“A man. A man named Gabriel Morrison. He’s checking in. By himself.”

Maisie’s blue eyes glowed as she looked at her granddaughter.

There was nothing for Meg to feel defensive about. She knew that. Which didn’t explain why her shoulders stiffened and her stomach tensed. “So you’re telling me this because…”

“I’m telling you this because we don’t often get single men at the Hideaway. It’s a romantic spot. Our guests are usually couples. And when couples check in, they usually have their minds on—”

“What they have on their minds isn’t what I want to have on my mind,” Meg reminded Maisie. “I told you, Grandma, I’ve given up waiting for Prince Charming. Prince Charming has left the building. And I’m pretty sure he’s left the island, the state and the continent. Besides…” It didn’t look as if Maisie believed her protests any more than Meg did, so she decided to change course. “Just because this Gabriel Morrison is here by himself doesn’t mean a thing. He might be meeting someone.”

“I don’t think so. He tried for a room at the hotel near the park. They’re booked. Christmas in July, you know.” Maisie’s eyes twinkled. “If he was bringing a woman, he would’ve asked for a room for two.”

“You asked.”

“Of course I asked. It’s my duty as an innkeeper!” And as your grandmother went unsaid.

Christmas at Cupid’s Hideaway
Connie Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dear Reader,

Welcome back to Cupid’s Hideaway, the wonderfully wacky bed-and-breakfast inn where anything romantic can—and does—happen! In Stranded at Cupid’s Hideaway, you met Laurel and Noah, two doctors who couldn’t agree about anything except that they were in love. In Christmas at Cupid’s Hideaway, a handsome guest checks in. Gabriel Morrison has his eye on Meg, the Hideaway’s sexy chef, but his mind is a thousand miles away. Gabe is a successful advertising writer with a serious case of jingle-writer’s block. But don’t worry—Cupid’s Hideaway will work a little magic on Gabe. He’s about to find out that inspiration comes from unexpected places. Just as Meg will learn that you can’t hide from love—even on an island in the middle of Lake Erie.

While Cupid’s Hideaway is a figment of my imagination, South Bass Island and the town of Put-in-Bay are real, and it’s one of my favorite vacation spots. The island is only three miles from the Ohio mainland, but as soon as I set foot on the ferry, I leave my everyday life behind. The leisurely place and friendly atmosphere are perfect for a little R and R. I love walking along the rocky beach and exploring the cottage-lined streets. My favorite thing? Driving one of the golf cars that residents and visitors alike use to cruise around the island.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned on South Bass, it’s that you can celebrate the holidays any time of the year. Because the weather’s often too harsh in December to allow for visitors, the island has a special Christmas-in-July celebration, complete with a visit from Santa in his Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirt!

Happy holidays! Enjoy this visit to Cupid’s Hideaway, and let the spirit of celebration live in your heart—all year long!

Connie Lane

P.S. Readers can reach me at connielane@earthlink.net.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Tuesday, Noon

“Gabriel? Hey, it’s me, Latoya. You haven’t checked in since you left the office last week and I’ve got a stack of messages for you. It’s just after noon here in LA and if you’re driving and heading east—well, I’m not even going to try and figure out the time zones. I only know it’s got to be sometime in the afternoon wherever you are. It’s a beautiful July day, but I’ll be eating lunch at my desk. As usual. Give me a call.”

Tuesday, Late

“Gabriel? Latoya. Haven’t heard from you. Dennis says that means you found either a car or a woman you couldn’t resist. Which is it? When you’re done—ah…whatever it is you’re doing—give me a call. There’s plenty of messages here, including a couple from the Tasty Time Burger folks in New York. They’re anxious to talk to you.”

Wednesday Morning

“Me again. Bright and early. At least it is here. That means you can call anytime.”

