The McCullagh Inn in Maine (2 page)

Jeremy Holland had
been an object of infatuation since childhood—from the time I understood the difference between boys and girls up until college. He'd been a major part of my “wish on a star” phase. We'd been best friends, the kind who were supposed to be secretly in love with each other, so when he got together with the preppy blond cheerleader Mary Walker, I was pissed. When he went and proposed to her like the idiot he was, I skipped town the night before their wedding. I hadn't planned to return.

And I hadn't spoken to him since.

I may have googled him from time to time, though. Last I'd heard, he was living in Bangor, dribbling his life away at some desk job.

His gaze met mine, and the casual look in his familiar green eyes brightened to recognition. I quickly turned away—like I should have done the second I realized it was him. My heart raced, and the old undeniable attraction between us jerked back to life like a tangible thing, all because our bodies had bumped against each other on the street.

Damn his muscular arms.

And damn his outdated online profile.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, sidestepping his large frame and tugging the baseball hat even lower so he wouldn't stop me. I didn't need this. Not now.

I didn't want him to focus on me.

He easily stepped the same way as me, blocking my escape effortlessly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to drop a few octaves. Between that and my altered appearance, maybe he wouldn't recognize me. He'd married Mary, after all. How smart could he be? “I'm fine.”

I walked past him, making sure not to brush against him. The last thing I needed was to feel a pull toward him. I was more panicked than I had been during my entire journey from Miami.

“Chelsea?” he asked, his voice dipping sexily. “Is that you?”

I stiffened, a few choice curse words flitting through my brain. But I bit them back, because nothing indicated guilt more than freaking out—and my father had trained me better than that. “Who?” I asked without turning around.

“Chelsea. Chelsea O'Kane.”

I shook my head, balling my fists at my sides, ignoring the way his voice made me feel. All shivery, broken, and empty. “Never heard of her, but I hope she's pretty if you've got us confused.”

As I attempted to saunter away, forcing myself to unclench my fists and keep my body language relaxed, he called out, “No matter how hard your daddy tried to teach you, you always were a lousy liar, Chels. Drop the act, and turn around.”

I took a deep breath and considered my options. If I kept walking, Jeremy would come after me, and the ensuing argument would draw more attention than I wanted. If I faced him, I risked getting sucked back into his “help your fellow man” world, and right now, I could only help one person—myself.

Luckily for me, I saw Paul's truck turn the corner of Main and Birch. “Whoever you thought I was, trust me, that girl is long gone.”

There was an intake of breath from behind me and I paused, for the briefest of moments, at the sound. I wanted so badly to turn around, to run into his arms and tell him everything that was bothering me, like I'd done when we were kids, but then my self-preservation instincts kicked in. I crossed the street, not bothering to look both ways—in this town, I'd hear a car well before it ever reached me.

Paul's truck pulled up to the curb of the coffee shop, and I yanked the door open at the same time as he opened his, one foot out the door. He glanced at me in surprise. “I thought we were—”

“Change of plans,” I growled. “Drive. Fast.”

He frowned, closing his door without hesitation. “Is that—?”

“Yep,” I gritted out. “And he recognized me.”

“Shit,” Paul said, jerking the truck into drive. “He won't let it go at one conversation.”

“I know.” I scanned our surroundings through the passenger window, sucking in a breath. “Son of a bitch.”

Damn it, why did I have such lousy taste in men? The recognition in Jeremy's eyes scared me more than Richard's fists ever had. If I wasn't careful, Jeremy would ruin everything.…

And then I'd be the one facing down the barrel of a gun.

Paul turned down
the road that led to the inn, a ramshackle gem framed by old forest. His grip on the wheel was unyielding. He stared out the windshield, flexing his jaw, ignoring me. More than likely he was about to spout the perfect reprimand for this situation—one he'd probably been rehearsing since I'd left. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly.

“Where did the bruises come from?”

Of course he saw them. “A problem that no longer exists.”

He pressed his mouth into a tight line. “What did Jeremy say?”

“He asked if I was Chelsea O'Kane. I told him I wasn't.”

“That was stupid,” Paul snapped. “Now he'll be focused on you and why you lied. You need to shake him off.”

I dropped my head back on the seat. Damn it, he was right. And I didn't need that kind of attention right now—especially not from
him
. “I'll find him. Tell him I want nothing to do with him and ask him to leave me alone. He will.”

Paul snorted. “Yeah. Sure he will.”

“He will,” I said, knowing it was true. Jeremy had picked Mary, after all.

There were new wrinkles around Paul's eyes, signs of a life filled with laughter and worry earned while I'd been away, which made me feel a little emptier inside. Otherwise, he had the same brown hair and blue eyes that were, as always, tinged with something between a touch of mischief and anger at the world.

“What the hell did you get yourself into this time?” he asked.

I shook my head, staring out the window at the trees blurring together as we sped by, my mind still on Jeremy and the threat he posed. I hoped he dropped the idea of reconnecting and disappeared out of my life again. “You don't need to know the details.”

