This Kiss (Sweetbriar Cove Book 8) Page 2

  The lights went off.

  “Fork it,” Jenny muttered. She waited hopefully for a moment, to see if they would switch back on, but the house stayed dark and silent.

  She pulled on her slippers and fumbled around on her dresser for matches. Luckily, she had a thing for scented candles, so soon the room was lit up—and smelling like gardenias. Jenny took a candle and headed cautiously back towards the stairs. The storm was going crazy outside now, and every new howl of wind or scratch of a tree branch against the windows made her jump.

  Pull it together, she told herself, her heart racing. You’re not afraid of the dark.

  She edged downstairs and along the back hall. The fuse box was in the basement, down another set of rickety stairs, and Jenny gulped, peering into the pitch black. Why had she been joking with Hannah about dark spirits? This was the first act of a horror movie, right here.

  Something brushed up against her. She screamed. “Get off!” Jenny whirled around and found—

  A cobweb.

  She gulped for air, her heart pounding, and then laughed. If Hannah could see her now . . .

  Jenny turned back towards the basement, about to go find the fuse box, when she heard a rattle, and then a heavy thud coming from outside.

  She froze.

  It came again: a rattle at one of the windows, and the heavy sound of somebody moving around.

  Jenny’s heart leapt. Oh God. This time, it wasn’t her imagination.

  Somebody was there!

  She reeled back down the hall, staying in the pitch-black shadows, her mind racing. What was she supposed to do? Whoever it was, they could be dangerous. Deadly! She reached the hall closet and desperately fumbled for something to use as a weapon. Her hand closed around something solid, an old tennis racket. Jenny gripped it with relief. She stepped out and inched carefully towards the kitchen.

  The rattling noise was louder there, and as she watched, the handle of the back door began to turn.

  She gulped, setting the candle on the table and gripping the racket tighter. “Who’s there?” she yelled. “Whoever you are, I’ve called the police. And my boyfriend. My big, beefy, body-builder boyfriend!”

  The handle rattled again. And then there was a thud, and the whole door frame shook.

  He was breaking down the door!

  “I mean it, I’m armed!” Jenny yelled, raising her racket over her head. Now she really was wishing she’d called the police, but there was no time. Before she could move another inch, somebody hurled themselves at the back door, and it flew open with a slam.

  A huge, dark figure stumbled into the room.

  “Stay back!” Jenny yelled, swinging the racket in his direction. She made contact with some body part and heard a surprised “Oof!”—followed by a string of curse words. “I mean it,” she threatened, swinging again. “I know self-defense.”

  “Stop!” The figure grabbed the racket. “Bloody hell, woman. Calm down!”

  The Scottish accent sank in just as the intruder stepped into the candlelight, and Jenny saw him for the first time.

  Broad shoulders. Chiseled features. And blue eyes that were filled with annoyance.

  It was him. The man from the restaurant.

  “You followed me?” Jenny reeled back. She managed to get the racket loose and took another wild swing in his direction. “What are you, some crazy stalker? Get out of my house!”

  “Your house?” The man looked at her, drenched wet from the storm and furious. “Are you crazy? This is my damn house!”

  “No.” Jenny glared, still wielding the tennis racquet, in case he tried anything. “It belongs to Mr. Higgenbottom.”

  The man shook his head, scowling. “You’ve got old information, sweetheart. Mr. Higgenbottom died last month. His estate auctioned it off cheap, sold the whole damn thing.”

  “Oh no . . .” Jenny murmured, putting two and two together, and coming up with nothing good.

  “Oh yes.” The man gave a harsh smile, his blue eyes triumphant in the flickering candlelight. “You’re standing in my house. And I think it’s time you were on your way.”

  2

  Fraser Macintosh scowled at the waitress across the dim, candlelit kitchen. What was it with this woman? First, she’d all but thrown him out of the restaurant when all he’d wanted was a hot meal, and now here she was again: green eyes flashing in the darkness like some banshee. He’d never paid much attention in school, he’d been too busy sketching in the back of class, but he was pretty sure she was right out of an ancient Scottish myth: sent to torment and vex him.

