a little. "But he got the

message. It's the most liberating thing I've ever done."



"And how exactly did I help?"

She shrugged. "I don't know if I can explain it. You're just so…grounded. When I'm with you

I…"

The sentence dwindled off. "Anyhow, when he called today wanting me to come home so that Icould snag some huge real estate listing, I saw how pathetic it is to live only for money. For the

first time, I saw that he was the one whose priorities were wrong. Not me."

Gabe looked at her, standing there in a shaft of chilly sunlight that filtered through the wooden

slats of the stable walls. She was like an angel of righteousness, glowing with her victory.

But he wondered whether, in the aftermath when she'd have to live with her father's cold

disapproval, she could sustain this conviction. Whether she should even try.

After all, look how far Gabe's "grounded" priorities had gotten him. He'd tried to build and run

his hotel without greed, putting his employees and his guests first. He'd set aside ambition andpower. He'd tried to make a better man of himself, to bury his past and create a future he could

be proud of.

And now where was he? Damn near bankrupt and at the mercy of a predatory magazine writer

who thought it would be fun to feature him as a modern-day hippie guru offering free love at his

Hideaway brothel.

"I wouldn't be so quick to judge him," he said bitterly. "Your father just may have it right."

***

Greta had thought she would feel the pain of her aching feet for weeks — but right now she was

too numb to feel anything. Gabe's odd tone had disturbed her. His clear rejection had hurt.

And when Miranda Blake appeared in the doorway of the stable, notebook in hand and obviously

nearby the entire time, Greta had just wheeled around and left.

She didn't want to go back to her empty suite. Instead she headed out to walk along the brown

sandy beach of Bodega Bay.

The wind had picked up, so she tugged her hair into a ponytail and tied her green scarf around

her neck. She almost had the beach to herself except for a few others, all couples celebratingValentine's Day by admiring the beauty of the winter bay.

And it was beautiful, in a poignant winter way. Sunset was still a couple of hours away, but the

foam was already tinted gold where the water surged against the black rocks. Seabirds swooped

and circled overhead, dark wings swinging against the cloudless blue sky.



She had a million emails and calls to return — when you owned your own business, work never

stopped completely, even when you were on vacation. She'd be willing to bet Gabe hadn't had a

true vacation since he bought the Hideaway.

But she needed to be alone. She needed to think.

And to sort out what Gabe's strange, harsh attitude had really meant.

She'd never seen him so cold and severe. Coming right after the heat of their kiss made his

banked anger even more confusing. When their lips had met, the fire had caught instantly, and if

the time and place had been more appropriate, she had no doubt they would have ended up in

bed.

But, for her at least, it was more than a sudden spike of lust. When he'd put his arms around her,

something inside her had softened. Some wall had fallen. For those few wonderful moments,

she'd put not only her body in his hands, but her heart.

And it had felt safe there.

It had felt like…

She pulled her scarf up over her nose, warding off the brisk February wind — and the word she'd

almost said. That would be crazy. She couldn't kid herself that this was…

Love.

It couldn't be. Gabe obviously didn't feel anything more than a mild sexual attraction to

her…mild enough, it seemed, that he didn't have the impulse to act on it. She'd kissed him twicenow, and twice he'd pushed her away.

Besides, just yesterday, she'd been sitting in her suite, expecting another man to come through

the door and be her lover. And as her father had intimated, she didn't really know Gabe all that

well. So what she felt for Gabe couldn't be real.

She was just confused right now, suspended between the old rules — her father's rules, Franklin's

rules — and the new life she was just beginning to realize was possible.

But then why was she so heartsore? Why did her every thought focus on Gabe?

She turned, heading back toward the Hideaway, spreading out along the bluff above her, white

and welcoming. She climbed the steps toward the garden, the grape arbor and the pool.

But halfway up, she found her passage blocked by a tall man in a heavy black coat.

"Greta!" The man held out his hands. "I was coming down to look for you. I'm so sorry, honey.

Can you forgive me? I was such a fool."



She backed up, so shocked that she might have tumbled all the way to the beach if she hadn't

clutched wildly and found the handrail. She stared at the man, unable to believe her eyes.

"Oh, my God," she breathed. "Franklin."

Chapter Seven

"And so Miss Greta looked Ms. Marchada right in the eye and said, 'Oh, yeah? Well, your fancy

purse is a big fat fake, so maybe you should stop being such a snob.'"

John grinned as he reached the climactic moment of his story, and the others gathered around

him at the front desk broke into cheers.

