A very intimate battleground

Amelia Sheffield arrives in the sleepy town of Millhaven, New York, to collect what was promised her for a museum exhibit: an antique bed that George Washington once slept in. The problem is one incredibly infuriating—and incredibly sexy—innkeeper who insists the bed belongs to him. Of course, Sam Blackstone has no idea how dirty Amelia is willing to play this game...

Sam is furious—and intrigued—when he learns that Amelia plans on sleeping in the bed until it’s hers. But he can be just as stubborn as her. After all, that bed could keep his family’s inn from closing. Which means he’ll sleep in the bed, too. And if she wants to play dirty, he’s right there with her!

“The battle for the bed starts at noon.”

She held out her hand and Sam shook it.

She began to pull away but he slipped his hand around her waist and drew her against his body. His lips covered hers in a deep kiss, their tongues creating a delicious connection that he didn’t want to break. When she broke away, he looked down into her wide eyes.

“May the best man win,” he whispered.

Her expression hardened and she wrapped her hand around the nape of his neck and pulled him into another kiss. Her mouth was soft and searching, her tongue tracing the width of his mouth, teasing him in a way that was more provocative than he expected, and his whole body reacted.

But Amelia wasn’t about to let him take control. She stepped away and gave him a coy smile, her lips still damp and glistening.

“Don’t you mean the best woman?”

Dear Reader,

As I was writing this book, my editor, Adrienne Macintosh, mentioned to me that she enjoyed my small-town books. I hadn’t realized until that moment how many times I find myself setting a story in a charming, picturesque but quirky small town. I love the eccentric characters I usually find in these imaginary towns and villages.

And how to properly use a small town? Give it a historic inn with a sexy innkeeper. Toss in some colorful townsfolk. Bring on the heroine, a big-city career girl. Add a snowstorm, and we’re off to a fun romance!

I hope you enjoy the book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

And next up, the Quinns are back for more adventures!

Happy reading,

Compromising Positions

Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATE HOFFMANN lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her books, her computer and her cats, Princess Winifred and Princess Grace. In her spare time she enjoys sewing, movies, talking on the phone with her sister, and directing plays and musicals. She has written nearly ninety books for Mills & Boon.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

Extract

Copyright

1

“SAMUEL JEFFERSON BLACKSTONE! Where are you?”

Sam winced at the sound of his younger sister’s voice as it echoed through the ground floor of the Blackstone Inn. He gave the pipe wrench one last twist, then wriggled out of the cupboard.

“I’m in here,” he called. “In the kitchen.”

By the time Sarah reached the kitchen, he was washing his hands in the newly repaired sink. At least he’d thought it was fixed until he heard the unmistakable drip of a leaky drainpipe. Sam cursed softly.

This was one of those moments when he was painfully reminded that the Blackstone Inn didn’t come close to turning a profit from year to year. If it did, he could call a real plumber to take care of these nagging maintenance problems. But Sam couldn’t recall a time in his life when the inn had provided more than a meager living to the person who owned it—and right now that guy was him.

“Is it fixed?” Sarah asked.

“Not yet,” he muttered.

“Did you use the goop and the strips?”

He shook his head. “Just the goop.”

Sarah rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I told you to use the strips, too. That’s how James fixed it the last time.”

Sam glanced over at his sister. “Maybe you could call James and invite him over to dinner? Take him to a movie and then just casually mention our leaky pipes?”

“Do you really want my entire dating life taken up by romancing the various craftsmen around town?” Sarah asked, grabbing an apple from the wood bowl on the counter. “I’ve dated electricians, roofers, carpenters, masons... I draw the line at plumbers.”

“James seems like a nice guy,” Sam commented. “And it would be very helpful if you married someone handy. That would solve all our problems.”

“I’m not going to date James.” Sarah pushed away from the counter. “Besides, you and I both know exactly what would solve our problems. And since you refuse to find a ridiculously wealthy wife, it’s going to be at least another twenty-five years of this.”

A wife with deep pockets would certainly help, Sam mused. But why would a woman with money saddle herself with an old inn and a husband who was tied to it like a ship to an anchor? This was his burden. Why would he wish it on any woman, especially a woman he loved?

“You don’t have to stick around,” Sam said. “The inn isn’t your problem.”

She shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere better to be right now. And if I leave, who is going to cook the meals for our demanding guests?” Sarah started out of the kitchen, then stopped. “Oh, I thought you should know. I saw moving vans parked in front of Abigail Farnsworth’s house. It looks like they’re finally clearing her stuff out. You might want to go get the George Washington bed before they cart it away.”

“Jerry Harrington told me they’d call me when I could pick it up,” Sam said.

“I’m not sure I’d trust him with something so important.”

“He’s our cousin.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Sarah said. “Half the people in this town are related to us in some distant way. Abby Farnsworth is our third cousin twice removed.”

“Fourth,” he corrected. Sam grabbed his keys out of his pocket and hurried to the door. “Stick the bucket back under the sink to catch that leak. I’ll get on it later.” He sighed as he remembered all the other repairs the old building needed urgently.

The Blackstone Inn was the third oldest inn in the state of New York and the only one of the three in continuous operation since the time of the Revolutionary War. It sat on a beautiful bluff above the Hudson River on the outskirts of the town of Millhaven.

It had been built by Sam’s seventh great-grandfather, added to by his sixth and fifth great-grandfathers, and been passed down for nine generations to the eldest son of the eldest son in the family.

During the Revolutionary War, the inn was an important military landmark on the road between New York City and Albany, and north to Quebec City. After the war, it was a waypoint for settlers moving into the northern reaches of the state. And then, in 1797, when Albany was named the capital of the state, it became a favorite spot for traveling politicians and businessmen.

Sam steered the truck into the quaint environs of the town. He had grown up in Millhaven and from a young age he’d known that his future was predetermined. He was the eldest son of an eldest son and, as such, the Blackstone Inn was his birthright.

There were moments when he felt the burden of his family’s history, much like a royal might chafe against a life of duty. For a long time he’d tried to find a way out, but his father and grandfather had both put in their years at the helm. It was his turn now. And there was no out.

If Sam walked away, his father, Joseph, would be forced out of retirement to run the inn, and when he died, a family committee would choose an heir—most likely Sarah. His sister had so much talent, Sam didn’t want her to be tied to an old inn in a small town. So Sam accepted his legacy with gritted teeth and a tight smile. He’d do his duty for as long as he could.

When he pulled the pickup to a stop in front of Abigail’s house, he paused before getting out. The George Washington bed had become a symbol of the ups and downs of the Blackstone Inn. Over the years it had been sold and reacquired three times, often to relatives. Sam’s grandfather had been the last to sell it. Faced with a financial crisis, he’d finally accepted Abigail Farnsworth’s offer, but only because Abigail had promised to return the bed completely free of charge once she’d gotten her money’s worth out of it. Which was now, Sam hoped.

He hopped out of the truck and wove his way through the crowd of onlookers bundled against the February chill. As the tangle of moving men removed each beautiful antique, the crowd had a chance to see the life’s work of one the state’s most respected collectors. After a recent hip injury, Abigail Farnsworth had decided to join her sister, Emily, and retire to the warmer climate of Phoenix, Arizona. And today many of her precious antiques were headed for the auction block.

Sam spotted one of the workmen with the headboard from his bed and he hurried over, only to be brushed aside by a woman dressed entirely in black.

“You can put that in the back of the trailer,” she said. “Make sure to wrap it with the moving quilts. Do you have the side rails?”

“Hey!” Sam shouted. “Hold up there.” The workman looked up at him as Sam approached. “Where are you going with that bed?”

The guy shrugged. “I’m just following orders,” he said.

“That’s my bed,” Sam said.