Wednesday Afternoon

“I know you’re picking up your messages, Gabriel. You never let an hour go by without picking up your messages. Whatever time it is where you are, I can tell you one thing—they’re still working in New York. The folks over at Tasty Time Burger world headquarters have already called three times. And that’s just in the last couple hours. I’m running out of excuses, so do me a favor, will you? Call me.”

Thursday, Very Early

“Gabe? Dennis here. Dammit, Gabe, you’re making me nervous. And Latoya’s practically having apoplexy. She says you’ve never been away this long without checking in. Even that time you headed to Mexico with that what’s-her-name. You know, the one who had her own TV sitcom for a while. If you can check your messages when you’ve got a blond bombshell on your arm, you want to explain why you haven’t done it all week?”

Friday Afternoon

“Dennis again. Why do I feel like I’m talking to myself? They’ve started a pool at the office. A What-Happened-to-Gabe pool. The odds-on favorite is that you’ve been abducted by aliens. Can’t imagine why they’d want you. Stop playing games and give me a call, will you? The Tasty Time Burger folks are riding my tail. I’m running interference for you, buddy, but it’s getting tougher every day and they’re getting antsy. I’ll tell you what, let’s keep this simple. Call them directly. Hum a few bars of the new jingle. Give them some idea of the lyrics. I know, I know, you artistic types, you don’t like to be bothered while you’re working. But there’s only so much I can tell them. I explained that you’d decided to drive to New York—you know, to clear your head and give yourself plenty of alone-time to concoct the best advertising campaign in the history of greasy fast food? I assured them that you’re writing up a storm. I guaranteed them that you’re going to write the greatest jingle you’ve ever written. You are going to do that, aren’t you, Gabe? Gabe?”

Chapter One

He didn’t save the voice-mail messages. Why bother? The last thing Gabriel Morrison needed right now was the all-time roughest, toughest tag team of Dennis and Latoya. Instead, he tossed his cell phone down on the passenger seat of his Porsche, and, anxious to get his mind on anything but work and the office back in LA, he flicked on the radio.

Love my Tenders.

Love them lots.

Shaped like little steaks.

Love my Tenders.

Eat them all.

They’re not fried, they’re baked.

Gabe dropped his head against the steering wheel and groaned.

Bad enough he was stuck in a traffic jam that looked to be a couple miles long.

Worse that his air conditioner was on the fritz, he was almost out of gas and he was driving (or more specifically, idling) in the center lane between two eighteen-wheelers that dwarfed his car and cut off any chance of getting a breath of fresh air, even with the top down. Way worse when every time he checked, there were more and more messages from the office. More and more messages it was getting harder and harder to dodge.

And now he had to listen to the Love Me Tenders commercial?

Insult to injury.

Gabe clicked off the car radio and drummed his fingers against the dash that was quickly heating up from the intensity of the afternoon sun.

Funny, he’d always thought of Ohio as a cold place. If he was still in Ohio.

As if it would give him some connection to reality, Gabe craned his neck and looked around. He didn’t see a sign that gave him any hint about where he was, but up ahead, he did see a break in the traffic. Not much to go on, but it was something. And right about now, something was better than nothing.

The next time the huge truck in front of him started to crawl forward, Gabe waited for his opportunity. He let the space between the vehicles widen and while the truck on his right was still grinding into gear, he punched the accelerator and shot into the open space. It turned out to be an exit lane and once he was off the freeway, he took the opportunity to look for a gas station. Easier said than done. By the time he saw a familiar red-and-yellow sign up ahead, he was in another line of traffic. This one wasn’t moving any faster than the last.

At least there were no eighteen-wheelers around.

Gabe glanced over at the late-model minivan next to him. It was packed to the gills with luggage, and while the adults in the front seat seemed resigned to the fate of waiting in line for who-knew-what, the three pint-sized passengers in the back had obviously had enough. Too keyed up to sit still, they bounced in place and tossed a stuffed animal back and forth between them.

“Hey, dude!” The kid on the passenger side couldn’t have been older than seven. He rolled down the back window and waved a toy stuffed bulldog in Gabe’s direction.