“The hell I don't,” he growled. “You're blond, Chels.
Blond
. Obviously, shit got real.”

Wincing, I touched my hair self-consciously. I looked ridiculous in this color and we both knew it. “The less you know, the better. Just trust me on this.”

“But—” He sighed. “Whatever.”

I swallowed and glanced in the rearview to make sure we didn't have a tail.

“You have to admit it's pretty shitty that you disappeared from my life, only to show up when you need me to get you a new ID, so you can…what? Run again?” he snapped.

“I don't just need a new ID,” I said softly. “I need Chelsea O'Kane to be legally pronounced dead. And after that, I'm not going anywhere.”

He braked, the tires squealing softly at the sudden movement, and slowly turned to me.
“Dead?”

I nodded once, knowing I was asking for a lot, but it was the only way I stood a chance at coming out of this mess alive. “Can you do that?”

He stepped on the gas, pulling into the inn's circular gravel driveway without answering, but I didn't make the mistake of assuming his silence was a good thing. I knew better than that. The second he put the truck into park, he turned to me, scowling. “I understood why you ran. You wanted to get away from this life, from Dad's legacy. You wanted to be clean. Normal.
Legit
. Right?”

That had been the plan, yeah. But apparently, I wasn't the type of girl who got clean. Gripping my knees, I nodded, still not speaking.

Paul needed to say his piece, and I intended to let him.

“So you ran, and you never called or told me where you were. I didn't even know if you were still alive.”

I stared at the faded gray clapboard and peeling blue shutters on the front of the house. The gardens were choked with weeds, but renovating the inside was my first priority. “I'm sorry. I was living in Miami, working as a lawyer, when things went…” I trailed off and made the
kaboom
motion with my hands.

“A lawyer, huh?” He stared at me, his gaze filled with pain and accusation. “You can't get any more legit than a lawyer. Can't remove yourself from this family any further than that, right, Chels? The only thing worse would've been becoming a cop.”

“I'd never—” I stared down at my legs. That's exactly what I'd been thinking when I chose my major. I'd been so desperate to be a better person. That had been all Jeremy's fault. Him and his do-good attitude that never faltered. “I mean, right.”

“And now you're here, asking for a favor.…” The crisp wind, carrying the taste of salt water, buffeted the overhanging branches, casting shadows on his face. Paul continued, “Asking for
my
help.”

I nodded, grabbing hold of my knees.

While I'd done what needed to be done, I was older now, and I never should have cut ties with my brother, no matter what he did for a living. No matter how similar he was to our father.

Coming home to Maine meant safety, but it also meant a chance to start over, to rebuild my relationship with my brother. I needed him and this inn.

“Tell me, Chels. Was it worth it? Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No. Is that what you want to hear? I thought I could be someone who made a difference in the world, who changed things for the better, but all I did was make things worse. So that's why I came home to the inn, to you. To start over. Again.”

Paul rubbed his forehead, letting out a sardonic laugh. “How far up shit creek are you? You going to end up in jail like Dad?”

“This isn't some penny-ante con man scam.” I pressed my lips together and shrugged. “If I get caught? Well, let's put it this way. You'll never find the pieces.”

Stiffening, he dropped his hand. “Jesus.”

“Can you do it or not?”

He tapped his fingers on his thigh. “It's not going to be easy. Declaring someone dead takes a shitload of paperwork.” He let out a long breath, drawing it out. “But I have some connections in Bangor who can pull it off, as well as the name change.”

I collapsed against the headrest. “Thank you.”

“After you're ‘dead,' what then? You got a plan?”

“I do what I should have done all along.” I gestured at the inn, eyeing the mildewing posts on the wrap-around porch. “Fix this place up. Open for business. Make Aunt May proud.
Stay
.”

He cocked a brow. “And when people ask why your last name is different?”

“Divorce.” I twisted my lips. “Or maybe I'm widowed. Whichever draws less curiosity.”

“Divorced, I think,” he said hesitantly. “You're really staying?”

“Yes. I'm done running. Whatever happens, happens. This is where I make my stand.”

“All right.” He nodded, placed his hands on the wheel, gripping it tightly. “How do you want to die?”

That night, I
turned on the big-screen TV. Settling into the corner of the couch with my glass of whiskey, I tucked myself in with an afghan Aunt May had crocheted. My notebook of lists and plans for the inn's renovation slid between me and the couch. I smiled at the roaring fire I'd managed to get going before focusing on CNN, which was covering a bombing in Kuwait.

Not a shooting in Miami.

I hadn't eaten all day, but that was okay because I wasn't really hungry. I didn't need food, just some whiskey to help me survive the night ahead. Anything to help me sleep, without knocking me out so deeply I couldn't hear danger approaching.

Even an hour of shut-eye would be nice.