The woman turned to face him and the moment their eyes met Sam felt his breath slowly leave his body. She was one of those women you wanted to meet only on your best day, when you’d bothered to shave that morning and put on something other than faded jeans and a T-shirt. And when you had something terribly interesting to say if the conversation lagged—as it just had.

She shifted her sunglasses down on the bridge of her nose and studied him with eyes the color of expensive cognac. Everything about her seemed to ooze elegance, from her dark hair pulled into a loose knot at her nape to her perfect profile, clear testament to generations of careful breeding. A shiver coursed through his body and Sam shifted uneasily.

She’s way out of your league, buddy.

“There must be some mistake,” she murmured, her eyebrow arched.

Sam reached up and ran his fingers through his tousled hair, then forced a smile. “That’s my bed,” he repeated.

“This bed?” she asked. “No, no. This is my bed.”

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter that Abigail had written, gifting him what they’d affectionately called “The GW.”

“I have a letter here from the current owner, Abigail Farnsworth.”

She frowned, then pulled out a paper of her own. “I also have a letter from Miss Farnsworth. But mine states that she wishes the bed to go to the Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts in Boston. I’m here to collect it and take it back to Boston.”

“Over my dead body,” Sam said.

She glanced at the workman. “Put it in the trailer,” she ordered.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave it right there,” Sam warned the man. He glanced around and caught sight of the town lawyer, Jerry Wright, standing on the front porch. “Stay here,” he said to the mover. “I’m going to get someone to sort this all out.”

As he walked away, Sam glanced over his shoulder at the woman in black. She’d removed her sunglasses and their eyes met again, and she quickly looked away. Sam smiled to himself. It was the first sign of weakness that she’d shown. The attraction wasn’t just one-sided. What was going through her pretty head? he wondered.

“Jerry! Get over here.”

“Sam, I was just about to call you.”

Sam cursed. “Sure you were. Come here and fix this. Some woman from Boston is trying to take my bed. The bed Abigail promised to return to the Blackstone.”

Jerry hurried down the porch steps and walked across the lawn to Sam’s side. “It seems that Miss Abigail made a lot of promises she didn’t tell me about, Sam. Half the stuff in that house is promised to more than one party and now I’m left to untangle this can of worms.”

“I don’t care about any of that. All I want is the bed.”

The other man sighed. “All right, come on.”

When they reached the bed, the footboard was already inside the woman’s trailer and the mover was just about to load the side rails. “Take that out of there,” Jerry ordered. “That bed isn’t going anywhere. At least not today.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” the woman said, rounding the back of what could only be her black Lexus SUV. She held out her hand to Jerry. “I’m Amelia Sheffield, Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts. I have this letter from Miss Farnsworth gifting the bed to our museum.”

“It’s not hers to give away,” Sam said. “That bed has been in my family for generations and it’s coming back where it belongs.”

She studied him for a long moment, like a fighter evaluating her opponent. “And you are?”

“Sam Blackstone.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve read the bed’s provenance. You sold the antique to Abigail. I’m afraid I didn’t see that you’d purchased it back. There would have been paperwork, no?”

Sam let his gaze drift over her beautiful features. “My grandfather, also named Samuel Blackstone, sold the bed. Let’s just call Abigail and find out what she thinks.”

“I doubt that would solve anything,” Jerry said. “She seems to be legally obligated to both of you.”

“Who had the first claim?” Sam asked. He held out his letter and compared it to Amelia Sheffield’s. “I do.”

“But wouldn’t this be like a will?” Amelia asked. “In that case, the last draft supersedes all others and my letter would be the valid document.”

“I’m not going to be the one to decide this,” Jerry said. “For now we’ll take the bed to a secure storage facility, along with the other disputed pieces of furniture, and figure this out later.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Amelia said. “We’re counting on this piece for an exhibit that opens next week. The day after President’s Day.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Sam said.

“Will you just...go away? I need this bed and it’s mine by right.”

“Not a chance. You think I’m just going to give up because you’ve got a nice smile and a sexy voice?”

She gasped. “What did you say?”

“Oh, don’t pretend to be shocked. I saw you checking me out earlier. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that you’re attracted to me.”

“Attracted to you? Has anyone ever told you that you’re delusional?”

Sam chuckled. He usually wasn’t this bold with a woman but he needed to keep Amelia Sheffield off balance. She was a threat, to his business and to centuries-old tradition. And he was enjoying flirting with her.

It didn’t take her long to return the volley and they continued to throw verbal hand grenades until a small crowd had gathered around them. Finally Minerva Threadwell stepped forward. Sam groaned as she pulled out her notepad. Minerva was editor of the local newspaper and her husband, Wilbur, ran the local radio station. They were the king and queen of Millhaven gossip.

“I understand there’s a dispute over the ownership of the George Washington bed,” Minerva said. “Would either of you care to comment?”

“No,” Sam said.

At the same time Amelia said, “Yes, I would. My name is Amelia Sheffield and I am from the Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts. Our attorneys have looked over the gift letter quite carefully and they assure me that everything is completely in order. The bed will be going to our museum in Boston.”

Minerva turned to Sam, an inquisitive look on her face.

“No comment,” he muttered.

“We’ll hold on to it for now until this can be resolved,” Jerry said.

Sam waited until the movers had shifted the bed from the Mapother trailer into one of the moving vans, then gave them very specific instructions to treat it carefully. As he climbed into his truck, he took a last look back and saw her leaning against the Lexus, her arms crossed over her chest.

Sam took a ragged breath. He felt exactly as he had the day he’d been out hiking along the cliffs overlooking the Hudson and the rock beneath his feet had sheared off. In a split second his life had flashed before his eyes and he’d been sure that he was about to tumble into the abyss. At the last moment he’d stumbled back and away from the edge.

It was the same sensation now, as if he’d managed to escape from some terrible danger.

Amelia Sheffield was too beautiful, too sophisticated, and exactly the kind of woman he found intriguing.

“Walk away, Sam,” he murmured. “Just walk away.”

* * *

“I’M GOING TO have to stay here until I’ve removed the roadblock,” Amelia said, leaning against the driver’s-side door of the SUV. “The minute I leave town, this guy is going to take that bed, I know it. And they say, possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“This is not an important piece,” her boss, Vivian Brown, said. “Can you afford to be out of the office?”

“I can work from the road for a few days,” Amelia told her. “You won’t need me on-site until setup. I have everything here on my computer, so give me a chance. I don’t want to let this go.”

Vivian sighed. “I hired you because of your tenacity. I suppose that’s why I ought to let you see this through. You’re like a bulldog. You never give up.”

“Arf?” Amelia replied.

Vivian chuckled. “Stay as long as you need to. It seems I want that bed as much as you do now.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said. “I’ll get it. I promise.”

She disconnected the call and breathed a sigh of relief.

Her boss was right. The bed wasn’t an important piece. It was not as if it had been designed especially for George Washington or that it had resided at Mount Vernon. It was just an old bed that Washington had slept in on occasion.

She frowned, remembering Sam Blackstone’s accusation that she was attracted to him. Was she simply looking for a reason to extend her stay? She could go back to Boston and let the lawyers deal with it.

No, that man had picked a fight and Amelia wouldn’t back down. There was too much riding on this job. Her future, her security; the chance to make her own choices in life.

She hadn’t always possessed such an independent streak. As the only child of a notable Boston Brahmin family, she’d been carefully groomed to be sweet and compliant, the kind of girl who would grow up to marry well and transfer the family fortune to an equally wealthy family who would preserve it for future generations.

She’d host luncheons and cocktail parties, she’d bear clever and handsome children, she’d serve on the boards of at least three charitable foundations and she’d see her children married well, too. It had taken her nearly twenty-two years to realize that she wasn’t really a person at all, but a prize.