Gabe cringed. He recognized Duke the Dog immediately. Then again, he suspected most people would. Whether they wanted to or not.

After just six weeks on the air, the Love Me Tenders dog-food commercial had become a cultural icon of sorts that had taken on a life, and a cult following, all its own. A lovable, cuddly Duke, star of the commercial, was available full-size in toy stores everywhere. A miniature variety was being given away in record numbers along with the kids’ meals at a popular fast-food chain.

The kids in the minivan had the Cadillac version: an almost-life-sized Duke, complete with sequined jumpsuit and black ducktail wig, the outfit he wore in the commercial as he crooned the now-famous words to a tune that was just catchy enough to have the country singing along. And just different enough from the original to avoid any nasty lawsuits.

“Hey, dude! Look!” The little boy wagged Duke in Gabe’s direction. “It’s the Love Me Tenders dog. Isn’t he cute?”

“Love Me Tenders! Love Me Tenders!” his little sisters sang next to him.

And Gabe was sure that somewhere between LA and wherever he was sitting now, he must have died. Died and gone to hell.

Not ready to accept his fate—or maybe just to get away from his own past and his own thoughts—he pulled onto the shoulder and shot past the waiting traffic. He took the first turn-off he came to and drove as fast as the state (and he knew for sure it was Ohio now because he saw a State Trooper) allowed.

A few minutes later, he found himself at the entrance to a ferry dock.

“Islands? In Ohio?” It was news to Gabe but he didn’t stop to question it. He didn’t hesitate, either. It looked like the ferry was just getting ready to leave the dock and he joined the last of the cars waiting to get on.

At this point, he didn’t much care where he was headed. Anywhere was better than nowhere.

And for the last week, he’d been headed nowhere fast.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, a new guest?” Meg Burton pulled open the oven door and drew out a tray of cookies sprinkled with red-and-green sugar. She set them on the rack she’d left on the counter in the Cupid’s Hideaway kitchen before she turned back to her grandmother. “You can’t have a new guest checking in. You’re completely booked. It’s Christmas in July week, and the tourists are everywhere. You’ve been booked for months.”

Maisie Templeton breathed in the aroma and gave the cookies an approving smile. “I was booked,” she said. “The Crawfords.” Maisie was the least inhibited person Meg had ever known. Her grandmother was over seventy, but that didn’t stop her from pursuing her life’s passion: Cupid’s Hideaway, an island bed-and-breakfast inn known for its unique decor, its loyal clientele and the fact that the fluffy little old lady who owned it didn’t just encourage romance, she aided and abetted it.

But at the mention of the Crawfords, even Maisie’s cheeks went a little dusky under the coating of pink blusher she wore. “You remember them. They visited last summer, around this time. They were the ones who—”

“The ones we had to call the police about!” Meg rolled her eyes. She remembered the Crawfords, all right. So did everyone else on South Bass Island. The Crawfords and their exploits were already legendary in the annals of island gossip. Medium-aged. Mediumsized. Medium-temperament people. Bland as TV dinners. Or at least that was what Meg had thought when she’d seen them arrive.

Who would’ve guessed that a little game they’d been playing with a pair of furry handcuffs and a bottle of peppermint-flavored massage oil—which they’d purchased from the Cupid’s Hideaway gift store—would result in not one but both Crawfords getting stuck in the closet of the Love Me Tender room?

Meg stifled a laugh, but only because she remembered how upset Maisie had been by the whole incident. Not that she was embarrassed. It would take a whole lot more than Mary and Glenn Crawford’s wild imaginations to embarrass Maisie. No, her grandmother had been honestly distressed. After all, she believed that as innkeeper, it was her duty to make sure her guests enjoyed their stay at Cupid’s Hideaway. And the very idea that they’d had to call not only the island police but half the volunteer fire department just to get the Crawfords unstuck….

