A Small-Town Temptation. Terry Mclaughlin

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      She rested a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Either way, Mr. Maguire’s bosses aren’t going to have any competition in Carnelian Cove.” She tilted her head to the side and leveled her dark gray eyes on Jack’s. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Maguire?”

      “It’s Jack.” God almighty, going a round or two with this woman was going to be a whole lot of fun. Not to mention that the more he looked at her, the more he wanted to keep right on looking at her. She’d pulled off her cap, and that thick, springy hair seemed to wave and wind around her shoulders with a will of its own. Her wide mouth softened into a pillowy curve during those rare moments she wasn’t frowning or cursing or arguing. And the crackling intelligence in her smoky eyes made it difficult for him to tug his gaze from hers.

      “Well now, David.” Jack set his foot on the ground and rose from his chair with a friendly smile. “I’d like that look at your operation you promised, if you don’t mind.”

      Chapter Three

      JACK SWUNG HIS GARMENT bag over his shoulder later that afternoon and paused to admire the gaily colored Victorian houses standing shoulder-to-shoulder in their postcard pose along Oyster Lane. Stretched atop the rail of a white picket fence, a fat tabby spared him a crotchety meow before shifting its attention to the gulls overhead. The scents of salt-crusted docks, wood smoke and early hyacinths blended in the offshore breeze, a perfume that was Carnelian Cove’s own.

      An interesting town, he thought, packed with the kind of character that came with several different interests nurtured in relative isolation. Fishermen and artists, lumberjacks and university professors, dairy farmers and silversmiths—all rubbing up against each other in an eclectic collection of shops and neighborhoods that appeared to predate the concept of zoning restrictions. Untidy and unexpected, and charming in an offbeat way.

      Sort of like the carved driftwood sign hanging from a reproduction London gaslight: Villa Veneto Bed and Breakfast.

      He wondered what his boss would make of such a jumble. Bill Simon liked his private surroundings and business dealings streamlined and simplified, so he could make his personal and executive decisions as quickly and neatly as possible. Such a cool efficiency had its own appeal, but Jack sometimes preferred mucking through life’s muddles—especially when he discovered the diamonds in the rough patches.

      Uncut, unpolished diamonds like Sawyer’s BayRock Enterprises. Buying Sawyer’s company could satisfy Continental’s insatiable appetite for raw materials while establishing a viable—and potentially valuable—presence north of San Francisco. And it was up to Jack to prove that viability and estimate that potential.

      To streamline and simplify the muddle.

      He nodded an apology for disturbing the tabby cat before opening the low picket gate and strolling up aged concrete steps to the stained-glass entry. The gingerbread tacked onto every nook and cranny made the villa look homey and fussy, giving the impression the inside was likely stuffed to its curlicued rafters with antiques and doodads.

      As he stepped onto a wide wooden porch furnished with wicker and ferns, one of the lace curtains swagged across a bay window twitched discreetly and settled back into its graceful curve. Jack grinned, pleased to see his hunch had paid off. Just as he’d suspected when he’d phoned, Agatha Allen was a nosy hostess. Bed and breakfasts weren’t the typical business-trip lodgings, but they often provided one benefit in addition to a comfortable place to sleep and a home-cooked meal to start the day: a built-in source of small-town gossip.

      Moments after he twisted an ornate brass bell knob, a handsome woman, neat and trim and somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty, opened the heavy mahogany door.

      “Agatha Allen?” he asked.

      She nodded and stepped aside, waving him in. “And you must be Jack. Welcome to Villa Veneto. Oh, put that away,” she said with another wave as he shifted his bag over his arm and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “We can take care of the paperwork after you’ve had a chance to settle in.”

      She plucked a tasseled key ring from a row of hooks behind her tiny reception desk and led the way up a steep, narrow flight of stairs covered with a floral runner. “I hear you’ve been in the Cove practically all day already. Kate down at the Abalone waited on you at lunch, and she called to tell me you got here safe and sound, since she knew I’d be worrying. You must have caught your plane at the crack of dawn, you poor thing. I’ll bet you’re ready for a cup of tea. Which do you prefer—black or herbal?”

      He shook his head at her back. “Neither, though I truly appreciate the offer.”

      “Coffee, then.” Agatha tossed him a no-nonsense glance over her shoulder and nodded with a finality that let Jack know he’d be having a cup of coffee before he stepped foot out her front door again, come hell or high water.

      “And something to eat,” she continued. “I took the last batch of coconut macaroon cookies out of the oven not five minutes ago. I make them up to crush for my chocolate silk pie crust—and don’t you go telling anyone about that secret while you’re here, or I’ll find out—but I can always spare a couple of cookies for a snack.”

      “Coconut macaroons just happen to be one of my favorites,” he said.

      She paused when they reached the second floor and studied him as if she were attempting to divine the truth of his statement, and he suffered through the panic of a guilty moment. He wondered what the penalty might be if she discovered he could barely tolerate coconut, in macaroons or pie crusts or anywhere else.

      “And my secret?” she asked at last.

      “Is safe with me,” he answered with relief.

      He followed her along a wide balcony and a curve in the hallway that wrapped back around the stairwell, past several tall, transomed doors punctuating rose- and lily-papered walls. Doors with exotic names calligraphied in gold paint on thickly trimmed panels: Lido, Rialto, Murano.

      She stopped at the last in the line and handed him the key to the San Marco suite. “They have these in Venice, you know,” she said.

      “Venice?” He stared at the old-fashioned brass key in his hand, struggling to make the transition from coconut crust to canals.

      “The tassels.”

      “Ah.” He gave her a suitably impressed nod. “Nice touch.”

      “It’s in the Italian style, you see.”

      “Yes,” he said, although he really didn’t.

      “Like Versace and Armani.”

      “Two of my favorites,” he said as he jiggled the key into the lock. He wondered what she’d think of his Armani suit and nearly regretted leaving it behind. He hadn’t thought there’d be much occasion for designer labels in Carnelian Cove. “Just like coconut macaroons.”

      “Oh.” She flipped her little wave at him again. “There’s no need to lay the charm on so thick. Although I do enjoy a dose of it every once in a while, just like the next person. And especially when it comes out sounding so nice, like it does with that accent of yours. Louisiana?”

      “No, ma’am. South Carolina.”

      “Charleston?”

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