She’d had the traditional education for a girl of her station: a private, all-girls day school, four years at Miss Porter’s, then an art history degree from Sarah Lawrence. Though it had been a good education, it had also been a case study in maintaining the chastity of a naïve young girl. The first time she’d even touched a boy she’d been thirteen and taking dance lessons for her tea dance at the club.

She’d led such a silly life as a teenager, paraded around in a white gown and gloves, her hair sprayed until it barely moved, a smile pasted on her face to indicate she was having fun. Inside she’d felt as though she was on display for all the mothers to judge: Amelia Gardner Sheffield, heiress in search of a husband. Only blue bloods need apply.

And she’d followed her parents’ plan almost all the way to the altar before she’d realized she was capable of making her own decisions.

Since she’d walked out on her engagement, she’d been determined to make a success of herself without her family’s intervention. She’d managed to get the job at the museum without any promises besides hard work and dedication. It was only after she’d been hired that she’d mentioned her family connections.

And until this crazy bed situation had come along, she’d delivered on every project she’d taken on. Now that she’d set her sights on the George Washington bed, she wouldn’t leave town until it was tucked safely in the museum’s trailer.

But there were some roadblocks along the way. For one thing, she didn’t know anything about her opponent. She’d be much more effective against him if she learned something of his motivations. Millhaven was a small town. Certainly someone in town would be willing to talk about Sam Blackstone.

He wanted that bed as much as she did, maybe even more. Unfortunately he wasn’t aware of just how stubborn and single-minded Amelia Gardner Sheffield could be.

Amelia opened the door of the Lexus and got in behind the wheel. She’d made the three-hour drive to Millhaven from Boston that morning and had had the presence of mind to pack an overnight bag in case the weather or the acquisition suddenly went bad.

But a bag was only part of the equation; she’d need to find someplace close to spend the night. Millhaven was a quaint little village set in the beauty of the Hudson Valley. There had to be a motel somewhere in town.

As she drove away from the Farnsworth house, she saw a signpost and slowed to read it. It listed three restaurants and one inn.

“The Blackstone Inn.” She remembered the bed’s provenance mentioning the Blackstone Inn, but it had never occurred to her that the inn would still be in existence. Could Sam Blackstone be connected to the Blackstone Inn? She smiled to herself. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

The road followed the river and she found the inn about a half mile from the edge of town, set high on a bluff overlooking the Hudson. As Amelia drove up to the front door, she marveled at the view. It was an idyllic spot and more than romantic.

“‘Established 1769,’” she read on the sign. Her gaze dropped to a scroll along the bottom of the sign with the words George Washington slept here.

“No wonder he wants the bed back,” she murmured.

The central structure was made of a type of red brick common throughout the area. The inn was three stories high, the façade featuring three Federal columns flanking each side of the front door and supporting a third-story gallery. It looked as though the two wings on either side of the central structure had been added at a later date, as the bricks were a slightly different color. Black shutters adorned the first-story windows, while window boxes filled with winter greenery marked each second-story window.

Amelia loved it on sight. She quickly got out of the SUV, anxious to see if the interior was as meticulously preserved as the exterior. She admired people who worked so hard to protect historical buildings. Their work was as important as the work she and the rest of the staff did at the Mapother.

Amelia stepped through the front door into a wide Colonial keeping room. On one side a hearth dominated the entire wall, with period chairs and sofas arranged neatly in front of the fire. On the other side a wood-paneled bar ran the depth of the room, the bottles and glassware sparkling beneath the flickering light of four kerosene lamps.

She walked to the front desk and rang the bell that sat on the scarred wooden counter. A few seconds later a young woman emerged from behind a door. There was something very familiar about her pale blue eyes and dark hair. She smiled and Amelia had the uneasy feeling that they’d met before.

“Good afternoon,” the other woman said with a warm smile. “May I help—”

“You will not believe what is going on down at Abigail’s place.” A familiar voice filled the room and Amelia’s spine stiffened. “That crazy old lady promised the bed to someone else. Some uptight, snooty museum lady from Boston. Amelia Sheffield. La-di-da. Man, what a piece of work.”

Amelia slowly turned and faced him. “Hello again.”

The woman behind the desk cleared her throat. “This is my brother, Sam Blackstone.” She laughed softly. “And I’d bet you’re Amelia Sheffield.”

Amelia held out her hand to Sam. “Hello. Piece. Piece of Work. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blackstone.”

He at least had the grace to show some embarrassment. His face flushed beneath his deep tan and scruffy beard. He really wasn’t the type she was usually attracted to but there was something about him that piqued her curiosity.

Maybe it was the fact that he seemed so intent on obtaining a historical piece of furniture that he’d be rude to a complete stranger to get it. It was exactly the way she felt about important furniture: obsessed.

“So, you own this place?” she asked.

“My sister and I do,” he said, nodding to the woman standing at the desk. “My sister, Sarah Blackstone.”

Amelia turned and offered Sarah her hand. “Amelia Sheffield. Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts. Boston.”

Sarah shook her hand, then stepped out from behind the counter. “I’m just going to leave your check-in to Sam. He’ll get you a room. Dinner is at six. There’s a menu in your room. Just call down with your choices before five.”

“Sarah is a great cook,” Sam said.

Amelia regarded Sam suspiciously. “You don’t get anywhere near the food, do you?”

“Do you think I’m going to spit in it?” he asked.

“No, of course not. I was more worried about poison.”

Sarah laughed again as she headed toward the kitchen. Sam waited until the door swung shut behind her, then turned and stepped behind the front desk. “You’d like to spend the night?”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said. “Do you have a problem with me taking a room?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Everyone is welcome here.”

“Are you busy?”

“We have just six guests tonight, so we can give you our full attention.”

“Good,” she said. Amelia pulled her wallet from her purse and grabbed her business credit card, placing it on the counter between them. “I’d like to see the inn and choose a room for myself. Would you give me a tour?”

He glanced up, as if surprised by her request. “Sure. Why don’t we leave your bag here? The rooms in the oldest part of the inn are smaller, but many of them contain original Federal furnishings.”

“That sounds perfect,” Amelia said.

He followed her up the stairs and she couldn’t help but wonder what he was looking at as they climbed to the second story. All the doors were open and she strolled down the narrow hall, peeking inside each room.

The drapery and upholstery fabrics were a bit timeworn and faded, but very well chosen. Beautiful Federal-era beds dominated each room, the canopies reaching the high ceilings. Comfortable wing chairs sat in front of the small fireplaces and each room contained a small writing desk and a pair of bedside tables with oil lamps.

“We have electric lamps,” he said, “but a lot of our guests enjoy the true Colonial experience. I can switch the lamps out if you like.”

“No, I love antique lamps.” When they reached the corner room at the end of the hall, Amelia paused before entering the room. “This is nice.”

“There are shared bathrooms in this part of the inn,” he said. “The new rooms are en suite.”

“The shared bath is fine,” Amelia said. “I’m only here for a night.” She walked into the room and nodded. “Yes, I’ll stay here.”

“Funny,” Sam said. “This is the George Washington bedroom. The bed that you want to steal used to be in this room. George Washington slept right here.”

Sam smiled—the first true smile he’d given her—and it was dazzling. Her pulse began to beat faster and she felt a bit light-headed.

“I’ll just go get your bag,” he said and left the room.

Once the door shut behind him Amelia let out a tightly held breath. She sank down onto the edge of the bed and folded her hands on her lap. Until this moment she hadn’t realized the energy it took to maintain a calm and composed nature when he was standing next to her.

There was a current of anticipation that pulsed inside her, like an electrical current that threatened to spark and ignite if he touched her...or kissed her. Amelia groaned softly and pressed her fingertips to her lips.

Maybe that’s why she’d decided to stay. To see if he’d kiss her. As he’d led her through the rooms, she’d caught his gaze lingering on her mouth, as if he were thinking about it. Or was that all just in her imagination? Emotions ran so high between them it was hard to tell what it all meant.

