The House on Blackberry Hill: Jewell Cove #1 (Jewel Cove) (3 page)

She stepped into the center of the room, completely enchanted. In addition to the bookcases there was a gorgeous rolltop desk and a sewing table next to a pair of stuffed armchairs. And yes, another fireplace, backing on the same wall as the one in the drawing room. The walls that were visible were goldeny yellow, like burnt sugar. The color set off wide white trim and wainscot. The dark cherry hardwood floor was utterly stunning—or had been. It was quite scarred after years of use. But in its heyday …

It was the first room she’d visited that felt anything like a home. She could imagine herself curled up in one of those chairs with a Jane Austen novel and a pot of tea, a fire blazing in the fireplace …

She turned herself around in a circle, gave a huge, contented sigh, and choked on a puff of dust stirred up by her movement.

The romanticism of the moment was shattered by the harsh sound of her coughing as she doubled over, effectively raising an even bigger cloud. She was a fool to let herself be seduced, even for a moment.

The coughing fit eased and she gasped for air, holding herself very, very still to keep from disturbing more dust. She wasn’t sure how long this place had been locked up, but Marian’s lawyer had mentioned something about a few years. Considering the grime and neglect she’d witnessed just on the first floor, she’d guess it was closer to “several” rather than “a few.”

But despite the dirt and grime, the library was glorious. She could almost smell the redolent tang of cigar smoke, the bite of brandy mingled with the scent of leather and paper and ink. She closed her eyes, imagining for a moment what it must have been like during the glory days. Another time and place.

She opened her eyes, watched a mouse scurry into the corner and raised an eyebrow. Rodents and God knew what else were not romantic. The mouse disappeared behind a wing chair and she sighed. In reality she knew that this was just a room. What she needed to do was stop daydreaming and find the name of the nearest pest control company. So much for being in and out of Jewell Cove within a few days. Her first order of business was going to be looking into contractors. And to do that she was going to need either the yellow pages or an Internet connection—neither of which could be found at her current location.

A crash followed by the sound of muffled yet spectacular swearing from the front of the house propelled Abby out of her thoughts and sent her rushing to the front door with her heart pounding. Judging by the frustrated, not pained, language—which she had to admit was really quite inventive—coming from the porch she figured whatever was happening outside wasn’t an emergency, and at a particularly creative curse couldn’t help but choke back a giggle. Still chuckling, she threw open the door.

The man on her veranda was big and he was burly, with blazing black eyes and matching hair a touch too long as it curled around his collar. He looked like a lumberjack, if that lumberjack happened to be on the cover of
Sexy Outdoorsman
magazine. His jeans were faded but clean, and he wore a white button-down shirt rolled up over tanned and muscled forearms. His very civilized attire seemed slightly out of place against his rugged good looks. Abby wasn’t much into facial hair, but a day’s growth of stubble framed his jaw and the total package was so completely masculine and sexy that something hot and forbidden wound its way through her abdomen. She scrambled to put together a coherent thought but couldn’t seem to make the connection between her brain and her tongue.

“Are you Miss Foster?”

She nodded her head quickly in response to his sharp demand. And realized one of his feet had gone through the floorboards of the veranda and now the splintered fragments settled around his boot like jagged teeth.

“You broke my veranda.”
Brilliant, Abby,
she chastised herself. She crossed her arms in an old habit and bit down on her lip.
The most gorgeous example of masculinity you’ve ever seen shows up on your doorstep and that’s what you come up with? You broke my veranda?

“Me? The damned thing is rotten through. You’re lucky I didn’t break my neck.”

Abby wasn’t sure how to respond. A part of her felt the need to be polite and apologize—after all, he was standing ankle-deep in splintered wood. At the same time, he was a stranger, uninvited, and he’d already damaged the property she’d only been in possession of for a scant hour. She was tired and his abrasive tone seemed to ride on her last nerve.

“I beg your pardon, but it appears
you’re
trespassing. I don’t know you and I certainly didn’t invite you here, Mr.…”

“Arseneault,” he answered. He gave his boot a good yank and pulled it from the hole. He planted both feet on the floor after testing the strength of the boards and then looked up at her with a grin that melted the edges off her annoyance. “Tom Arseneault. And from the looks of this place, you’re going to be seeing a lot of me.”

