Megan's Mate Read online

  “Not interested in the future?” Nathaniel mur­mured.

  Megan glanced over, surprised that he had moved beside her without her being aware of it. “I'm more interested in the present, one step at a time.”

  “A cynic.” He took her hand and, though it went rigid in his, turned it palm up. “I met an old woman on the west coast of Ireland. Molly Duggin was her name. She said I had the sight.” His smoky eyes stayed level with hers for a long moment before they shifted to her open palm. Megan felt something skitter down her spine. “A stubborn hand. Self-sufficient, for all its elegance.”

  He traced a finger over it. Now there was more than a skitter. There was a jolt.

  “I don't believe in palmistry.”

  “You don't have to. Shy,” he said quietly. “I won­dered about that. The passions are there, but re­pressed.” His thumb glided gently over her palm's mound of Venus. “Or channeled. You'd prefer to say channeled. Goal-oriented, practical. You'd rather make decisions with your head, no matter what your heart tells you.” His eyes lifted to hers again. “How close am I?”

  Much too close, she thought, but drew her hand coolly from his. “An interesting parlor game, Mr. Fury.”

  His eyes laughed at her as he tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “Isn't it?”

  By noon the next day, Megan had run out of busy-work. She hadn't the heart to refuse Kevin's plea to be allowed to spend the day with the Bradfords, though his departure had left her very much to her own de­vices.

  She simply wasn't used to free time.

  One trip to the hotel lobby had aborted her idea of convincing Amanda to let her study the books and files. Amanda, she was told by a cheerful desk clerk, was in the west tower, handling a small problem.

  Coco wasn't an option, either. Megan had halted just outside the door of the kitchen when she heard the crash of pots and raised voices inside.

  Since Lilah had gone back to work as a naturalist in the park, and C.C. was at her automotive shop in town, Megan was left on herown.

  In a house as enormous as The Towers, she felt like the last living soul on the island.

  She could read, she mused, or sit in the sun on one of the terraces and contemplate the view. She could wander down to the first floor of the family area and check out the progress of the renovations. And harass Sloan and Trent, she thought with a sigh, as they tried to get some work done.

  She didn't consider disturbing Max in his studio, knowing he was working on his book. As she'd al­ready spent an hour in the nursery playing with the babies, she felt another visit was out.

  She wandered her room, smoothed down the al­ready smooth coverlet on the marvelous four-poster. The rest of her things had arrived that morning, and in her perhaps too-efficient way, she'd already un­packed. Her clothes were neatly hung in the rose­wood armoire or folded in the Chippendale bureau. Framed photos of her family smiled from the gateleg table under the window.

  Her shoes were aligned, her jewelry was tucked away and her books were stored on the shelf.

  And if she didn't find something to do, she would go mad.

  With this in mind, she picked up her briefcase, checked the contents one last time and headed out­side, to the car Sloan had left at her disposal.

  The sedan ran like a top, courtesy of C.C.'s me­chanical skills. Megan drove down the winding road toward the village.

  She enjoyed the bright blue water of the bay, and the colorful throngs of tourists strolling up and down the sloped streets. But the glistening wares in the shop windows didn't tempt her to stop and do any strolling of her own.

  Shopping was something she did out of necessity, not for pleasure.

  Once, long ago, she'd loved the idle pleasure of window-shopping, the careless satisfaction of buying for fun. She'd enjoyed empty, endless summer days once, with nothing more to do than watch clouds or listen to the wind.

  But that was before innocence had been lost, and responsibilities found.

  She saw the sign for Shipshape Tours by the docks. There were a couple of small boats in dry dock, but the Mariner and its sister ship, the Island Queen, were nowhere to be seen.

  Her brows knit in annoyance. She'd hoped to catch Holt before he took one of the tours out. Still, there was no reason she couldn't poke inside the little tin-roofed building that housed the offices. After all, Shipshape was now one of her clients.

  Megan pulled the sedan behind a long, long T-Bird convertible. She had to admire the lines of the car, and the glossy black paint job that highlighted the white interior.

  She paused a moment, shielding her eyes as she watched a two-masted schooner glide over the water, its rust-colored sails full, its decks dotted with peo­ple.

  There was no denying the beauty of the spot, though the smell and look of the water was so for­eign, compared to what she'd known most of her life. The midday breeze was fresh and carried the scent of the sea and the aromas of lunch from the restaurants nearby.

  She could be happy here, she told herself. No, she would be happy here. Resolutely she turned toward the building and rapped on the door.

  “Yeah. It's open.”