And if they did succumb to curiosity or desire or passion, what then? It would only complicate an already tangled relationship. Maybe it was a mistake to stay, Amelia mused. She was only tempting fate. But, oh, what a fate...

“What are you thinking?” Amelia flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the coffered ceiling. “Stop all these silly fantasies.”

A knock sounded on her room door and she jumped to her feet, smoothing her hair as she walked to the door. Sam was waiting on the other side with her bag. He held it out to her. “Dinner is at six. The menu is on that table over there. Just call down to the kitchen and let Sarah know what you’d like.”

“Thank you,” she said. But he didn’t leave. Should she give him a tip? Maybe that’s what he was waiting for. Amelia grabbed her purse and took a step toward him. Sam took a step back.

“Well, I’ll see you at dinner, then,” Sam said and closed the door.

Amelia stepped up to it, pressing her forehead against the cool, painted wood.

* * *

“IS SHE OUT THERE?” Sam asked. He peered through the small window of the kitchen door but he couldn’t see the entire dining room from his viewpoint. “What did she order?”

“Fillet of beef, potatoes Anna and the house salad with Gorgonzola. She’s also put away two glasses of our best red wine and six slices of bread with butter. Would you like me to go out and get her pulse and temperature for you?”

“She’s not a vegetarian, that’s good.”

“Good for what?” Sarah asked.

Sam shook his head and turned away from the door. “I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

Sarah slid a pie pan across the kitchen island. “Why don’t you take her some dessert? There’s ice cream in the freezer and whipped cream in the fridge. If she wants coffee, you know how to make it. And you can take care of the dishes tonight. I’ve got Pilates class.” Sarah walked out, leaving him alone in the kitchen.

He’d been searching for an opportunity to speak to Amelia again since her arrival at the inn. He’d been tempted to check on her during the afternoon but hadn’t wanted to appear as if he were hovering.

Millhaven was a small town and it was almost impossible for him to have a social life. Sam knew almost everyone in the village who was single and around his own age. Since he’d come back to the inn four years ago he’d gone from an unrepentant skirt-chaser as a college undergrad to Mr. Responsible. He wasn’t even sure if he remembered how to flirt.

And he’d need to be at the top of his game for Amelia Sheffield. He sensed that it would take a lot more than prompt service and homemade desserts to break through her icy façade. She probably expected to be entertained with witty chitchat or intrigued by important conversation about art or current events. But Sam had never been comfortable at cocktail parties. His charm was more homegrown, rising out of the humor of the moment. Then again, they weren’t at a cocktail party. They were in his inn. His territory.

He placed the pie, plates and forks, and the can of whipped cream on a tray, then carried it out into the dining room. When Amelia saw him, her gaze followed his path as he wove through the dining room tables to where she sat.

Though she was still dressed in black, she’d let her hair down and it fell in soft waves around her face, the color a deep mahogany that set off the gold in her eyes. She didn’t wear a lot of makeup and her simple, clean beauty was much more attractive to him than the paint and perfume that some women chose to use.

“I know you’re happy to see me,” he said, smiling at her.

“I am?”

“I brought pie. My sister’s apple pie. Made from the Cortland apples we grow right here on our property. They’re the best.”

“I love Cortland apples,” she said. “They’re so hard to find these days. And I’ll admit I’m always happy when pie enters the room.”

“Mind if I join you?”

She hesitated at first, then quickly shook her head. “No, sit,” she said, indicating the chair across from her.

But Sam grabbed the chair beside her and sat, placing the tray in front of him. “Did you enjoy the dinner?”

“Are we really going to talk about food? I thought you’d prefer to get right down to negotiating,” she said.

He scooped up a generous slice of the pie and plopped it on a plate, which he handed to her. “There’s nothing to negotiate. I know that Abigail will clear this up and the bed will come home with me.”

“I have every faith in our lawyers,” she countered.

If the fight came down to lawyers, Sam would lose. He didn’t have the money to hire Jerry to represent him in a lengthy court case. The inn operated on a shoestring that didn’t include hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyers. “Why is it so important you get this bed?”

“George Washington slept in it,” she replied.

“The bed has been in my family since it was first made. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

“Sure it does,” she said. “But you want to close the bed up in a little room here at the inn. I want to show it to the public.”

“What exactly do you do for this museum of yours, besides pillaging the countryside and stealing people’s furniture?”

“I acquire items for our exhibits,” she said.

Sam chuckled. “Oh, well, that sounds so much better. You acquire.”

“How we lived is just as important as what we lived. I help to preserve that,” Amelia said. She paused, as if to gather her thoughts, then continued in a less aggressive tone. “You of all people should understand. You live in a monument to history. Look at this place. It’s perfect.”

Sam glanced around. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d attached the word perfect to the Blackstone Inn.

She continued. “My last exhibition was called ‘Cabin in the Woods.’ I set up three interiors of rustic Colonial-era frontier homes, complete with everything it would take to live in the wilderness. But it was interactive, so children could touch and experience everything. It fired their imagination, and that’s really all that’s left to us of history. Museums, a few historic inns and homes like yours, and our imaginations.”

He heard the passion in her words and admired her dedication. She even made him feel some pride in his own work at the inn, and it had been a long time since he’d held any sort of affection toward the Blackstone. “And this place is called the Mapother Museum?”

“Of Decorative Arts. It focuses on interior décor—furniture, china, linens, rugs and ceramics. The kind of place that draws busloads of retired ladies and interior designers,” she added.

“I still don’t understand why you have to ‘acquire’ my bed,” he said. “Any piece from the period should do.”

“Have we determined that it is your bed?”

“The bed has belonged to my family since the inn opened. Abigail bought it when we were short of funds, but she promised to return it to its rightful place.”

“We’re opening a new children’s exhibit about George Washington for President’s Day. The bed will be the perfect centerpiece for the gallery. Kids could lie on it and take photos, and we’ll get lots of publicity. Which is always good for the museum.”

“So my bed is going to be a...a historical bouncy house? Why not throw any old bed into the exhibit? No one is going to know any better.”

“I have a reputation for authenticity to protect,” she said. “And I can’t be sentimental.”

“I think a better word might be sympathetic or kind.”

“You can’t make me feel guilty,” she said.

“What can I make you feel?” he asked. The moment the words slipped out of his mouth, Sam realized his mistake. What the hell was he thinking? A cultured woman like Amelia would never respond to such a suggestive comment.

“I—I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she murmured.

“I should get back to work,” he said quickly. “Is there anything else I can get you, Ms. Sheffield?”

“No,” she murmured. “I’m quite content, Mr. Blackstone.”

He got up and walked to the kitchen, refusing to look back. So much for charm, Sam mused. He’d been right the first time: it was going to take a lot more than awkward small talk and apple pie to seduce Amelia Sheffield. He had one more day to figure this all out. One day to take this attraction beyond the theoretical to something real. Or else she’d be on her way back to Boston—with his bed.

2

AMELIA STARED UP at the ceiling of her room at the Blackstone Inn. Somewhere deep inside the darkened inn, a grandfather clock chimed. She counted three chimes, then threw her arm over her eyes. But nothing she did helped her find the peace of sleep.

She sat up, tossed aside the down-filled pillow and swung her legs off the bed. She needed something to eat. Just a little something to get her through until breakfast. Her mind was racing with thoughts of work and Sam Blackstone; a confusing jumble that didn’t make any sense no matter how hard she tried to put it all in order.

She grabbed her sweater and pulled it on over her T-shirt and yoga pants, then searched her bag for something to put on her feet. She found a pair of socks and slipped them on. Dragging a deep breath, she snuck out into the dimly lit hall and headed for the stairs.