Meg hid a half smile by turning back to her cookies. She tested the temperature with one finger and carefully lifted each one off the cookie sheet with a spatula. “What, they got arrested somewhere for something they were up to?”

“No. No. Not arrested.” Behind her, she heard Maisie pour a cup of coffee. “They had to cancel. Something about appearing on a TV show. ‘Life’s Most Embarrassing Moments.’”

“More power to them.” Meg finished with the cookies and wiped her hands on the apron she was wearing. She leaned against the counter, accepting the china mug of coffee Maisie offered. “So how many more for breakfast tomorrow?” she asked.

“Just one.” Maisie poured a mug of coffee for herself. Using sterling silver sugar tongs, she added three lumps, then enough cream to make an ordinary person’s cholesterol jump at least a dozen points. But if there was one thing Meg knew about Maisie, it was that she was far from ordinary. As if she needed further proof, Maisie grinned at Meg over the rim of her cup.

Meg had seen that look before. All twinkles and smiles. All sweetness and light. She knew it meant Maisie was up to no good.

“A man,” Maisie said. Her blue eyes glowed. “A man named Gabriel Morrison. He’s checking in. By himself.”

There was nothing for Meg to get defensive about. She knew that. Which didn’t explain why her shoulders stiffened and her stomach tensed. “So?” She sounded defensive, too, and she gave herself a mental kick in the pants. “So you’re telling me this because…”

“I’m telling you this because it isn’t often we get single men here at the Hideaway. It’s a honeymoon spot, a romantic spot. Our guests are usually couples. And when couples check in here, they usually have their minds on—”

“I know exactly what they have their minds on.” The exact same thing Meg had been trying not to have her mind on since she’d returned to the island after trying life on the mainland. Rather than explain it to Maisie, as she’d tried to explain it so many times before, she headed to the refrigerator. She counted the eggs, made sure there was enough butter, did a quick survey of the pecans, raisins and cream she’d bought to make a batch of her famous sticky breakfast rolls. Satisfied that she was all set, she closed the refrigerator and turned around.

Of course, Maisie didn’t back down an inch. She was stationed next to the marble-topped table where Meg made bread, and she had the nerve to look as innocent as the baby goldfinches that chirped their heads off in the nest right outside the kitchen window.

“What they have on their minds isn’t what I want to have on my mind,” she reminded Maisie. “I told you, Grandma, I’ve given up waiting for Prince Charming. Prince Charming has left the building. And I’m pretty sure he’s left the island, the state and the continent. Besides…” Because it didn’t look as if Maisie believed her protests any more than Meg did, she decided to change course. “Just because this Gabriel Morrison is coming here by himself doesn’t mean a thing. He might be meeting someone.”

“I don’t think so. He tried for a room at the hotel over near the park. They’re booked. Christmas in July, you know.”

“And that means he’s not meeting someone because…”

“Because he would’ve asked for a room for two. And when Janice from the hotel called to see if we had any rooms available—”

“You asked.”

“Of course I asked.” Maisie pulled herself up to her full five-foot, one-inch height and threw back shoulders that were just this side of scrawny. “It’s my duty. As innkeeper. I have to know who’s staying here. And if a man’s bringing a woman, it’s my duty—as innkeeper—to remind him that we have a wide selection of products in the Love Shack designed to please them both.”

“Yeah.” This time, Meg couldn’t help herself. She had to laugh. “Like they pleased the Crawfords?”

“They were smiling when they left here.” Maisie’s eyes twinkled. “But that hardly matters. The Crawfords were the exception to the rule.” Her grandmother glanced from Meg’s brightly painted toenails peeking out of her sandals to the curly red hair she’d wound into a long braid. “Kind of like a beautiful woman who refuses to get out and try to meet a man.”

“Grandma, I told you. I’m just not ready. Not yet. Someday maybe I will be. Someday, when I find someone different.” Although it was ancient—and best forgotten history—Meg felt the familiar pang of emptiness. “Someone who isn’t Ben.”

