Loe raamatut: «Hideaway Hero»
Hideaway Hero
Kathleen O’Brien
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Copyright
Chapter One
Greta Kinyon stood at the window of her Hideaway Hill suite, gazing at the sunset that shimmered on Bodega Bay and wondering why she couldn’t relax. This B and B was her favorite retreat. Ordinarily, the minute she set foot in the lobby, she felt a lovely wash of peace and her worries fell away.
Today, though, the magic hadn’t kicked in. She was restless. Nervous. Wrong from head to toe.
And she had no idea why. She’d just closed one of the biggest real estate deals of her career. She’d been able to give a nice bonus to her assistant, who was going through a tough divorce. Greta’s father, her main investor and mentor, would be thrilled about the sale, though the bonus would exasperate him. He had many wonderful qualities, but giving without expectation of return wasn’t among them.
Still, the sale had been a coup. And now she was starting a week’s vacation at one of the prettiest spots on the California coast and planning to spend it with Franklin Marks, the man she’d been seeing for the past year.
Recipe for bliss, right?
And yet…
Greta stepped out of her heels, then peeled off her jacket. Plopping on the bed, she tossed a pillow across her stomach, as if applying pressure there might settle the butterflies she seemed to have swallowed. Just for a minute, she shut her eyes.
Suddenly someone rapped at the suite’s door. As she jolted awake, the stomach butterflies reacted to the knock, fluttering frantically.
And then she knew. Franklin. As strange as it sounded, she was dreading seeing Franklin.
“Come in,”she called, noting that the last of the sunset was merely a gold shadow on the carpet. How long had she slept?
She heard the door open in the front room, followed by the rumble of a room-service cart. She whisked her feet down and tried to smooth the bed-head out of her hair. Franklin must have ordered something.
“Thanks…please just put it—”
But as she entered the other room, she got a look at the man pushing the cart.
“Gabe!”Her heart lifted.
Though this was her fifth vacation at the Hideaway, the gorgeous owner, Gabriel Lennox, never seemed to change. He always wore some version of a soft Henley shirt that molded to his sexy chest, and faded jeans, which did the same for his lean legs. His chestnut hair still didn’t have a single strand of gray, even though he was thirty-six—six years older than Greta—and she’d found one on her pillow just last week.
He always looked casual and earthy, as if he’d just come from building a tree house, yet he never seemed out of place, even among his most elegant guests.
“Hey, Chicken Little.”He opened his arms. “Welcome back.”
She groaned at the old nickname, though secretly she loved hearing it. Her first year at the Hideaway, she’d booked this suite for the express purpose of losing her virginity on her twenty-sixth birthday. She’d ended up chickening out, and instead spent all night on the back porch with Gabe, crying into her wine until he began making jokes so absurd she had to laugh.
She returned his hug warmly. As usual, she stole a glance at his left hand. Still single. Amazing. Female guests at the Hideaway outnumbered the men five to one, undoubtedly because word had spread that the owner was a hottie.
Some of the guests weren’t subtle about what they wanted, either, and Greta wondered how often he accepted. Last year, she had spotted a well-known actress emerging from his suite in the predawn hours, looking dazed and delighted. It was the only time she’d seen anyone near his room…but, then, Greta only came to the Hideaway once a year.
Still. Apparently even the actress hadn’t received a permanent offer. Maybe Gabe just wasn’t the marrying kind.
His arm still around Greta’s shoulder, Gabe surveyed the empty room. “So where’s Mr. Lucky?”
Over the past four years, she’d come to the Hideaway with three different men. Gabe referred to them all as Mr. Lucky.
“Franklin,”she corrected. “Franklin Marks. I guess he’s late.”
“Guess so. He ordered this, though, so he must have expected to be here to drink it.”
She looked at the champagne, glittering with condensation in its icy silver cradle. A bowl of strawberries and cream sat beside it, and a single red rose beside that.
She imagined Franklin standing before her as midnight chimed and Valentine’s Day officially began. He’d pour their glasses and propose a toast.
Propose…
Suddenly she knew the cause of her anxiety. Deep down, she was afraid Franklin might choose this vacation to propose.
“Maybe he’ll have to cancel.”Optimism sparked in her chest. “Maybe something went wrong at work.”
Gabe’s brows arched, touching the hair that tumbled onto his forehead. “Wow. I’ve never heard anyone sound so happy about getting stood up. You’re actually hoping he won’t show.”