Rubbing my face, I yawned and set my drink down. I froze when someone knocked. The only person who knew I was here was Paul, and he was in Bangor taking care of my identity crisis.

Heart pounding, I stood on the scratched hardwood floors, slowly creeping forward. A floorboard squeaked under my foot and I half expected to hear gunshots, but only silence followed. I opened the drawer I'd slid my gun into, resting my fingers on the cool barrel of the Glock.

Pulling the curtains back hesitantly, I peeked outside. And damned if I didn't want to use that gun even more than before. Gritting my teeth, I let the doorknob go, glowering out the tiny slit of the curtain opening.
Fricking
Jeremy Holland. He stood underneath the flickering light on the porch, holding food and a bottle of wine, the soft amber glow making him look too hot for my liking.

There was no way in hell I was letting him in.

He rocked back on his heels and knocked again. When I didn't move, he grinned and leaned in close to the door. “I can hear you breathing.”

I winced, covering my mouth, which was stupid, because unless he'd become a superhero over the years, he was lying.

“I know you're in there, Chelsea O'Kane. Open up.”

Announce my identity to the whole world, why don't ya?

I hesitated, pressing my hand against the door. What were the chances of him giving up and going away? Slim to none. Jeremy would never give up on anything so long as the slightest shred of hope remained.

“I have your favorite Chinese food. General Tso's chicken, rice, egg rolls, and red wine.” He waited, and when I didn't unlock the door, he sighed. “If you don't let me in, I'm going to have to assume it's not you in there. And if it's not you, it's a trespasser, so I'll have to call the police.”

I closed my eyes, counting to three. Such a damn idiot. The best way to get yourself shot was to
inform
a possible criminal that you were going to report him. How had he survived all these years without me around to beat some sense into him?

Oh. Right. With his pretty
blond
wife.

Mary Walker—no, Mary
Holland
.

“All right.” He looked the door up and down before stepping back. I hoped he wasn't about to kick it down. The damn thing wouldn't stand a chance. “Suit yourself.” I saw him fish his phone out of his pocket.

Fricking Jeremy Holland
. Pressing my forehead against the metal, I called out, “Call the cops and I'll shoot you myself, asshole.”

He laughed, his finger hovering over the screen. “There's the Chelsea I knew and loved.”

“You didn't love me,” I replied coolly, resting my hand on the knob. “How's Mary?”

He didn't say anything to that. “Let me in.”

“No.” I shook my head, even though he couldn't see me. My heart raced and my blood rushed. Knowing he was just inches away, on the other side of this door, made me feel more alive than I'd felt in…years. “Go home. Forget all about me.”

“Not happening. Why did you lie about who you were?”

“I didn't,” I said quickly. “I'm not Chelsea O'Kane anymore.” I took a deep breath and focused on my story. It was imperative I convince him. “I was married, but he's gone now. I kept his last name, though. Wanted to leave my ties to the O'Kanes in the past. You know the family motto, keep looking forward.”

“You got
married?
To who?” he asked, his voice hard.

“No one you knew.”

“Try me.” He jiggled the knob. I sucked in a breath. “Don't make me break down the pretty pink door your aunt special-ordered all those years ago because it reminded you of a fairy palace. I just want to talk.”

I tightened my grip on the knob. “I'm talking to you now.”

“Doesn't count.” He sighed. “Open up. Prove it's you.”

Rolling my eyes, I turned the lock, because there was no way he was going to leave unless I told him to, and I'd promised Paul I'd contain Jeremy. Yanking it open, I glowered at him, breathing heavily because, God, he looked good. He'd changed into a flannel shirt, which was unbuttoned and hanging loosely over a tight gray T-shirt. And those jeans—God, those
jeans
—left nothing to the imagination. “Happy now?”

His gaze raked over me, and I swore he somehow closed the distance between us without moving, because I could
feel
it. When he finally met my eyes again, there was a heat that set me on fire. “No.”

“Too bad. Go home to your wife,” I said, stepping back, wrapping my arms around myself, holding on tightly. Being this close to him shook me off my axis. “I'm sure she wouldn't be happy if she knew you were hanging around over here.”

He entered the house, shutting himself in with me. I could feel the power radiating off him, and damned if he didn't smell exactly the same as he used to—like male, cologne, and fresh aftershave. I wanted to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in until his lips met mine like I'd fantasized about for years. Everything else faded away, but I didn't move.
That
had been a onetime deal.

After sliding the lock home, he set the food and wine down on the table—the same one that held my gun. I quickly glanced at the slightly opened drawer but focused on the real threat.

Him
.

He crossed the room and grabbed my chin, clearly ignoring the
back the hell off
vibes I was throwing his way. The second his fingers touched my skin, sparks of desire laced through my blood like heroin, as he stared at me like he had every intention of picking up where we left off all those years ago. “You're blond.”

“Yeah,” I breathed. “So is your wife.”

His grip on me tightened. “You
honestly
think I would still marry Mary after you and I slept together the night before my wedding?”