Before Maisie could respond and remind her, as she always did, that the past was past and the future was what mattered, the little brass bell inside the front door rang, announcing their guest. How she’d timed it so perfectly, Meg couldn’t imagine, but Maisie chose that exact moment to hurry into the wide pantry on the far side of the kitchen. She waved Meg toward the front of the inn. “Get that for me, will you?” she called.

Meg sighed and slipped her apron over her head. She knew a losing battle when she saw one. She ought to; she’d been fighting—and losing—battles with Maisie all her life. She didn’t exactly hold Maisie’s persistence against her. She couldn’t. Though Maisie could be meddlesome, she was well-intentioned. There were only three things she put more energy into than Cupid’s Hideaway: Doc Ross, the retired family practitioner she spent most of her free time with, and—now that Maisie’s only daughter and son-in-law were retired and living in Florida—her two granddaughters. Laurel, Meg’s older sister, was married now and expecting her first baby in a couple of months. She was deliriously happy with her husband Noah, and while Maisie glowed at the prospect of becoming a great-grand-other and the satisfaction of having been instrumental in bringing Laurel and Noah together, not having a romantic project to keep her occupied made the old lady chafe.

It also left her with a lot of time on her hands—a lot of time to decide that Meg’s love life wasn’t what it should be.

“No news flash there,” Meg mumbled to herself, and because she refused to think about her lack of a love life—just like she’d been refusing to think about it since Ben Lucarelli had cut her heart into little pieces as only an experienced sous chef could—she thought about the Crawfords. And thinking about the Crawfords made her think about the Love Me Tender room. And thinking about Love Me Tender naturally made the commercial she’d heard earlier that morning pop into her head.

Whenever Meg thought of a song, she couldn’t resist. She couldn’t keep the words inside.

“Love my Tenders. Love them lots. Shaped like little steaks.” Meg walked into the lobby, singing the now-familiar-to-everyone-and-his-brother words with all the enthusiasm of the comical dog in the commercial. “Love my Tenders. Eat them all. They’re not fried, they’re—”

When she saw that the guy standing at the desk—the guy who must be Gabriel Morrison—was staring at her as if she’d just strolled in stark naked, she jerked to a stop in front of the ten-foot tall Christmas tree near the front desk and stared right back at him.

And the thought that she wouldn’t mind seeing him stark naked sent little sparks of electricity tingling along her spine.

Meg cringed at the realization, but even realizations and the cringes they brought along with them weren’t enough to erase the impressions that flashed through her head.

Gabe Morrison was gorgeous enough to be a man-of-the-month: tall, broad-shouldered, hair the color of the chocolate pudding in her soon-to-be-famous (she hoped) pie and eyes that reminded her of brandy, the secret ingredient in her spinach-salad dressing.

He had the kind of face that couldn’t fail to make a woman’s heart flutter. Not as craggy as it was chiseled. Not weathered but tanned, and not a store-bought tan, either. He obviously spent a lot of time outdoors in the wind and the sun, and for the nano-second Meg needed to take it all in, she wondered if he might be a sailor. If the expensive luggage he held in each hand hadn’t set her straight on that notion, the Porsche she saw through the front window did. Most sailors, even the wealthy ones who vacationed on the island, left their expensive sports cars at home.

Good-looking or not, there was no mistaking that Gabe Morrison was worn to a frazzle. His shoulders were slumped inside a green golf shirt with some expensive designer logo over the heart. There were dark shadows almost the same color as his faded jeans under his eyes, and a crease in the middle of his forehead that told her he frowned far too hard and too often. In spite of his expensive haircut, the left side of his hair stood up on end, as if he’d been tugging at it. His jaw was square and covered with a shadow of dark stubble. As he stared at her, it went a little slack.