  “Put that thing down, woman,” he growled, stripping off his wet coat. She was still standing with the damn racket raised, like she was braced to attack again, and even though Fraser fancied his chances if it came to a fight, he wasn’t about to test it. “I’m not some crazed stalker. I told you, this is my house.”

  “Says you.” The woman narrowed her eyes, but finally lowered her weapon. She was wearing flannel pajamas with what looked like tiny dogs printed all over, but the glare she gave him was anything but cute. “If you were the new owner, don’t you think somebody would have told me by now?”

  “I really couldn’t say.” Fraser exhaled wearily. He’d been traveling all day, gotten lost three times trying to find the blasted house, and now he was tired, hungry, and had the beginnings of a nasty bruise forming on his arm. He looked around at the shadows, but could barely make out a thing. “They said this place was in bad shape, but tell me you at least have electricity.”

  “We do.” The woman frowned, distracted. “The power just went out from the storm. I was going to check the fuse box when you broke in.”

  “I broke the door down,” Fraser corrected her. “But only because the key wasn’t out front like the lawyer said. Under a . . . turtle?”

  “It’s a rock, shaped like a turtle,” she explained. Her expression changed. “Wait, how do you know about that?”

  “Because,” Fraser ground out, “as I’ve been trying to tell you since before you started shrieking and wailing, this. Is. My. House!”

  The woman recoiled, her eyes wide.

  Dammit. Fraser took a deep breath. First things first. “Where’s the fuse box?”

  “The basement.”

  He grabbed the candlestick from the table without another word and headed deeper into the house. He got turned around a couple of times in the dark, but managed to find the stairs leading down into the dusty, pitch-black depths.

  “Buy a house on the Cape,” he muttered to himself, as he tried not to trip and break his neck. “Get away from all the drama and noise in the city. Push through your creative block. Ha!”

  It had seemed so simple, back in the warm, dry comfort of his SoHo loft. The perfect escape. After ten years in New York, he was getting tired of the endless rounds of gallery openings and art world parties—not to mention he was already two years overdue with his latest show. He was sick of staring at an empty canvas every day, drinking his way through his favorite downtown bars at night, and sending his art dealer’s desperate calls to voicemail. He needed to get away, and when that glimpse of Hillcrest House had caught his eye in the Sunday newspaper, for some reason, he hadn’t turned the page.

  He’d picked up the phone, called the estate lawyer, and bought the damn place on the spot.

  What was it his old man used to say? Act in haste, repent at leisure. Well, Fraser would have plenty of time to repent this particular move. His much-anticipated show was supposed to open next summer, which meant he needed to rival da Vinci himself if he was going to make the deadline. Fraser had pictured himself alone by the ocean, his creativity unleashed, painting like a man possessed.

  At this rate, the only thing he’d be possessed with was malnutrition and a wicked case of pneumonia.

  Fraser found the ancient fuse box in the corner and flipped the overloaded switch. A warm gleam of light suddenly filtered down into the basement from the hallway above. That was one problem solved, at least.

  And as for his banshee . . .

  Fraser slowly climbed back up the stairs. Now that his annoyance had faded, he had to admit, maybe he’d been a bit harsh on her. At six foot three, with a week’s worth of beard growth and a permanent scowl, he didn’t exactly strike a welcoming sight to a woman all alone in the dark. No wonder she’d screamed the house down. He stepped back into the kitchen again, bracing himself to apologize, but to his surprise, the room was empty.

  In fact, the house was silent. No sign of his green-eyed banshee.

  There was a note on the heavy farm table, scribbled in slanted handwriting.

  There are fresh sheets in the closet upstairs. Take any of the bedrooms in the West Wing. We’ll discuss tomorrow.

  Fraser crumpled the note with a smirk. At least the woman was efficient—and making it clear that despite a title deed in his name, she thought of the house as very much hers. Still, that didn’t stop him from rummaging in the kitchen cupboards, emerging victorious with a pack of biscuits and a hunk of cheese, and then heading upstairs to bed. He had a car full of luggage outside, and more on the way, but all he needed for now was the clean bedding he found as directed, and the first empty bedroom he found. He was so tired, he didn’t even have time to wonder why there were rainbows and unicorns daubed on the wall or a stack of kids’ books in the window seat; the minute his head hit the pillows, he was asleep, and he didn’t rouse until bright winter sun hit his face the next morning, shining directly into his eyes.