  There was Nathaniel, his feet propped on a messy and ancient metal desk, a phone at his ear. His jeans were torn at the knee and smeared with something like motor oil. His mane of dark mahogany hair was tou­sled by the wind, or his hands. He crooked his finger in a come-ahead gesture, his eyes measuring her as he spoke on the phone.

  “Teak's your best bet. I've got enough in stock, and can have the deck finished in two days. No, the en­gine just needed overhaul. It's got a lot of life left in it. No problem.” He picked up a smoldering cigar. “I'll give you a call when we're finished.”

  He hung up the phone, clamped the cigar between his teeth. Funny, he thought, Megan O'Riley had floated into his brain that morning, looking very much as she did at this moment. All spit and polish, that pretty rose-gold hair all tucked up, her face calm and cool.

  “Just in the neighborhood?” he asked.

  “I was looking for Holt.”

  “He's out with the Queen.” Idly Nathaniel checked the diver's watch on his wrist. “Won't be back for about an hour and a half.” His cocky mouth quirked up. “Looks like you're stuck with me.”

  She fought back the urge to shift her briefcase from hand to hand, to back away. “I'd like to see the books.”

  Nathaniel took a lazy puff on his cigar. “Thought you were on vacation.”

  She fell back on her best defense. Disdain. “Is there a problem with the books?” she said frostily.

  “Couldn't prove it by me.” In a fluid move, he reached down and opened a drawer in the desk. He took out a black-bound ledger. “You're the expert.” He held it out to her. “Pull up a chair, Meg.”

  “Thank you.” She took a folding chair on the other side of the desk, then slipped dark-framed reading glasses from her briefcase. Once they were on, she opened the ledger. Her accountant's heart contracted in horror at the mess of figures, cramped margin notes and scribbled-on Post-its. “These are your books?”

  “Yeah.” She looked prim and efficient in her prac­tical glasses and scooped-up hair. She made his mouth water. “Holt and I sort of take turns with them— that's since Suzanna tossed up her hands and called us idiots.” He smiled charmingly. “We figured, you know, with her being pregnant at the time, she didn't need any more stress.”

  “Hmmm...” Megan was already turning pages. For her, the state of the bookkeeping didn't bring on anx­iety so much as a sense of challenge. “Your files?”

  “We got 'em.” Nathaniel jerked a thumb at the dented metal cabinet shoved in the corner. There was a small, greasy boat motor on top of it.

  “Is there anything in them?” she said pleasantly.

  “Last I looked there was.” He couldn't help it. The more prim and efficient her voice, the more he wanted to razz her.

  “Invoices?”

  “Sure.”

  “Expense receipts?”

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sp; “Absolutely.” He reached in another drawer and took out a large cigar box. “We got plenty of re­ceipts.”

  She took the box, opened the lid and sighed. “This is how you run your business?”

  “No. We run the business by taking people out to sea, or repairing their boats. Even building them.” He leaned forward on the desk, mostly so he could catch a better whiff of that soft, elusive scent that clung to her skin. “Me, I've never been much on paperwork, and Holt had his fill of it when he was on the force.” His smile spread. He didn't figure she wore prim glasses, pulled-back hair and buttoned-up blouses so that a man would yearn to toss aside, muss up and unbutton. But the result was the same. “Maybe that's why the accountant we hired to do the taxes this year developed this little tic.” He tapped a finger beside his left eye. “I heard he moved to Jamaica to sell straw baskets.”

  She had to laugh. “I'm made of sterner stuff, I promise you.”

  “Never doubted it.” He leaned back again, his swivel chair squeaking. “You've got a nice smile, Megan. When you use it.”

  She knew that tone, lightly flirtatious, unmistak­ably male. Her defenses locked down like a vault. “You're not paying me for my smile.”

  “I'd rather it came free, anyhow. How'd you come to be an accountant?”

  “I'm good with numbers.” She spread the ledger on the desk before opening her briefcase and taking out a calculator.

  “So's a bookie. I mean, why'd you pick it?”

  “Because it's a solid, dependable career.” She be­gan to run numbers, hoping to ignore him.

  “And because numbers only add up one way?”

  She couldn't ignore that—the faint hint of amuse­ment in his voice. She slanted him a look, adjusted her glasses. “Accounting may be logical, Mr. Fury, but logic doesn't eliminate surprises.”

  “If you say so. Listen, we may have both come through the side door into the Calhouns' extended family, but we're there. Don't you feei stupid calling me Mr. Fury?”

  Her smile had all the warmth of an Atlantic gale. “No, I don't.”

  “Is it me, or all men, you're determined to beat off with icicles?”