The stairs creaked with each step she took and Amelia winced, wondering just how far away the family slept. She assumed they had quarters somewhere in one of the newer wings. By the time she reached the kitchen, her heart was pounding and she was breathless.

“Apple pie,” she murmured. She and Sam had taken the first two pieces of the freshly baked pie. All the other guests had eaten and left the dining room by the time Amelia had finished. So the rest of the pie had to be around somewhere. Amelia searched the refrigerator first but all she found was the can of whipped cream. A search of the freezer resulted in a carton of vanilla ice cream. But there was no pie.

Amelia glanced around the kitchen and noticed an old pie safe. Tall and narrow, the ancient cabinet sat in a spot near the stone hearth. She walked over to it and ran her hand across the pierced tin panels on the door. Of course the pie would be in the pie safe.

To her surprise there was also a raspberry pie tucked in beneath the apple. She pulled them both out, set them on the island and grabbed a dinner plate and fork from the drying rack beside the sink.

The pie tasted as good as it had earlier that evening, and Amelia’s thoughts drifted back to the man who’d shared her table in the dining room.

She’d only ever had one boyfriend in her life and to say that Sam Blackstone was his exact opposite was stating the absolute truth.

Her thoughts shifted to Edward. She wasn’t really sure what to call him anymore. He’d been her boyfriend, then her fiancé and then her ex-fiancé and then her friend. He’d said he’d wait for her, but as time passed, their relationship had grown more and more distant.

Amelia took another bite of the pie and sighed softly. Edward Ardmore Reed the Third. Heir to an old and very successful Boston banking dynasty. He’d been the only man she’d ever loved. At least she’d thought she’d loved him. But he’d been her parents’ choice from a very early age. She hadn’t even dated anyone else. And when she’d broken from her parents’ control, she’d ended her engagement, as well.

In her anger and frustration, she’d thrown him in with her parents, certain that he’d try to control her life the moment her parents signed her over to him. He’d always been good to her, but Amelia wanted more.

They’d stayed in touch over the past year and Amelia knew that he hadn’t given up hope she’d come to her senses. But though there was affection between them, there had never been any heat or passion.

“Can’t sleep?”

The sound of his voice startled her and she spun around to find Sam watching her from the shadows. Her heart skipped a beat, then began pounding in earnest. “I—I didn’t see you there.” Amelia looked around, embarrassed to be caught raiding the kitchen. “I’m sorry. I’m a late-night snacker. I can’t sleep if I’m hungry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, stepping forward. “If you need anything, you just have to call.”

He was dressed only in a pair of basketball shorts that were slung low on his hips. His chest was bare, as were his feet. A tiny shiver skittered through her and her fingers twitched, eager to trace the muscles of his chest. “Would you like some?” Amelia asked.

“Sure.”

He pulled out a stool and sat at the island. “It’s been kind of a crazy day,” he murmured as he watched Amelia cut into the pie.

“Pretty crazy,” she repeated. “Not the typical day in the life of an innkeeper.”

“It’s an exciting life,” he muttered, a sarcastic edge in his voice. “Just what a guy like me always dreamed about.”

“You didn’t want to be an innkeeper?”

Sam took a bite of the pie. “Maybe at some point in my life. But not at twenty-five. To be tied down to one place for the rest of my life is kind of a daunting prospect.”

“Can’t you sell the inn?”

He shook his head. “This is a family business. It’s passed down from generation to generation, from the first son to the first son. And I got lucky. If I’d been the second son of the second son, I could have been an architect. Building great buildings instead of fixing leaky pipes.”

“You have Sarah to help you.”

“She stays out of guilt.”

“Why?”

“The tradition is that the inn is passed along in a person’s later years, almost like a job for retirement. I got it about thirty years early because my father and stepmother wanted out.”

“What about your mother?”

“They divorced when I was ten,” he said. “My mother never wanted the whole inn-keeping life. It’s a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. The demands never go away.” He sighed deeply, then rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain. Hell, I have a job and it’s not like I’m digging ditches for a living.” Sam pushed back from the counter. “I’m just going to leave you to your pie.”

“Don’t,” she said, reaching out to grab his hand. “I like the company.”

“The grumpy company?”

“You’re not grumpy.” She smiled. “Well, maybe a little bit. But that’s what the pie is for. Pie always brightens one’s spirits. Look at that cabinet over there. It’s quite a wonderful piece. A Colonial-era pie safe.”

“You’ve been examining our antiques?”

“I can’t help myself,” Amelia said. “It’s what I do. And I can tell you that I wish I had that pie safe in our collection. It’s gorgeous.”

“It was a wedding present from my seventh great-grandfather to his new wife. There’s an inscription carved in the back.”

“That’s amazing,” she said. “Do you have more? I’d love to go through the inn and see everything you have. Especially in the attic.”

“I’ll take you on a private tour,” he said.

“I’d like that,” she said. Amelia looked and realized they’d made a big dent in the pie. “I think I’d come back here just for the pie.”

“It’s an authentic Colonial recipe,” he said. “Right down to the lard. My sister believes that if you’re going to stay in an eighteenth-century inn, you need to be prepared to eat like they did then.”

“I admire that you’ve dedicated yourselves to authenticity. It’s honest and pure.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Amelia finally broke her gaze away from his and stood, placing her hands flat on the counter. “I should go to bed.”

“When are you going back to Boston?” he asked.

“When my bed is packed in the trailer,” she teased. “Do you want to get rid of me? That’s how you can do it. Pack it up and I’ll be out of here.”

“No, I don’t want to get rid of you,” he said with a grin. “I’m starting to like having you around. You make things interesting.” Sam reached out and took her hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you up to your room.”

They strolled through the dining room and the keeping room, the old plank floors creaking beneath their feet. When they reached the second floor, she had to walk ahead of him through the narrow hallway. They stood in front of her door for a long moment and Amelia noticed how dark it was in the hallway—how private, intimate.

He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her head. “It’s been an interesting day,” he murmured, his gaze scanning her features in the dim light.

“Yes, it has,” Amelia said.

“Kind of a change of pace for me.”

“Really?”

Sam nodded. “You’re the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” His gaze moved to her lips. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispered, leaning close. His lips brushed against hers. It was so sweet, so simple, that she wanted it to go on forever. But Sam seemed determined to leave her needing more. He stepped back and smiled. “Good night, Amelia. Sleep tight.”

“Sam?” she called out.

He looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Do you kiss all your guests good-night?”

He chuckled softly. “No. You’re the first.”

He continued down the hall. Amelia’s knees started to buckle and she leaned against the door for balance. This was what Sam Blackstone did to her. He kept her completely off balance, until she really wasn’t sure what was up and what was down. And she was starting to enjoy the feeling.

* * *

JERRY HAD CALLED early that morning with the news that he’d spoken to Abigail Farnsworth and she’d made a decision. He’d asked Sam to meet him at the warehouse. When Sam had asked about Amelia, Jerry had told him that he’d contact her, as well, but Sam decided to take the initiative.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, a mug of hot coffee in his hand, and walked down the hall to her room. He paused, his mind rewinding to the kiss they’d shared in the predawn hours.

Sam had never been an impulsive guy, especially when it came to women. But Amelia was unlike any other woman he’d met. From the moment he’d set eyes on her, he’d felt as though a clock had begun ticking, measuring out the minutes and hours they had together.

He had no time to contemplate every move he made. When he’d felt the urge to kiss her, he’d had to act. To his surprise, she’d seemed pleased that he’d kissed her. But he wondered if that feeling would survive the light of day. Well, he was sure he could find a pleasurable way to convince her.

Sam rapped on the door and waited. A few seconds later it swung open and Amelia greeted him with a soft, “Hi.” She brushed the dark strands of her hair out of her eyes and smiled.

“Morning,” Sam said, holding out the coffee. “I wasn’t sure how you took it. Black. I hope that’s all right.”