"Yep," John said, nodding with satisfaction. "And you should have seen Ms. Marchada's face.

Took her down a peg, I'll tell you."

Gabe, who was sorting through the reservations to try to find out how the double-booking of room twelve had happened, smiled for the first time in hours.

The story was so typical of Greta. The first day he'd met her, as she was checking in, she'd been

arguing on her cell phone with her father…something about lowering her commission to help out

a distressed homeowner. From then on, at every visit he saw more proof that she instinctively

championed the underdog.

So despite what she believed, her defiance on the phone with her dad today wasn't her first, and

it wasn't a result of anything Gabe had done.

Greta's father might think he was dealing with a weaker opponent, but he'd better watch out.Greta was coming into her own, finally. And when she made up her mind about something, she

was a force to be reckoned with.

"Miss Greta is a fine young woman," Meg said, stroking her husband's heart-patterned vest as if

she were comforting a kitten. "Always has been. That's why I'm glad her good-looking man

friend showed up after all."

Gabe lifted his head. "What?"

Meg returned to her knitting placidly. "You remember. Her boyfriend. This year's boyfriend,

anyhow. You knew the jerk stood her up, didn't you? I was afraid she was going to have to spendValentine's Day alone. But he ended up coming to be with her."

Gabe's fingers tightened on the pen he held. "When?"

"About an hour ago. I told him she was walking on the beach, so he went out and found her.

They're up in the room now. Probably making up…if you get what I mean." She winked. "I hope



she makes him grovel a little, though, before she forgives him. Nasty trick, standing her up on

Valentine's Day."

Somehow Gabe managed not to jump to his feet and race up the stairs like a cartoon character.

He put everything back in the cubbyholes neatly, saved and closed his Excel document.

This was for the best.

She'd kissed him. That was all. He hadn't staked a claim. He hadn't even declared his intention to

try. In fact, he'd rejected her, and for good reason. He had no intention of pulling Greta Kinyon

into the quagmire that his life was about to become.

If she wanted Franklin back, nothing that had happened in the past twenty-four hours should stop

her. It was her decision to make.

But damn it. He glanced toward the staircase, and his mind ran through a list of possible excuses

to knock on their door, in spite of his determination to stay out of it.

Warren, who had confined his hair in a neat ponytail in honor of the visit from Bay Beauty

magazine, frowned at Gabe. His bushy silver eyebrows almost completely obscured his eyes.

"Maybe you should go check and see if they need anything," Warren suggested.

Gabe smiled, hoping it came off as casual. "They'll call if they do." He looked at the

switchboard, as if they might be ringing through right now. "I'm sure they're fine."

"Yeah, but let's face it," Warren said pointedly. "How fine do you want them to be?"

Everyone was staring at Gabe, some with confused expressions.

And then, like the annoying jack-in-the-box Gabe had started to imagine her as, Miranda

appeared. Behind her were Katie Marchada, the two college co-eds from the pool this afternoon

and two other female guests between the ages of twenty-five and forty.

"And there's our handsome host," she called merrily. "Okay, everyone! Photo time!"

***

Anticipation fizzed in Greta's chest like the bubbles in fine champagne. If she'd learned anythingtoday, it was what she wanted out of life — and what she didn't want. So she wasn't going to just

pretend nothing had happened between her and Gabe, and she wasn't going to let him pretend

that, either.

She had to see him. Right now.



She'd thought the elevator would be faster, but when she punched the button and nothing

happened, she made an abrupt right turn and bounded down the stairs instead.

Working things out with Franklin had taken forever, but it was just barely six o'clock, and with

any luck Gabe would be in the lobby. As a true B and B, the Hideaway didn't offer formal meals

except in the morning. But every night from six to seven the Hideaway hosted a social hour inthe lobby, a chance for the guests to get to know each other over wine and casual hors d'oeuvres.

Gabe was usually there. She hoped he would be again tonight — in spite of the fact that Miranda

Blake was still on-site.

And he was.

He stood with one of the many female guests, of course. Some women had their own agenda for

social hour — to finagle some flirtation time with Gabe.

She spotted him even though she was only halfway down the last flight of stairs. She paused, herhand still on the railing, her effervescence abruptly sputtering out, extinguished by a sudden

confusion.

The woman he was with was small and mousy. Greta had seen her this morning at breakfast,

eating alone, reading a novel and then scuttling back up to her room as soon as she could. Greta

had tried to chat with the woman a bit, in the hopes of making her feel more comfortable, but had

no luck.