  What the . . . ?

  Fraser yawned and rolled over—smack into the wall. Ouch. He sat up, squinting at the unfurnished bedroom and unfamiliar skies. And the quiet.

  He was used to garbage trucks beeping, and delivery guys hollering, and the buzz of city traffic thick outside his windows. But this morning, there was nothing but the call of some bird circling outside, and the distant crashing of the waves.

  Then it all came back to him. Cape Cod. The house on the hill.

  And his warm welcome by the green-eyed banshee.

  Fraser rubbed his eyes. In the clear light of day, he could see that the property listing had been optimistic at best. “Charming and full of character”? He’d been prepared to do some work on the place, but his bedroom floorboards were rotting, the furniture looked broken, and the wallpaper was peeling from the damp.

  Never mind “quaint,” he’d be lucky if this place didn’t turn out to be condemned.

  He hauled himself out of bed, yawning, and went to the window, wondering just what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

  And suddenly, his impulse buy didn’t seem like such a bad idea, after all.

  The storm had cleared to pale, blustery skies, and from his vantage point at the top of the hill, he could see for miles in every direction. The lush, tangled gardens in back fell away down the hillside to the shoreline, where the ocean was frothing in white-tipped waves against the bay. He could see the rooftops of Provincetown, the green sweep of the Cape, and the pale dunes beyond.

  Flint gray, and Oxford blue; slashes of moss green and muddy brown. Even the air tasted fresher, crisp with a salty tang.

  He could work with this.

  Retrieving his luggage from the car, Fraser found a bathroom with blissfully hot water just down the hall. Showered, shaved, and halfway human again, he finally took a tour of his new home—feeling more positive by the minute.

  The high ceilings and crown molding . . . The glass-walled sunroom overlooking the bay . . . Sure, it was disheveled and in desperate need of repairs, but Fraser wasn’t afraid of rolling up his sleeves. In his years as a struggling artist, he’d lived everywhere from a broken-down caravan in the middle of the Scottish Highlands to a 100-square-foot studio in the Meatpacking District, where he had to scrub blood stains off the walls. A few broken floorboards didn’t intimidate him; in fact, they only added to the charm.

  There was only one thing missing . . .

  His unwelcome tenant.

  Fraser half-expected her to leap out, brandishing another blunt instrument, but she was nowhere to be seen. He found plenty of signs of her in residence, though, from the floral cushions scattered on every chair and sofa to the stack of old Fleetwood Mac records by the player, and a cupboard full of herbal teas. He even discovered her name from the stack of junk mail by the door. Jennifer Archer.

  Jenny.

  Fraser wondered what she was doing all alone in this big old house—and if that threat of her beefy boyfriend last night had just been a bluff. She was certainly beautiful. Even at the restaurant, in her plain black uniform, there had been something about her—a quiet self-possession. It was the reason he’d stayed for a drink. Well, that and the chance to annoy her some more. And when she’d bumped into him, and he’d felt the warm curves of her body pressed up against him . . .

  Well, it reminded Fraser just how long it had been without a woman in his bed. And now, thanks to some cruel twist of fate, here she was, under the same roof.

  Fraser paused, giving a wry chuckle. Since his purchase included all the contents of the house, too, technically, she was sleeping in his bed, after all.

  But even though the house seemed peaceful, Fraser didn’t believe Jenny would just pack up and slink quietly away. No, that stubborn look in her eyes last night spelled trouble.

  The only question was, what was she up to now?

  Jenny gazed across the desk in desperation. “What do you mean, there’s nothing I can do?”

  She hadn’t slept all night, and first thing in the morning, she’d made straight for Sweetbriar Cove, and the cozy cottage-slash-office of her friend, and local lawyer, Alice. Alice was known for her calm head and eye for legal detail; she’d been the one to review Jenny’s caretaker contract with Higgenbottom. If anyone could straighten out this mess, it was her.