“Perfect,” she said.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about. Do you have a few minutes?”

“What time is it?” Amelia asked.

“A little past eight.” Sam paused. “I just got a call from Jerry. He wanted me to meet him at the warehouse. He has news from Abigail.”

“How did he know I was here?”

“He didn’t,” Sam said. “And he didn’t specifically ask that you be there. But I think you should, since whatever he has to say will affect you as well as me. So, I’m going to leave in about ten minutes. If you want to hear what he has to say, meet me down in the lobby.”

“I do want to know,” Amelia replied. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “No problem.” Sam stepped back into the hall and, when the door clicked shut, cursed himself softly.

He should have stepped into the room, wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her. It was the last chance he’d probably have. Once Amelia found out that the bed was his, she’d immediately head home to Boston.

Sam reached out to knock on the door again but pulled his hand away. He’d make sure there’d be a quiet moment for them sometime before she drove off. Sam turned and walked downstairs. Sarah was just going through the reservations as he passed.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“We’ve got that wedding coming in this weekend and I wanted to get a jump on the preparations. I hope you’re going to be around today. Our other guests are leaving in the next few hours. I’m going to need your help.”

“Sure. I just have to run over and see Jerry about the bed. Then I’m free. When Amelia comes through, tell her to meet me outside in the truck.”

“Yes,” Sarah murmured. “I will tell the piece of work that you’re awaiting her in the truck.”

He gave her a dismissive glare and she laughed. Was he that obvious? If Sarah had already picked up on the fact that there was something going on, then the whole town would probably have it figured out within a day. Even more reason to step up his plan to get to know Amelia more intimately.

Sam was still cleaning out the front seat of his truck when Amelia hurried down the porch steps. Yesterday she’d been chic and aloof. Today, dressed in jeans and a fleece pullover, she looked relaxed...and beautiful.

Sam ran around to her side of the truck, opened the door and then helped her in. As he closed the door, Sam realized that he’d missed another chance to kiss her—and he had very few of those chances left.

Cursing softly, he got into the truck and turned to her. Slipping his fingers around her nape, he gently pulled her toward him. Amelia didn’t offer any resistance, and by the time their lips met, hers were slightly parted.

She tasted like sweet toothpaste, cinnamon and coffee. His fingers tangled in her hair as he pulled her more deeply into the kiss. His mind spun and for several long moments he couldn’t make himself think rationally. He wanted to stop; he knew he had to. But the kiss continued to spin out of control as they groped for closer contact.

He couldn’t explain the attraction. It was part physical, part intellectual. Yes, she was out of his league, but that didn’t seem to stop him. Maybe if he could understand what drew him to her, he could find an excuse to stop himself.

Finally Amelia pulled away. She stared out the front windshield, her breath coming in tiny gasps.

“Good morning,” Sam murmured.

A tiny smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. “Good morning,” she said. She opened the door and jumped to the ground. “I think I’ll drive myself.”

“You can ride with me,” he shouted as she headed toward her Lexus.

“No, I’ll take my truck. I’ll need the trailer for the bed.”

He leaped out of the truck. “You still believe you’re going to get the bed?”

“I’m hopeful,” she called.

“I think you’re going to be disappointed.”

Sam watched her start her truck, then hopped back into his own and turned the key in the ignition. He drove silently into town and within a few minutes pulled up in front of an old storefront on Center Street, on the north end of the business district.

Gold letters painted on the huge glass window identified the place as Benny Barnes Antiques and Auction Gallery. Benny, one of the town’s more colorful characters, had added his own personal tagline to the window: I Buy Old Stuff.

Benny had agreed to take the bed, along with the other disputed pieces, and hold them until ownership had been determined. Ever the marketing genius, he’d taken the opportunity to get some publicity out of it for himself, setting the Washington bed up in his front window with a lovely hand-painted sign and antique bed linens.

As Sam parked beside her, Amelia hopped out of the truck, not waiting for him to get her door. She stood in front of the wide plate-glass window and Sam joined her.

“Nice to know I can keep an eye on it,” Sam muttered.

A worried expression crossed her face and she gnawed on her lower lip. “Right.”

He rested his palm on the small of her back as he held the front door open for her and they stepped inside the dimly lit interior. Jerry was waiting for them, stretched out in a tattered wing chair, a mug of coffee in his hands.

“Morning,” he said, nodding to the two of them.

“Morning, Jerry,” Sam said. “You remember Amelia Sheffield. She stayed at the inn last night, so I let her know about the meeting.”

Jerry frowned, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “Will you excuse us, miss?” he said, getting up and grabbing Sam by the arm. He dragged him to a quiet corner of Benny’s office. “You’re giving aid and refuge to the enemy now?”

“I’m confident we’ll prevail,” he said. “And she’s a paying customer.”

“Yeah? Well, you’d best watch yourself. A woman that beautiful is nothing but trouble.”

They walked back out to Amelia and found her inside the large display window, examining the details on the bed.

“Well, I’ve got good news and bad,” Jerry began. “Good news is there’s no one else making a claim on this piece. Bad news is Miss Abigail has decided to leave the decision up to you two.”

“How’s that going to work?” Sam asked.

“Hell if I know. But you’re going to have to fight this one out yourselves. When you’ve got it sorted, give me a call and I’ll write up the paperwork. Until then, Benny says he’ll keep the bed here.”

After he walked out, they stood next to each other, silently, both of them weighing their options. Amelia was the first to speak. She removed her phone from her purse. “Where can I buy some bed linens? Sheets and a pillow?”

“Why would you need that?”

“I’m going to stay here, live here in this bed, until you give up your claim. Unless you want to give up right now, which would save us both a lot of time and trouble?”

“I’m not giving up. It’s my bed. It’s a family heirloom.”

“And you thought by seducing me, I might forget that point? Well, I haven’t. You can kiss me all you want, Sam Blackstone, and it’s not going to shake my determination.” She sat on the edge of the bed.

“You want to stay here in this dusty old window?”

“Yes. I hope the store has a bathroom. Why don’t you go check on that for me?”

“I’m not going to stay here,” Sam said.

“Then you’re giving up already?”

“No. But this isn’t the way to decide this. We could flip a coin. We could arm wrestle or cut cards. We don’t have to live here.”

“Well, I am going to live here. I’m going to sleep in my bed until it’s all mine.”

He cursed beneath his breath. This was crazy. How was it that she was dictating the terms? Hell, they could take the bed back to the inn and live in relative comfort and seclusion.

“Hello! Anyone here?” A moment later Minerva Threadwell came around the corner. She wore a bright purple warm-up suit and had her gray hair pulled into a tidy bun at the top of her head. Rabbit-fur earmuffs covered her ears and she looked as if she’d just happened in on her morning walk. “Oh, here you are. I just got a tip that there was new development on the bed. I can get it into our Thursday edition.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her notepad and pen. “Care to comment?”

Sam groaned. “Is this really what you consider newsworthy, Minerva?”

“It’s a small town,” she said in a clipped tone. “I take what I can get. So, whose bed is it, yours or hers?”

Amelia pulled a business card out of her pocket. “Amelia Sheffield of the Mapother Museum. And it seems Miss Farnsworth left the decision up to us. So, I’ll just be staying here, sleeping in this bed, until Mr. Blackstone agrees to let me take it to Boston for my exhibit.”

“Well, this is an interesting development,” Minerva said. “Kind of a John Lennon-Yoko Ono thing.”

“What?”

“Oh, right,” Amelia said. “A sleep-in.”

“So you two are going to sleep in the bed together?”

“I’m not sleeping here,” Sam protested.

“Then what’s to prevent her from taking off with your bed in the middle of the night?” Minerva asked, an inquisitive arch to her eyebrow.

Sam cursed beneath his breath. “I guess I’ll be sleeping here with her.”