Now, though, the woman positively sparkled. The smile she beamed toward Gabe lit up her face.

Her posture was better. She looked prettier, happier…even somehow taller. She turned her face

toward Miranda Blake's cameraman, looking as lovely as any model.

"Say cheese," Charles called out merrily.

And everyone laughed.

That was what Gabe did. He created happiness. He radiated contentment, confidence and joy,

and the people around him caught it. Everywhere he went, everyone he talked to.

He made people feel special.

All people. Not just her.

She had always known that about him. She'd witnessed it a million times. And yet, she'd allowed

herself to imagine that what had happened between them last night — and again this afternoon —

was more than just Gabe being Gabe. She was a fool.

Miranda Blake's laugh rang out. She held out her arms, a gracious shepherd moving all her sheep

together for a big family photo shoot.



Greta turned around, and went back up the stairs.

Chapter Eight

Packing didn't take long. Greta was sliding her laptop into the computer bag when she heard a

knock.

She sighed, hoping it wasn't Franklin, back for another round.

When she opened the door, though, it was Gabe on the other side. "Hi," she said neutrally. "I was

going to give you a call as soon as you were through with the photos and the wine social."

"May I come in?"

She stepped aside.

"I saw you on the staircase." Gabe's green eyes were steady on hers. "Why didn't you comedown?"

"Oh. I…I remembered something I hadn't…an email I needed to answer."

"They said Franklin was here. But that he left about half an hour ago. Is that true?"

"Yes."

Gabe's shoulders were tight. His whole body seemed tense. He reached out and straightened a

lampshade that was already perfectly aligned.

"Have you two worked things out?"

"Yes," she said again.

His glance shot to her face. But then his face changed. He'd glimpsed the suitcase.

He took a step closer. "You're leaving?"

"I think I should," she said. "I — "

"Are you going off with Franklin?"

She shook her head. "No. No. When I say we worked things out, I mean we cleared the air and

parted as friends. The story about another woman was a lie. He was angry and hurt. He wanted to

hurt me back."

Gabe frowned. "He admitted that?"



"Yes. He asked me to forgive him, and I did. He wanted more, but I told him I just couldn't."

"You're still not ready, you mean. Ready to commit."

"Yes. No." She zipped up her computer, wishing she was clearer about it all in her mind, in her

heart. "I don't know. I feel as if something has changed, something important. But I'm stillconfused — I've been imagining all kinds of things. I need some time to sort everything out."

"Greta." Gabe took another step toward her. "About this afternoon — "

"It's okay," she said. "I know we're just friends, and I value that. I wouldn't want to do anything

to spoil it. Ever."

She knew she sounded overly emotional, but she couldn't help it. The foundations of her life

were collapsing — her relationship with her father was shifting, she'd ended things with Franklin,

and her attitude toward her whole career was changing. She was pretty sure she still wanted to

work in real estate, but it would be on very different terms.

"I understand that, I think," he said. "But —when you said you've been imagining things…what

things do you mean?" She flushed.

"I ask because — " He watched her closely. "Because if you think you were imagining my

reaction to that kiss, you weren't."

Her flush deepened. "Then maybe imagining isn't the right word. Maybe I've

been…exaggerating."

"Exaggerating my reaction to our kiss?" He smiled. "I'm not sure that's possible."

"I know…or mine. But that's just sex. I was actually imagining that perhaps we…" She tunneled

her hands into her hair. "Forget it. I'm an emotional mess right now. Just twenty-four hours ago I

was in a relationship with someone else. You're so steady, so calm, so eternally in control.

Maybe I'm just trying to cling to that, so that I don't drown in my own confusion."

He was quiet for a long moment. And then he reached out and took her hand. His touch was so

gentle that she was instantly soothed.

Yes, she thought helplessly. This man could have been the sanctuary she needed.

He was the only man who had ever made her feel like this. But for him, she was clearly just

another lovesick female guest throwing herself at him.

"Let's sit for a minute."

She followed him to the armchair. He let her have the seat, and he once again took the ottoman.

He didn't let go of her hand.



"I want to tell you something," he said. "Something about this 'calm man' you think I am."

She waited. Fool that she was, she could hardly concentrate on anything except the strong, lean,

callused fingers against her skin.

"When I was twenty-six," he said, his voice pensive, as if he had to look a long way back to seewhat he wanted to say. "I was probably the most hotheaded guy you could ever meet. I was

impatient, arrogant, stubborn. I was going to own the most fabulous hotels in the country. I was

going to be a huge success, and I was going to reap all the rewards of winning. Money, luxury.

