Playing the Playboy (4 page)

Laurel felt a wave of heat wash over her. She wasn’t sure whether she was self-conscious because of his comment or because of that warm look in his eyes, but she felt herself blushing.

And she never blushed.

The feeling threw her off-stride, and she immediately resented it. She dropped her eyes, trying not to convey her annoyance. “My grandfather was Cherokee,” she said, telling him the truth. It wasn’t personal information, and it gave her something to say.

“Really?” he asked, sounding interested. “I was wondering what your background was. Did you know him?”

“No. I didn’t know any of my family on my father’s side.”

She hadn’t even known her father, since he’d left town shortly after her mother had gotten pregnant at sixteen.

Laurel darted a look up to Andrew’s face, trying to figure out the most strategic way to deal with this conversation, but she was distracted by his expression as he gazed down on her.

It was clear he was attracted to her. That much wasn’t unusual for Laurel. She was terrible at flirting, but men had always seemed interested in her anyway.
The sheriff of her county back in West Virginia had been a frequent visitor to the bar, and he’d come onto her really strongly. When she’d refused him, he’d gone out of his way to make her life miserable, including arresting her for prostitution at one point based on fabricated evidence, although he’d eventually let the charges drop.

That was partly why she’d been so happy to meet Jerry. He’d always acted like a gentleman.

Her breath hitched when Andrew raised a hand to her face and rubbed her cheek with his thumb. Something inside her started to shudder for no good reason at all.

He was very handsome, but just his appearance wouldn’t have unsettled her so. It had more to do with a magnetic warmth just beneath his polite, friendly demeanor.

“Do I have dirt on my face?” she asked stupidly, trying to get her mind to work the way it usually did.

“Just a little.”

Agatha banged a pot just then, breaking into Laurel’s inexplicable reaction. Laurel stepped away from him and grabbed the bottle of water Agatha had set on the table.

“I’ll show you to one of the guest rooms,” she said briskly, wanting to get rid of Andrew as quickly as possible. He made her very uncomfortable.

“Thanks,” he said, looking amused and starting to leave, evidently recognizing her words as the dismissal they were.

Laurel cursed herself for an idiot. She was supposed to be charming him, flirting with him, drawing on his sympathy—not sending him away. She’d failed at the sex-plan, but she wasn’t going to fail at this. She really had to do better. “We can have breakfast when you clean up.”

Then she made a silent gesture of cessation to Agatha, who was sprinkling salt on the floor behind Andrew as he walked to the door.

Agatha was a tiny woman with steel gray hair who always wore a crocheted shawl that was far too warm for summer days. She was also very superstitious.

According to island lore, sprinkling salt helped to get rid of unwanted visitors.

Andrew glanced behind him and paused, noticing the salt sprinkling.

“Salt is for luck,” Laurel said, thinking quickly.

Agatha frowned and muttered under her breath.

Laurel quickly pushed Andrew out of the kitchen.

***

Andrew’s room was charming and meticulously clean. He glanced out the window, admiring the sweeping view of red cliffs, sapphire sea, and black beaches. He’d gotten his overnight bag from the car, which Laurel obviously wasn’t pleased about.

He’d have to say in Oia for at least two days to take care of this situation—probably longer—and he wasn’t going to get a room somewhere else when there were plenty of empty guestrooms at this inn. Laurel, obviously struggling to be polite, hadn’t openly objected.

He took a quick shower and changed out of his muddy clothes, trying not to keep dwelling on how irresistible Laurel had looked earlier, with her supple body, messy braids, and so much exposed skin.

He noticed the water pressure was rather low in the shower, and the temperature varied from hot to lukewarm. Another thing in the inn that needed work.

He pulled on another pair of khakis, figuring he should look somewhat presentable since he was going to have a business discussion. Harrison would have worn a suit, but Andrew hadn’t even brought one with him.