Minerva’s smile widened. “Now, that will make the story even more interesting. You’ll be sharing the bed?”

“No,” Sam and Amelia said at the same time.

Then Sam realized this could be the opportunity he’d been hoping for. “I mean yes,” Sam said. “It’s only fair. It is my bed.”

“It’s my bed and you won’t be sleeping in it,” Amelia said.

“Which is it?” the reporter asked. “Are you going to sleep together or not?”

“Yes,” Amelia said.

The reporter turned to look at Sam. “And...you’re all right with that?”

“Sure,” Sam said. He sent Amelia a lazy smile. “I don’t plan to do a lot of sleeping.”

He heard a tiny gasp catch in Amelia’s throat and took satisfaction in the realization that he’d managed to rattle her. Miss Cool and Collected had a weak spot. Was she imagining what might happen once the lights went out?

“What’s so important about this bed?” Minerva asked.

“George Washington slept in this bed,” Amelia said.

“I expect he slept in many beds over the course of his life,” Minerva commented.

“It’s not very important,” Sam countered. “But it’s always had a home with the Blackstone family. Ms. Sheffield doesn’t seem to understand the value of family traditions.”

“Do you have proof that George Washington slept in the bed?”

Amelia nodded. “Of course. Mr. Blackstone’s grandfather included paperwork on the provenance with copies of Washington’s signature from the inn’s guest book. I’ve done other research, as well.”

“Would you care to elaborate?” Minerva said. “I’d also be interested to know the value of the bed.”

“On second thought, I could have been wrong,” Sam murmured. “Maybe that wasn’t the bed in the corner room. I may have confused things.”

Minerva looked back and forth between the two of them. “I’d like to send Wilbur over to take a photo. How long do you think it will be before the two of you are in bed together?”

“I’ll leave that up to Ms. Sheffield,” he said.

“No comment,” she murmured, her cheeks flushed with color.

“I have enough for now, anyway,” Minerva said. “I know how to contact both of you. If I need anything else, I’ll drop by.” She sighed. “Wilbur’s going to want to get this on the noon news.” Minerva tucked her notepad into her pocket and hurried out the front door.

They stood in silence for a long moment before Sam clapped his hands. “All right,” he said. “We’re on. I say we meet back here at noon with everything we need and then we’ll get started.”

“All right,” Amelia said, tipping her chin up. “The battle for the bed starts at noon. May the best...person win.” She held out her hand and he shook it.

She was ready to leave it at that, but he wasn’t. Instead he slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her against his body. His lips covered hers in a deep, damp kiss, their tongues creating a delicious connection he didn’t want to break. When she pulled away, he looked down into her wide eyes.

“May the best man win,” he whispered.

Her expression hardened and she wrapped her hand around his nape and pulled him into another kiss. Her mouth was soft and searching, her tongue tracing the width of his mouth, teasing him in a way that was more provocative than he expected.

The blood in his body warmed and desire flooded his senses. His hands skimmed along her torso and settled on her hips, holding her against him. The friction between them caused an instant reaction in him.

But Amelia wasn’t about to let him take control. She stepped away and gave him a coy smile, her lips still damp and glistening. “Don’t you mean the best woman?”

* * *

AMELIA WATCHED THROUGH the plate-glass window as Sam drove away. When he was finally out of sight, she turned to the bed. By her estimate, it would take about a half hour to disassemble it and get it loaded into the trailer. If he came back at noon, that would give her a half-hour head start to Boston; a half hour before he even realized she was gone.

She didn’t regret deceiving him. This was war and she had to use whatever advantage she was given. He’d have done the same thing given the opportunity. She hurried over to the bed and examined it. Getting the canopy off on her own would be difficult, but once that was done, the rest of the bed would come apart quickly.

She crawled up on the mattress and began to untie the stays on the fabric covering. Struggling with a knot, she had a brief flash of conscience, then reminded herself that all was fair in love and war.

Her mind skipped to the kiss they’d shared earlier. His powerful and demanding; hers defiant and daring. Somehow she’d allowed desire to become part of their battle and it wasn’t helping her gain the upper hand. Every time he touched her, she felt weak, vulnerable, and yet so amazingly alive that she wanted to cry out. Her body pulsed with a need so powerful it threatened to sweep her away. She’d never experienced anything remotely similar when Edward had kissed her, and he was supposed to be the love of her life.

Her parents had never seemed to share any passion between them and Amelia had always assumed that those emotions were saved for the privacy of their bedroom. But now she realized that it was impossible to hide such intense reactions. She felt her need with every breath she took. She wanted Sam to kiss her, to touch her, to throw her down on the bed and have his way with her.

She cursed softly as she worked at the knot. Amelia Gardner Sheffield was not the kind of woman who wielded her sexuality to get what she wanted. Until she’d met Sam, she hadn’t been aware that she had that power at all.

But was it a power she wanted to wield? She could soften him up; make him more amenable to her. And once he’d fallen for her, he’d want to give her the bed. But she’d been manipulated her whole life. She didn’t want to do that to someone else.

“You need any help with that?”

The voice startled her and she spun around quickly, losing her balance. A man stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. He chuckled, then held out his hand. “Benny Barnes. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Oh,” Amelia cried, stumbling off the bed. “This is your place. No, we haven’t met. Amelia Sheffield. Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“So you’re the one fighting with Sammy over this bed,” Benny said. “No one mentioned you were such a pretty little thing.” He grinned widely. “Can I give you a hand?”

“You could help me take this bed apart and move it into my trailer,” she said.

Benny shook his head. “Nah, I’m afraid I can’t do that. Unless Sam gives me the word, the bed stays here.”

“I see,” Amelia said. “You’re a friend of his?”

“This is a small town, miss. Everyone is friends with everyone else. Minerva filled me in on the whole situation. I have to say, you’ve got your work cut out for you. That Sam is used to getting what he wants. We went to high school together. He was a few years younger than me but, yeah, we were good buddies. Wasn’t as popular as me or as smart, but we hung out.”

Benny puffed out his chest and continued to talk about his high school exploits, nodding and smiling as if she were impressed. Maybe he thought she was. After all, she had invited herself to spend the night in his place of business.

“I’d like to thank you for allowing this to play out in your front window.”

“No problem. It’ll bring a lot of attention to my business. As a thank-you, why don’t you let me take you out to lunch? Or how about dinner? I can show you around town, introduce you to the right people.”

“There is one thing you can do for me,” Amelia said with a warm smile. “I could use a sheet or something to hang over the front window. For privacy.”

“Well, you can’t do that,” Benny said. “What would be the point? I gotta promote the hell out of this thing.”

“Well, I can’t just change in front an open window... Is there a bathroom?”

“There’s one in the back, but it’s a little rough. I live upstairs. You’re welcome to use mine. I’ll just leave the door unlocked and you can come up whenever you need anything.”

Amelia sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. And I don’t want to keep you from work. I know you’re a very busy man around town.”

“No,” he said. “Not so busy.”

She stood. “Well, then, maybe you can keep an eye on the bed while I go out and pick up a few things? I would really appreciate the help. And I don’t trust Sam Blackstone.”

Benny looked vaguely disappointed but he shrugged. “Sure. I’ll be around for the next hour or two.”

“You won’t let Sam take the bed?”

“Nope,” Benny said. “I’m your man. You can count on me...Amelia.”

She grabbed her purse and headed for the front door, grateful to make her escape. Given time, maybe Benny could be convinced to transfer his loyalties to a new friend. There was nothing to stop her pleading her case to him. That wouldn’t be dishonest, would it?

She headed to the inn to gather up her things. Then she’d have to stop by the local discount store for new bedding and pillows and something to keep her fed. Amelia was willing to give the strategy a few days, and if Sam didn’t relent, she’d come up with a new plan.