Women."

She smiled, trying to picture him in those words. It was difficult, but not impossible. The barely

banked passion she'd felt in his arms today and the dogged determination with which he'd built

this B and B…

And, now that she really considered it, a dozen other clues, too, hinted at a powerful personality

behind the laid-back smile and woodsy style.

"What changed you?"

"Disaster. By being such a pushy bastard, I brought tragedy to someone who didn't deserve it."

She tightened her fingers on his. "What happened?"

"I was managing a hotel in Vegas. Not one of the superstar properties, but big enough to go to

my head, especially since I was one of the youngest general managers in the city. It impressed

the women. I got pretty good at romancing the female guests. One after another. I couldn't tell

them apart, sometimes."

She remembered what her father had said about him. He must have heard something. But how?

A hound dog in Vegas hardly made headlines in San Francisco.

"I was playing with fire, of course, but I was too cocky to care. Then…then there was Liza. It

didn't matter to me that she was at the hotel with another man. She was blonde, and beautiful,

and strangely innocent, and sweet. I wanted her, and I intended to have her. So I did. Right there,

in the room he'd paid for."

Greta frowned. It sounded as if he was talking about some other man. Not the Gabe she knew.

Or did she really know Gabriel Lennox at all?

"Liza was nervous the whole time, but I ignored it. I thought only about what I wanted in those

days." He ran his hands through his hair. "God, what a nasty little bastard I was."

She could hear the old sorrow still haunting his voice today. "And then…?"



"Her boyfriend came back while I was there. He shot us both. Just a shoulder wound for me. But

she…"

He shook his head. "He killed her."

"Oh, my God."

"Right." He squared his shoulders. "In a way, I died that night, too. Or at least I hope I did. I

hope that selfish son of a bitch is gone forever." He looked up finally, his green eyes bright with

pain. "She knew about the violence in him. She tried to tell me, but I just wouldn't listen."

"You didn't do it," Greta said vehemently. "You didn't pull the trigger."

He suddenly looked very tired, and she wondered how many sleepless nights he'd spent trying to

get the hotel ready for its photo shoot. How many nightmares he'd had about a dead girl in a

long-forgotten hotel room.

"That doesn't matter right now, Greta. What I'm trying to tell you is that I haven't always been a

good man. But I've tried to change. I never exploit my guests."

She tried to smile. "Not even when they throw themselves at you."

He glanced once at her lips, then turned his gaze away. "I have accepted the attention, once or

twice. But only when I'm sure it won't hurt anyone. Mostly I try to live a life I can be proud of.

It's not, however, a very lucrative life. So when Miranda Blake came, offering promotion and

hope — "

She waited.

"But I couldn't do it."

"Do what?"

"Let her turn the Hideaway and its guests into a joke. I sent her away tonight."

Greta inhaled, taken aback. "Why?"

"She kept pushing the angle that all my guests have come here to sleep with me, and I won't

promote my hotel that way. Not even if it's the only way to save it."

"I'll bet she didn't like that."

He nodded. "She had already sensed that I had something to hide. She'll probably dig up my past.

It's not that hard to find. It was quite a scandal, and they eventually had to close the hotel. A few

real estate agents tried to sell the place, but no one wanted to buy it. She'll make the whole thing

public all over again. It'll be ugly, and it'll probably force the Hideaway to close even sooner."



He met her gaze squarely. "I thought you should know."

"Why?" She chewed her lower lip, feeling a sudden terrifying instability, as if the earth had

shifted under them. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I love you, Greta. I've tried to wait — until you were ready, until you'd worked out allyour boyfriend issues, your father issues, your career issues. I've tried to stop myself from acting

on my feelings until the time was right. But I realized that I was just afraid. Afraid that I wasn't

good enough for you. Afraid that, if you ever found out the truth about me, you would despise

me as much as I despised myself."

Her chest felt tight, and she had no idea what to say. She'd never been so confused in her life.

Her heart ached for him, and yet he suddenly seemed like a stranger.

Everything he'd ever done looked different. Every sentence he'd ever spoken sounded changed.

Who was Gabriel Lennox, really?

She needed time. She had already been confused. And after hearing this…

It would be crazy to make any big decisions right now. Besides, her dad…

"I've already called my father," she said, knowing it wasn't a direct answer, but finding it the best

she could do. "I promised I would meet him. I'm sorry, Gabe. I have to go."