*   *   *

Tom looked down into Miss Foster’s astonished face as he issued his declaration. She was a pretty little thing, if you took away the coating of dirt that seemed to cover her from head to toe. Her mouth was a little too wide for the daintiness of her nose, and her hair was mousy brown, coated with dust, and fell limply to her shoulders. But she had good eyes—a nice clear blue, kind of like Penobscot Bay on a clear summer’s day. She wore faded, ripped jeans that seemed perfectly shaped to her figure and a plain cotton T-shirt that emphasized a nice pair of breasts. She was the kind of woman he probably would have given a glance to on the street—but not a second look. Tom’s first impression was of a sweet rather than a second-look kind of woman.

Until he saw her feet. She wore silly little flip-flops—the strappy bit that ran across the top of her foot crusted with sparkly stuff—and her toenails were painted hot pink. Ultrafeminine and sexy as hell.

Shaking off his sudden foot fetish, Tom tried to gather his thoughts. So the dusty little mouse had pretty feet. So what? She certainly didn’t embody what he imagined Marian’s heir to look like. He’d expected a man, actually, and older than the snippet of a girl before him. More regal, perhaps, in keeping with the family name and fortune. He frowned, not liking the feeling of being off balance. Miss Foster looked like she’d fit in at his cousin Jess’s craft shop stringing beads on hemp bracelets rather than having a head for business.

First thing he had to do was make her see how much she needed him. And he wouldn’t do that by glowering at her. It wasn’t her fault the floor was rotted through, and it wasn’t her fault she had sexy feet. He took a breath, slapped his best trust-me smile back on, and prepared to make nice. But her uptight little voice cut him off before he could begin to argue his case.

“I have never heard of you, Mr. Arseneault,” she replied, as if oblivious to his smile. The pert nose lifted a little higher into the air. “But you can take your big boots and your bigger attitude and leave the way you came.”

Had he really just thought she wasn’t regal? The proclamation was delivered in such a dismissive tone that he laughed. He couldn’t help it. She was going toe-to-toe with him like she was the Queen of England. Maybe there was a good dose of Foster blood in her after all. She looked so serious it was very nearly adorable.

“Honey,” he said smoothly, “we started off on the wrong foot.” He chuckled, looking down at his foot recently freed from the porch. “Why don’t we just talk and—”

Her cheeks colored. “I’m not your honey, my name is Abigail. I asked you to leave, and I am not afraid to call the police.”

“You don’t want to do that,” he replied, his smile sliding away. All he needed was for Bryce to answer the phone. There’d be no end to the teasing. God knew Bryce didn’t need any more ammunition. It was already too easy for Jewell Cove’s chief of police to get beneath Tom’s skin.

“Oh?” Her gaze brightened as if she sensed a victory in her grasp. “And why not?”

“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor. You’ll look stupid.”

She pursed her lips. “Do I seem like the kind of woman who worries about looking stupid?”

She raised an imperious eyebrow. Impressive, he thought, with a glimmer of respect. Abigail Foster had a glint of challenge in her blue gaze that intrigued him. He was willing to call her bluff just to see how it would all work out. “Go ahead,” he prompted. “Ask for Bryce Arseneault. That’d be my brother, by the way.”

She looked like she wanted to stomp her foot and he marveled at how cute she appeared just then. Immensely satisfied, he hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets. The sooner this mess of an introduction got over with, the sooner they could get down to business.

A sound of frustration escaped her lips. She went inside and surprised him by slamming the door in his face. He checked his watch. One minute. He’d give her one minute before knocking. He was pretty sure she’d come back out. And when she did, he’d make a better case for himself. He’d gone about it the wrong way, trying charm and humor. It didn’t usually fail him.

Twenty seconds. Ten.

The door opened, precluding the need for him to knock and make nice. She stood in the gap, clicking her cell phone off. “Right. Bryce says hello and that Mary expects you for dinner at five-thirty.”