  Patience, which she'd convinced herself she held in great store, was rapidly being depleted. “I'm here to do the books. That's all I'm here for.”

  “Never had a client for a friend?” He took a last puff on the cigar and stubbed it out. “You know, there's a funny thing about me.”

  “I'm sure you're about to tell me what it is.”

  “Right. I can have a pleasant conversation with a woman without being tempted to toss her on the floor and tear her clothes off. Now, you're a real treat to look at, Meg, but I can control my more primitive urges—especially when all the signals say stop.”

  Now she felt ridiculous. She'd been rude, or nearly so, since the moment she'd met him. Because, she ad­mitted to herself, her reaction to him made her un­comfortable. But, damn it, he was the one who kept looking at her as though he'd like to nibble away.

  “I'm sorry.” The apology was sincere, if a trifle stiff. “I'm making a lot of adjustments right now, so I haven't felt very congenial. And the way you look at me puts me on edge.”

  “Fair enough. But I have to tell you I figure it's a man's right to look. Anything more takes an invita­tion—of one kind or the other.”

  “Then we can clear the air and start over, since I can tell you I won't be putting out the welcome mat. Now, Nathaniel—” it was a concession she made with a smile “—do you suppose you could dig up your tax returns?”

  “I can probably put my hands on them.” He scooted back his chair. The squeak of the wheels ended on a high-pitched yelp that had Megan jolting and scattering papers. “Damn it—forgot you were back there.” He picked up a wriggling, whimpering black puppy. “He sleeps a lot, so I end up stepping on him or running the damn chair over his tail,” he said to Megan as the pup licked frantically at his face. “Whenever I try to leave him home, he cries until I give in and bring him with me.”

  “He's darling.” Her fingers were already itching to stroke. “He looks a lot like the one Coco has.”

  “Same litter.” Because he could read the sentiment in Megan's eyes perfectly, Nathaniel handed the pup across the desk.

  “Oh, aren't you sweet? Aren't you pretty?”

  When she cooed to the dog, all defenses dropped, Nathaniel noted. She forgot to be businesslike and cool, and instead was all feminine warmth—those pretty hands stroking the pup's fur, her smile soft, her eyes aught with pleasure.

  He had to remind himself the invitation was for a dog, not for him.

  “What's his name?”

  “Dog.”

  She looked up from the puppy's adoring eyes. “Dog? That's it?”

  “He likes it. Hey, Dog.” At the sound of his mas­ter's voice, Dog immediately cocked his head at Na­thaniel and barked. “See?”

  “Yes.” She laughed and nuzzled. “It seems a bit unimaginative.”

  “On the contrary. How many dogs do you know named Dog?”

  “I stand corrected. Down you go, and don't get any ideas about these receipts.”

  Nathaniel tossed a ball, and Dog gave joyful chase. “That'll keep him busy,” he said as he came around the desk to help her gather up the scattered papers.

  “You don't seem the puppy type to me.”

  “Always wanted one.” He crouched down beside her and began to toss papers back into the cigar box. “Fact is, I used to play around with one of Dog's an­cestors over at the Bradfords', when I was a kid. But it's hard to keep a dog aboard a ship. Got a bird, though.”

  “A bird?”

  “A parrot I picked up in the Caribbean about five years ago. That's another reason I bring Dog along with me. Bird might eat him.”

  “Bird?” She glanced up, but the laugh froze in her throat. Why was he always closer than she antici­pated? And why did those long, searching looks of his slide along her nerve ends like stroking fingers?

  His gaze dropped to her mouth. The hesitant smile was still there, he noted. There was something very appealing about that touch of shyness, all wrapped up in stiff-necked confidence. Her eyes weren't cool now, but wary. Not an invitation, he reminded himself, but close. And damn tempting.

  Testing his ground, he reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. She was on her feet like a woman shot out of a cannon.

  “You sure spook easily, Megan.” After closing the lid on the cigar box, he rose. “But I can't say it isn't rewarding to know I make you nervous.”

  “You don't.” But she didn't look at him as she said it. She'd never been a good liar. “I'm going to take all this back with me, if you don't mind. Once I have things organized, I'll be in touch with you, or Holt.”

  “Fine.” The phone rang. He ignored it. “You know where to find us.”

  “Once I have the books in order, we'll need to set up a proper filing system.”

  Grinning, he eased a hip onto the corner of the desk. Lord, she was something. “You're the boss, sugar.”

  She snapped her briefcase closed. “No, you're the boss. And don't call me 'sugar.'“ She marched out­side, slipped into her car and eased away from the building and back into traffic. Competently she drove through the village, toward The Towers. Once she'd reached the bottom of the long, curving road that led home, she pulled the car over and stopped.