***

At eight, an hour after Greta left, Meg asked Gabe to take the front desk so she and John could

go out for a Valentine's dinner. He agreed, of course. Someone should have a romantic ending tothis god-awful day.

Tomorrow, he'd turn his mind to damage control with Miranda — and climbing out of this

financial pit. There had to be a way…somewher e he could cut back, some other kind of

promotion he could manage.

Tonight, he was dog-tired. It had been an exhausting day, emotionally and physically. And it had

ended with Greta walking out of his hotel. Maybe forever.

And he didn't know how he was going to live with that.

Sixty minutes ago, her taillights had disappeared into the darkness. Ever since, he'd been trying

to stop himself from putting his foot through the wall, or taking a baseball bat and using the wine

goblets for batting practice.

So much for his famous Zen serenity. Ten years of self-restraint had walked right out the door

alongside the woman he loved.



"Excuse me, sir. I wondered if you might have any availability for tonight?"

He looked up, disbelieving.

It couldn't be.

But it was. Greta stood on the other side of the front desk. Black coat, green scarf, dark red hair

and smiling eyes.

"Sir? Did you hear me? I asked if you had a room."

He cocked his head, wondering if he was a fool to allow himself to hope. Could she really have

made up her mind already?

"We're almost full. But, coincidentally, a room became available today quite suddenly. Third-

floor suite, bay view."

She bit her lower lip and murmured a disappointed sound. "No, that doesn't sound quite right.

You see…I was actually thinking more along the lines of…"

Her pause was playful, and his heart thrummed heavily, like wings trying to take flight. "Along

the lines of what?"

"Along the lines of… your room."

The anguish of the last hour disappeared in a sudden moronic joy. She had come back. She knew

everything about his past, the absolute worst of him, and she had come back.

It was all he could do not to laugh out loud.

"Well, let's see." He pretended to consult the ledger. "Would you be needing the

accommodations just for tonight?"

She leaned over the counter, and brought her lips very close to his.

"Oh, no," she said in a whisper that moved like wildfire into his veins. "You see, I may be crazy,

but I'm pretty sure I've fallen in love with you, Gabriel Lennox. So I think I'll be needing it for

much, much longer than that."

He heard the word, of course. Love.

Still, he hesitated. "Have you already seen your father?"

"Nope. I called him, though, and told him I'd be here if he wanted to talk. So get ready to meet

him, at his worst." She pointed to her ear, tucking her hair behind it to make it more visible. "See

that red, scalded spot? That's from him. He was still yelling when I hung up."



"Why?" He couldn't stop himself from softly tracing the dainty folds of her ear, which was not

red, but a pearly pink. "I thought you needed time to think."

"I thought. For maybe twenty minutes before I realized what an idiot I had been to ignore my

instincts. To run away from this…from you."

"I understood why you left," he said. "It must have been a shock to hear that I'm not the person — "

She put her fingers against his lips to stop the words from emerging.

"Yes, you are. You are exactly the person I thought you were." She narrowed her eyes, and her

voice trembled with intensity. "I know you, Gabe. I know what kind of man you are, no matter

how many tragic stories you tell me. I'm through with following what other people say, and from

now on I'm listening to my heart. So I just turned the car around and came back. "

"But it could get nasty, Greta. For me, for the Hideaway, and for you, if you're by my side. If Miranda decides to run with that story…"

"I don't give a darn about Miranda. I'm sorry about Liza, but you aren't that man anymore.

Everyone knows that."

Her conviction was unconditional. Looking into her beautiful, resolute face, he felt something

deep in his chest unlock. Relief flooded through.

And yet, he couldn't let her forget how difficult life with him might be.

"I'm as close to bankruptcy as ever. What if I lose the Hideaway?"

She smiled, reaching out to touch the pulse that beat at the edge of his jaw. "You won't. I'll help

you with some new marketing plans. But if you do, we'll start over, somewhere else."

He caught her gaze and held it, his heart pounding.

He couldn't think of another warning to offer her. And so he leaned over and kissed her, hard, not

giving a damn who saw.

She met him, heat for heat. And when they finally pulled apart for air, she looked deeply into his

eyes. "Is that a yes? You have an opening in your…your life?"

He picked up his pen again and studied the ledger once more. "I think I might be able to fit you

in. I'll put you down for…let me see. How does forever sound?"

"It sounds fantastic," she said, taking his face in her hands. "As long as it starts right now."

THE END

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