“Of course not.”She dropped onto the armchair next to the sofa, lifting her feet onto the ottoman. “Okay, maybe a little. He’s getting too persistent. About…commitment.”
Gabe smiled. He plucked a strawberry from the plate, then sat on the ottoman, nudging her ankles to make room. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoy the soap opera that is your love life.”
“It’s not a soap opera,”she protested limply.
“Sure it is. Although there’s never quite enough dirty stuff to make it really juicy.”He consumed the strawberry in one bite—an oddly sexy action—and tossed the stem expertly back onto the pink tablecloth. “Out with it. What’s wrong?”
With anyone else—especially her father—she would have denied it. But with Gabe, honesty was easy. A relief, even. He knew all her secrets. Sometimes she wondered how much she’d spilled that first year, over the wine.
“It’s just that I’m not ready for…the next step. But Franklin thinks I should be. And I’m afraid I’ve goofed by scheduling this vacation right before Valentine’s Day. It’s such a perfect setup for a proposal.”She lifted her hand. “I might as well have tattooed a bull’s-eye on my ring finger.”
Gabe laughed. “Every time you bring a man here, Chick, the poor guy leaves with his dreams dashed.”
“Not every time.”
“No?”He ticked off on his fingers. “The first year was that Roger guy. The one who slept alone for two nights, then gave up and went home. Year two…was his name Ty?”
“Ty and I did just fine,”she reminded him.
“Yeah, but by the next year things had definitely cooled. If I remember correctly, you spent a lot of your nights helping me muck out stalls.”
“That wasn’t my fault,”she said, poking his thigh with her toes. She couldn’t help noticing that his muscles were rock solid. He worked hard, day and night, to keep the Hideaway running at its best…but never complained. He loved this business.
He loved building and growing and cooking—unlike Greta, who created nothing. She merely brokered deals between other people. People who didn’t have her problems with commitment. People who were willing to say Yes. I want to put roots down here.
“Ty issued an ultimatum.”She frowned. “Marriage or nothing. He should have realized that would be a mistake.”
Gabe nodded slowly. “He was in love. People in love don’t always think clearly.”
“Which is why the next year I brought Red Malone. Back then, Red wasn’t interested in getting serious with any woman, so I knew it wouldn’t be complicated. It was great. No strings, no false hopes.”
Actually, she’d decided against having sex with Red that year, too, but Gabe didn’t know that. Red had accepted her decision so gracefully she hadn’t needed to flee the suite. Red had cheerfully made up the sofa bed and turned the week into a platonic festival of food and fun.
“Okay, Red went well,”Gabe admitted, “but now this Franklin guy. Apparently he, too, is wanting more than you can give.”
Something about Gabe’s thoughtful expression made Greta feel twitchy. He was usually so nonjudgmental. Was he looking at the pattern, these five years of failure, and finding her flawed? Did he really think she was a callous heartbreaker?
Surely he realized that she wanted to find a life partner. Sometimes her fear of ending up alone woke her in the night and scared her breathless.
She was thirty. She’d had two lovers in her entire life.
All her relationships had fizzled out.
Still, Gabe couldn’t believe she should marry the wrong man just because she feared she’d end up alone. That would be as depressing as marrying for the reasons her father recommended—financial security or professional advantage.
“What are you thinking?”She didn’t know why Gabe’s opinion mattered so much to her, but it did. “Is there something wrong with me? Should I say yes if—”
Before she could finish, another knock came at the door. She stared at the spot, paralyzed. Gabe shot her one unreadable glance, then stood and opened it.
But it wasn’t Franklin this time, either. It was Warren, the bellboy. He held an arrangement of yellow roses.
“Flowers for Ms. Kinyon.”
Finally Greta found the use of her limbs again and joined Warren and Gabe at the door. She took the flowers, put them on the coffee table and tugged the card off its plastic stick.
The card stuck briefly in its envelope, and she had to yank it free. But finally she could see what was typed on the note.
She heard Gabe shut the door, then felt him at her shoulder. She registered his cool, manly scent—of growing things and open air.
“What? Don’t tell me Mr. Lucky really decided to propose.”
“No.”She reread the card. I’m sorry, Greta…
“Well, what, then?”
She turned and held out the card.
“He’s tired of waiting. He found somebody else.”
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