He wandered around until he found everyone in the kitchen. Laurel was rolling out dough on the granite counter. Agatha was chopping herbs. And an older man in a Hawaiian shirt who was obviously Agatha’s other half was repotting a palm on the kitchen terrace.

“Hello again,” Laurel said with a bright smile, evidently back to acting as though she liked him. “Breakfast won’t be long. You can have a seat on the terrace, if you like. Agatha, can you get him a cup of coffee?”

Andrew stepped over to pour the coffee himself, but Agatha beat him to it. “Good morning,” the older woman said stoically, without even a hint of a smile. “Pleased to give you coffee.”

He returned her greeting, hiding his amusement, and asked, “Can I help at all?”

“No,” Agatha said, pointing out to the terrace. “You sit.”

Andrew took his coffee and sat as instructed.

He greeted the older man, who turned toward him and said with slow gravity. “Good morning. I am Hector. I hope you are well.”

Laurel must have instructed them to make him feel welcomed, but clearly the couple wasn’t impressed by their visitor. He could hardly blame them. They were probably devoted to Laurel, and Andrew was here to kick them all out.

He doubted he could keep them on staff, though. With the lack of warmth and the eccentricity—not to mention the sprinkling of salt everywhere—most guests wouldn’t feel comfortable. It was a wonder the inn had any returning guests at all.

On that thought, Andrew pulled out his smartphone and made a few notes on the things he’d noticed that needed to be fixed or renovated at the inn. Then he pulled up his email and glanced through the messages that had come in overnight.

He hated seeing that long list of unread emails, all referencing Damon Enterprises. Several were from his uncle. Most were tasks that Harrison normally would have taken care of, but, since his uncle wasn’t talking to his brother at the moment, they ended up on Andrew’s plate instead.

He had a sudden image of the rest of his life, one monotonous day following another, filled with nothing but emails, memos, reports, conference calls, and business meetings.

The vision made him briefly ill.

“You all right?” Laurel asked, eyeing him strangely as she poured more coffee into the cup he’d emptied.

“Yeah,” he replied, shaking away the depressing thoughts. “Just composing an email in my mind.”

Laurel had showered and changed since her gardening earlier that morning. Now she wore a simple cotton sundress in pale moss green. There was flour dusting her hands and arms and a little bit on the side of her jaw. He looked at her with instinctive appreciation until he noticed she still watched him oddly.

“I hope you aren’t going to any trouble for me,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen.

“Oh, no,” she replied with a wide smile. “It’s our pleasure.”

As if in evidence of these words, Agatha came out just then with a large bowl and banged it down on the table in front of him. “Yogurt and honey. More coming soon.”

Andrew’s eyes widened as the woman walked away. He wasn’t a big yogurt-eater, and he certainly never ate this much. The honey drizzled all over the creamy yogurt looked too sweet for his taste.

“You better eat it or you’ll hurt her feelings. It’s really pretty good.”

Andrew glanced up, momentarily entranced by the dry amusement on Laurel’s lovely face, so different from her wide smile just a moment earlier. “Did she mean there would be more yogurt?” he asked, vaguely horrified by the thought.

Laurel let out a burst of laughter before she stifled it. “No. There’s more breakfast, but not more yogurt. We’ve got egg pie, and I just put sweet rolls in the oven.” She seemed to catch herself then, and her expression shifted to the emptier, polite one. “But if you really don’t want to eat the yog—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, tasting a spoonful. “It’s good.” It was better than he was expecting. There was just so much of it.

While he ate, he watched the others work. Hector finished repotting the palm and moved on to trimming the branches of a tree that was starting to block the view. Through the open doors into the kitchen, he could see Laurel pulling the egg pie out of the oven.

She set it on a counter before she went to the sink to tackle the dirty dishes. Andrew watched in growing astonishment as she washed the whole pile of dishes, then the sink itself, and then the counters—all in just a couple of minutes. He didn’t have a clue how she’d done it all so quickly, since she didn’t seem to be rushing. Every move was efficient, and nothing distracted her in the least.