He could rub it in her face but decided not to. The blush tainting her cheeks right now was satisfaction enough. He looked around the sagging veranda, caught sight of the crumbling chimney, the cracked paint around the windows. “You’re lucky it was me who put their foot through just now. Someone else might have been right angry. Maybe would have sued. It’s a litigious world we live in.”

Her lips puckered like a drawstring bag. “I feel
so
fortunate,” she replied, and the sarcasm washed over him. He liked it. It seemed to level the playing field somehow. She might be tiny, but he guessed that she’d make a worthy opponent if given the opportunity.

Despite her quirky toes and ripped jeans, he just bet Abigail Foster liked to dot all her i’s and cross all her t’s, the complete opposite of his more laid-back approach to business. And looking at those pursed lips and the challenging glint in her eyes, he felt a shiver of anticipation that had nothing to do with the house and everything to do with the client.

Abigail might be the Type A organizer, but things just weren’t done that way in Jewell Cove. They were normally settled over a pint at the Rusty Fern followed by a handshake. If she stayed, she’d soon learn how things were done. And how they weren’t.

Besides, Jewell Cove could use some new blood to stir things up. It had been awfully dull lately. The gossip mill needed a new topic of conversation. Why not Abigail Foster and the Foster mansion? It was a damned sight better than ruminating over Josh’s return and reviving long memories.

She tucked the phone into her back pocket. “Remind me who you are again?”

He smiled, determined to get it right this time. “The best contractor on the mid-coast. And the answer to all your troubles.”

C
HAPTER
3

Abby couldn’t stop the peal of laughter that bubbled up from her chest and out her mouth. The situation was so surreal. She looked at Tom Arseneault’s expression—puzzled and then annoyed—and laughed some more. It felt good. Tom Arseneault had pushed her buttons with his scowl and God’s-gift attitude and it was liberating to push right back.

This really took the cake. Hadn’t she just been thinking she needed to find a contractor and poof! Here he was. She hadn’t rubbed a genie’s lamp but he’d appeared just like Aladdin, and didn’t he look like just the kind of man who could make her every wish come true?

It was like God had suddenly plopped everything in her lap, including a gorgeous man, and then sat back, rubbing his hands, to watch the show as she decided what to do with it all. God, she decided, had a warped sense of humor. But she was willing to play along. To a point.

“I don’t need a handyman for this place,” she joked, catching her breath. “I need a demolition crew!”

He looked so horrified at the idea that she giggled all over again.

“That’s not remotely funny,” he said shortly. He took a step forward and she felt a little thrill as she looked up into his rugged face. He was over six feet tall and from the looks of his arms, he was solid muscle. She swallowed. Lumberjack man was very … virile. She caught her breath as he towered over her. Funny how she didn’t feel as threatened as she should by his size and proximity.

“The condition of this place
is
a travesty,” he admitted. “But it’s also town history and needs to be preserved, not knocked down. What are you planning to do with it, then? Don’t tell me you’re seriously going to tear it down. Because I’ll have something to say about that.”

He was dead serious and looked genuinely upset. It was just a house, albeit a magnificent one. She thought back for a minute to the walls of books in the library. Well, maybe not
just
a house, but why on earth would Tom Arseneault take it so personally?

“What’s it to you? Last I checked it was my name on the deed. And I don’t recall my lawyer mentioning any Arseneault having a claim to the property.”

“Are you serious? Have you been inside yet?” His eyebrows lifted so that they nearly touched the black curl of hair that dropped over his forehead. “In its heyday, this house was the center gem of this town. The old gossips still talk about the Roaring Twenties parties that were held here before they were ever born. Jed Foster imported most of the furniture from his journeys around the globe.”

The sheer volume of antiques would fetch a pretty penny at an estate auction, wouldn’t they? But she didn’t think it wise to say that out loud right now. This Mr. Arseneault seemed to take the house quite to heart.

“I haven’t had time to examine everything properly.”

He took another step forward, encroaching on her space. “There are even rumors about it being haunted since the war, at least if the old-timers down at Breezes Café are to be believed. The mansion is a town icon.”

She took a step back, alarmed by his assertion of it being haunted, especially after her strange sensations at the cellar door and stairs. “If it’s such a gem, then why did it ever fall into such disrepair?”