  She needed a moment, she thought, before she faced anyone. With her eyes closed, she rested her head against the back of the seat. Her insides were still jit­tering, dancing with butterflies that willpower alone couldn't seem to swat away.

  The weakness infuriated her. Nathaniel Fury infu­riated her. After all this time, she mused, all this ef­fort, it had taken no more than a few measuring looks to remind her, all too strongly, that she was still a woman.

  Worse, much worse, she was sure he knew exactly what he was doing and how it affected her.

  She'd been susceptible to a handsome face and smooth words before. Unli
ke those who loved her, she -refused to blame her youth and inexperience for her reckless actions. Once upon a time, she'd listened to her heart, had believed absolutely in happy-ever-after. But no longer. Now she knew there were no princes, no pumpkins, no castles in the air. There was only re­ality, one a woman had to make for herself—and sometimes had to make for her child, as well.

  She didn't want her pulses to race or her muscles to tense. She didn't want to feel that hot little curl in her stomach that was a yearning hunger crying to be filled. Not now. Not ever again.

  All she wanted was to be a good mother to Kevin, to provide him with a happy, loving home. To earn her own way through her own skills. She wanted so badly to be strong and smart and self-sufficient.

  Letting out a long sigh, she smiled to herself. And invulnerable.

  Well, she might not quite achieve that, but she would be sensible. Never again would she permit a man the power to alter her life—and certainly not be­cause he'd made her glands stand at attention.

  Calmer, more confident, she started the car. She had work to do.

  Chapter 3

  “Have a heart, Mandy.” Megan had sought her sister-in-law out the moment she returned to The Towers. “I just want to get a fee! for my office and the routine.”

  Cocking her head, Amanda leaned back from her own pile of paperwork. “Horrible when everyone's busy and you're not, isn't it?”

  Megan let out a heartfelt sigh. A kindred spirit. “Awful.”

  “Sloan wants you to relax,” Amanda began, then laughed when Megan rolled her eyes. “But what does he know? Come on.” Ready to oblige, she pushed back from the desk, skirted it. “You're practically next door.” She led the way down the corridor to an­other thick, ornately carved door. “I think you've got just about everything you'll need. But if we've missed something, let me know.”

  Some women felt that frisson of excitement and anticipation on entering a department store. For some, that sensory click might occur at the smell of fresh paint, or the glint of candlelight, or the fizz of cham­pagne just opened.

  For Megan, it was the sight of a well-ordered office that caused that quick shiver of pleasure.

  And here was everything she could have wanted.

  The desk was glorious, gleaming Queen Anne, with a spotless rose-toned blotter and ebony desk set al­ready in place. A multilined phone and a streamlined computer sat waiting.

  She nearly purred.

  There were wooden filing cabinets still smelling of lemon oil, their brass handles shining in the sunlight that poured through the many-paned windows. The Oriental rug picked up the hues of rose and slate blue in the upholstered chairs and love seat. There were shelves for her accounting books and ledgers, and a hunt table that held a coffee maker, fax and personal copier.

  Old-world charm and modern technology blended into tasteful efficiency.

  “Mandy, it's perfect.”

  “I'd hoped you'd like it.” Fussing, Amanda straightened the blotter, shifted the stapler. “I can't say I'm sorry to be handing over the books. It's more than a full-time job. I've filed everything, invoices, expenses, credit-card receipts, accounts payable, et cetera, by department.” She opened a file drawer to demonstrate.

  Megan's organized heart swelled at the sight of neatly color-coded file folders. Alphabetized, catego­rized, cross-referenced.

  Glorious.

  “Wonderful. Not a cigar box in sight.”

  Amanda hesitated, and then threw back her head and laughed. “You've seen Holt and Nate's account­ing system, I take it.”

  Amused, and comfortable with Amanda, Megan patted her briefcase. “I have their accounting sys­tem.” Unable to resist, she sat in the high-backed swivel chair. “Now this is more like it.” She took up a sharpened pencil, set it down again. “I don't know how to thank you for letting me join the team.”

  “Don't be silly. You're family. Besides, you may not be so grateful after a couple of weeks in chaos. I can't tell you how many interruptions—” Amanda broke off when she heard her name bellowed. Her brow lifted. “See what I mean?” She swung to the door to answer her husband's shout. “In here, O'Riley.” She shook her head as Sloan and Trent trooped up to the door. Both of them were covered with dust. “I thought you were breaking down a wall or some­thing.”

  “We were. Had some more old furniture to haul out of the way. And look what we found.”