  But Alice just gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, but I checked with the estate lawyer, back in Arizona. The sale was finalized last week. Hillcrest is owned by Mr. Fraser Macintosh now, bought and paid for—cash.” Alice paused and quirked an eyebrow under her strawberry blonde bangs. “Big spender, huh?”

  Jenny groaned. Fraser didn’t seem wealthy, at least not judging by his battered coat and unkempt hair, but clearly, he was doing better than her. After all, only one of them was homeless.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said, slumping back in her seat. “What am I going to tell Hannah? She loves that house! So do I . . .” She let out a mournful sigh.

  “Have a cookie.” Alice pushed a bakery box closer. “They’re fresh from Blackberry Lane. Hell, have two.”

  Jenny did. “So what am I supposed to do now?” she asked through a mouthful of butterscotch peanut butter. “Can he really just throw us out onto the streets like orphans in a Dickens novel?”

  Alice smiled. “No, he can’t. According to Massachusetts law, he has to give you a written notice of eviction, then thirty days minimum before you move out.”

  “Oh.” Jenny felt a wave of relief. “That’s something, at least.”

  But still . . . Real estate on the Cape was crazy. Finding an apartment to rent for the winter was one thing, but come spring, the place was crawling with tourists, and anything with a working toilet rented for five thousand dollars a week. And as for two bedrooms, close enough to Hannah’s school . . . ?

  Jenny gulped, choked on her cookie, and had to splutter for air while Alice grabbed her a glass of water.

  “Thank you,” she managed, wiping her eyes.

  “If you need, you guys can come crash with me,” Alice suggested. “I know it’s small, but there’s a spare bedroom upstairs and a storage room in back where I could fit a mattress—”

  “No. Thank you,” Jenny said quickly. “That’s sweet of you to offer, but I’ll figure something out.”

  She’d have to.

  “Maybe Fraser will let you stay?” Alice suggested. “I mean, you cook, you clean, you take care of the house . . . What guy wouldn’t want a live-in housekeeper taking care of everything for them?” she added with a grin.

  Jenny gave a hollow laugh. “Sure. Because grumpy bachelors love a hoard of noisy adolescent girls trampling all over the place.”

  “Oh. That. Right.” Alice winced. “Well, I’ll ask around, see if anyone has a rental going cheap. Debra at the town hall will know,” she added. “Debra knows everything.”

  “Thanks.” Jenny took another cookie and got to her feet. “I’ll put the word out at the restaurant. Maybe I’ll strike gold with another rich summer person needing a housesitter.”

  “There you go.” Alice gave an encouraging smile. “Who knows? You could be lounging in a beachfront mansion by this time next week.”

  “Here’s hoping!”

  Jenny had some time to kill before her shift at the restaurant, so she took a stroll around the town square, trying to clear her head. She told herself not to panic; something would come up, it always did. Her parents had retired to Florida years ago to get away from the harsh winters, and if push came to shove, she could always load up the car and take Hannah down to stay with them . . .

  But she didn’t want to leave. Her life was there. Hannah’s life was, too: her friends, her school, and Lord knew her niece had seen enough change to last a lifetime. Jenny had vowed to give her stability, and that meant staying put. She would just have to work more shifts at the restaurant, find a second job, and pound the streets until she found the impossible: an affordable home big enough for the two of them, plus Hannah’s complete Encyclopedia of Space, volumes 1 through 32.

  Or, figure out a way to stay exactly where they were . . .

  Jenny paused. Alice had been joking about her being Fraser’s housekeeper, but maybe there was something to it. Hillcrest House was plenty big enough for the three of them, and she was already doing all the housework. What was an extra load of laundry and some hearty, man-friendly cooking if it meant keeping a roof over their heads?

  The only problem was getting him to agree . . .

  Well, that, and actually sharing living space with the man. Jenny remembered his piercing expression and shivered. There was just something so . . . large about him. Tall, and broad-shouldered, and smoldering . . .