Surely most gold-digging trophy wives wouldn’t be so industrious in the kitchen, not if they had staff to do it for them.

He was still watching as she cut a slice of the pie and lifted it onto a plate with no fumbling to keep the piece intact. She sprinkled some herbs over it and added a sprig of parsley. Then she carried it out to his table.

He’d only eaten half of his yogurt, but she took his bowl and offered the plate instead. “It’s feta and egg with spinach and tomato from the garden.”

“It looks great. Thank you,” he said honestly. “But don’t tell Agatha I didn’t finish the yogurt.”

She almost smiled. “It will be our secret.”

Agatha had come back to the kitchen after leaving for a few minutes, so Laurel turned away smoothly, shielding the uneaten yogurt. Agatha was followed by the three German Shepherds, who started to investigate the scene with interest.

Laurel said a simple, “Out,” and they obediently loped out onto the terrace.

The dogs appeared pleased to see him, if the wagging tails and lolling tongues were any indication. Or maybe they were just pleased to smell his food. They sat down in a row in front of him, eyeing each forkful adoringly.

The egg pie was delicious, but the unwavering stares from three sets of eyes were rather unnerving. He started to feel like a lazy, selfish ass—for not helping in the kitchen and not sharing his food. So he saved a piece of the crust, which was a sacrifice since it was really good, and broke it in three pieces, tossing one to each of the dogs.

All three caught the pieces neatly in their mouths.

“Good job,” he said, chuckling when Persephone, the larger female, wagged her tail in what he took to be a thank-you and Circe rolled over on her back, showing him her belly.

“Did you give them food?”

He turned to see Laurel watching him with a frown. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No. It’s fine. But be warned. Now, they’ll never stop begging from you.”

He shrugged and was about to reply but silenced when she put a plate of four rolls in the middle of the table. They smelled delicious and were dripping with melted brown sugar and toasted nuts, but he was already mostly full. “Am I supposed to eat all four of them?”

Laurel laughed as she went back to the kitchen to grab two clean plates, an empty mug, and the pot of coffee. “I was going to join you, if that’s all right.”

Andrew took a sticky roll and noticed that Laurel still had a dusting of flour on her chin. She probably had no idea it was there. “Do Agatha and Hector want any?”

Agatha had finished in the kitchen and had gone to help Hector gather up the cut branches from the ground.

“They won’t eat with us. It’s just their way.”

They ate in mostly silence, except for a few compliments on the food and offers to get him anything else.  His one real attempt at conversation was mentioning it was a shame about the rowdy hotel next door. She looked annoyed at first, but then her expression changed into a resigned smile. She told him her neighbors were the bane of her existence. After that, the conversation faded.

Finally, Andrew was feeling so comfortable and replete that he could have stretched out for a nap in the sun.

Obviously, that was not on the agenda for this morning, so he cleared his throat. “Can we talk about the inn for a few minutes?”

Laurel gave a little jerk, as if she’d been absorbed in a private reverie. “Of course. I’ll just put up the dishes and get my file.” She whisked away the plates and mugs, washing and drying them in no time. Then she disappeared for a minute before returning with a thick accordion folder.

She sat down across the table from him, a few strands of hair slipping out of her low ponytail and flour still dusting her jaw. She obviously hadn’t checked a mirror.

“I have the deed to the inn,” Laurel said, pulling a piece of paper out of her file. “See? It’s mine.” Her voice was gentle, holding back any feelings.

Andrew studied the document. He was no expert, but it looked official and in good order. “I believe that your husband transferred the inn into your name and gave you this deed. The problem is the inn wasn’t legally his to give you.

She sucked in a sharp breath, obviously holding back an instinctive objection. Her eyes very wide, she replied, “I don’t think that can be right. He inherited it from his grandfather ten years ago. We can go over all my stuff, but I’m sure there couldn’t have been a mistake about that.”