When she stepped inside the Blackstone, she found Sarah sitting at the front desk.

“Hello,” Sarah said.

“Is he here?”

“Sam? He raced in and out about ten minutes ago. What’s going on?”

“The second battle of the bed,” Amelia said.

“Don’t expect him to surrender. If you take on Sam Blackstone, prepare yourself for a long siege. He can be very stubborn.”

“It’s just a bed,” Amelia said.

“I know,” Sarah replied. “It’s not that valuable and he’s never seemed attached to it in the past. I mean, it was a gimmick to bring guests to the inn. But he seems to be obsessed with it now.” Sarah paused. “Or maybe it’s you he’s obsessed with and not the bed.” She cupped her chin in her hand and smiled at Amelia. “This really will be fun to watch.”

Amelia sighed softly. “So I suppose I don’t need to ask whose side you’re on?”

“Oh, I’m rooting for you,” Sarah said. She came out from behind the counter. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You could wrap up one of those pies of yours. And I could use a couple of pillows and some sheets for the bed. And some comfortable clothes to wear. I didn’t intend to spend more than a night here.”

“I’ll put together a little survival kit,” Sarah said. “Why don’t you go pack your things and I’ll have them ready when you come down?”

Amelia trudged up the stairs and headed to her room at the end of the hall. When she’d left Boston, she’d expected to be less than a day. She’d expected to show her letter from Abigail Farnsworth, pick up the bed and haul it back to the city. But now that simple task had turned monumentally complex and all because of Sam Blackstone.

She unlocked her room and stepped inside. Crossing to the bed, she flopped facedown across the handmade quilt.

Maybe she ought to just give up and go home. The thought of spending a few more days with Sam was beginning to frighten her. He already had such a powerful effect on her emotions—and on her body.

Never in her life had a man held that kind of power over her. Though she tried to stop thinking about him, tried to keep her body from reacting to his touch, it was no use. And when they weren’t together, Amelia had to stop herself from getting caught up in some silly fantasy. And the fantasies were only becoming more vivid as time progressed.

At first she’d imagined him kissing and touching her, and that wild, exhilarating feeling when he pulled her into his arms. But now she’d moved on to naked bodies and soft beds, whispered urges and orgasms that seemed to last forever.

Amelia rolled onto her back and pulled the pillow over her head. Her professional reputation was on the line here. She’d come to Millhaven for one thing: to get the Washington bed that she’d been promised. And suddenly that goal had become twisted up in this game with an impossibly handsome and sexy man.

Every instinct she possessed told her to give up and go home to Boston. She could make the exhibit work without the bed. Grabbing the pillow, she tossed it across the room. It hit a small tea table that sat beneath the window and something clattered to the floor.

Amelia crawled off the bed and retrieved the silver tankard that had held a small bunch of flowers and some water. The tankard looked old; clearly a rip-off of a Revere design and burnished by a believable patina. She flipped it over, searching for the maker’s mark. Her gaze came to rest on a familiar set of letters: P REVERE.

Revere silver had been reproduced many times over the years and was often marked with the original hallmark. It was impossible to tell if the tankard was a true Revere.

The weight felt right for silver and the patina looked authentic. What were the chances that the Blackstone family owned some original Revere silver?

“Pretty good,” Amelia murmured. She took a couple quick photos of the tankard and the hallmark with her phone and sent them to Lincoln Farraday, the museum’s expert in silver and porcelain. She placed the tankard back on the table and headed for the door.

When she walked downstairs, Sarah was waiting for her, a large wicker basket dangling from her arm and two down pillows resting on a nearby chair. “I put some brownies and cookies in there, too,” she said. “And a couple of menus from the restaurants in town that deliver. And a box of condoms.” She smiled apologetically. “It pays to be prepared.”

“Nothing is going to happen,” Amelia said.

“Has he kissed you yet?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know my brother. There haven’t been many women in his life, but when he finds someone he likes, nothing gets in his way.”

“And you don’t know me,” Amelia said. “I’m pretty determined myself.”

“Did you see the tankard full of flowers in your room? He picked those flowers for you,” Sarah said.

“And where did he get the tankard?”

“We have whole cabinets full of old silver. I stopped trying to keep it polished years ago. We use glass vases instead.”

Amelia walked to the front door and Sarah held it open for her, the pillows clutched in her arms. “If I survive the night, I’d like to see the silver collection.”

Sarah shrugged and waved Amelia out the door.

As she hurried to her truck, a shiver skittered through her as she thought about sleeping in the same bed with Sam.

Then she remembered her words to Sarah. She didn’t have to sleep with him. She didn’t even have to let him into the building. This was a battle of wills and he had no idea how stubborn she could be.

3

SAM PULLED HIS truck up in front of Benny’s Antiques and Auction Gallery and shut off the engine. Several minor crises at the inn had kept him from returning until the evening. The sun had set an hour before and the lights inside revealed the bed and its lone occupant.

Amelia sat in the center of the bed, books and papers spread out around her. She’d made a comfortable spot for herself with bedside tables and lamps, most likely provided by Benny. She wore glasses with dark rims that stood out against her pale skin. Her hair was pulled back, revealing the full beauty of her profile.

Sam watched as a pair of pedestrians strolled by the window, then backtracked to peer at Amelia. After a few seconds Amelia noticed them and gave them a little wave before they moved on. He chuckled softly. She was a beautiful but very stubborn woman—a difficult combination and one that fascinated him more and more with every moment he spent with her.

He grabbed the pizza box and six-pack of beer from the passenger seat, then hopped out of the pickup. When he reached Benny’s door, he found it locked, so he walked to the window and rapped on the glass. She glanced up and their eyes locked for a long moment. A groan slipped from his throat and his pulse quickened.

Sam pointed to the door and Amelia shook her head, turning her attention back to the book. Undeterred, he rapped on the glass again, this time holding up the pizza and beer. She shook her head again. Sam had no intention of letting her win this battle.

He set the pizza and beer on the sidewalk, shrugged out of his jacket and slowly began to unbutton his shirt. He was nearly finished by the time she looked up. Amelia scrambled off the bed and hurried to the window.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted, her words muffled through the glass.

“Let me in,” he said. “I brought dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said, shaking her head.

“It’s cold out here,” he said, rubbing his chest.

“Put your jacket on.”

“Let me in.”

Sam saw the indecision in her gaze. Finally she mouthed a curse and headed to the front door. He grabbed his jacket and the dinner and reached the entrance just as the lock clicked open.

Sam slipped inside and followed her into the makeshift bedroom. The bed had been made with bedding he recognized from the inn. One of the Blackstone’s picnic baskets sat at the foot of the bed, along with her overnight bag. Confirming his suspicions that Sarah was a traitor, Amelia was wearing a sweater that looked like one of his sister’s thrift-shop finds.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “I didn’t expect you to leave me alone with the bed for so long.”

“I trust you. Besides, you could never get this bed apart and loaded before someone called me.”

“I’ll find someone to help me...like Benny. I’m sure he could be persuaded.”

“If Benny could be persuaded, you’d be halfway to Boston by now.” Sam dropped his jacket on the floor and circled the bed, setting the pizza down in the center. “I brought dinner. I thought you might be hungry.”

Amelia shook her head. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Isn’t there some way we could work this out?”

“I’m willing to entertain offers.” He opened a beer, helped himself to a slice of pizza and leaned back into the pillows, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“Get your dirty shoes off my bed!” she cried.

He grinned. “My bed. And if I’m not mistaken, also my quilt and my pillows.” He slid the pizza toward her with his foot. “Have a slice.”

“I’m not that hungry,” she murmured.

“Come on, Amelia. Let’s just call a truce for tonight and enjoy some dinner.” He grabbed a beer and opened it, then handed it to her. “Go on. Relax.”

“I don’t drink beer,” she said.

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