For the second time in just a few minutes, Meg found herself on the defensive. It was a feeling she didn’t like, one she’d never been prone to feeling back in the days before her life had been whipped out from under her like the tablecloth in the old magician-pulls-the-cloth-away-and-leaves-the-dishes-on-the-table trick. Feeling it only made her more defensive. So did the barely controlled animosity on Gabe’s face.

“What?” Eyes narrowed, Meg closed the gap between them. “Something wrong with my singing?”

She knew the answer to her own question. Fact of the matter was, Meg Burton had a terrible singing voice. She’s been banned from the high-school choir and asked (politely) not to participate in the caroling either at the island’s real Christmas bash or at all the parties planned for this week. But though she might’ve been ready to hear a critique of her dubious talents from the people she’d known all her life, she’d be damned if she was going to put up with it from a perfect stranger. Even if perfect was the operative word.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “So, you’re going to tell me my singing stinks, right? And then you’re going to ask me for a room. And I’m going to remind you that you’re only here because, from what I’ve heard, this is the last room left on the island. So if you want a place to stay tonight—one that isn’t that sweet little car of yours parked in the no-parking zone in front of the inn—you may want to reconsider. Now, let’s try again. What?” She paused just long enough to make sure he got the message. “Something wrong with my singing?”

“Your singing is fine.” With a sigh that seemed to be torn from somewhere deep inside him, Gabe set down his luggage and stretched, working a kink out of his neck. Big points for him. Even though he was clearly trifling with the truth, he said it with nearly enough conviction to make Meg believe he was sincere. Nearly.

“It’s not your voice,” he said and he didn’t even try to hide a shudder of revulsion. “It’s that song. That commercial.”

“Love Me Tenders! What a hoot!” Meg hurried around to the far side of the desk. When she’d been on the mainland the day before, she’d stopped for a quick bite to eat and had sweet-talked the teenager at the drive-through window into one of the Duke the Dogs usually reserved for their kid customers. She grabbed it now from where she’d tossed it under the front desk and flashed it at Gabe. “Isn’t he adorable?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Gabe’s face paled a little. A muscle at the base of his jaw jumped. He took one look at cute little Duke and his top lip curled.

“Duke the Dog is spoiled, temperamental and addicted to sugar in any form,” he said from between clenched teeth. “Besides that, Duke isn’t a duke at all. That’s just a stage name. Duke’s real name is Diana, and she’s a bitch.”

“Imagine that!” Meg leaned her elbows against the counter and propped her head in her hands. Okay, so the guy was gorgeous. He was also a stick-in-the-mud and she couldn’t help herself. She just had to tease him. She held up her little stuffed Duke and turned him so the light of the pink bulbs on the Christmas tree sparkled against his gaudy jumpsuit. “He looks great in sequins.”

“You think?”

“And he sings like an angel. No! Wait! Are you going to tell me—” She gave Gabe a wide-eyed look and wondered if he knew she was kidding. “Are you going to tell me that’s not really Duke singing?”

He managed what was almost a smile. “It’s not Duke…er, Diana…singing,” he said. “Diana can’t carry a tune.”

“Then Diana and I, we have something in common.”

“You’re lots better-looking.”

The compliment was so matter-of-fact and so unexpected, it almost made Meg blush. Rather than let him know it—and rather than let him know how easily he’d turned the head of a woman who, at least up until a few minutes before, had been pretty good at keeping her head on straight—she reached for the guest register and slid it across the desk toward him. He took the hint, or if he didn’t, he didn’t press the issue. At least not until he was done signing his name.

When he was, he pushed the book back over to Meg. Was it an accident that he held on to the register? That he didn’t flinch when his hand stopped so close to hers?

Meg wasn’t about to even consider it. Just because a good-looking guy happened to be (maybe) coming on to her didn’t mean she had to melt like a pat of butter in a hot skillet. Just because he was (maybe) unattached didn’t mean she was anything close to interested. Just because she (suddenly) couldn’t catch her breath didn’t mean anything. Not anything except that it was going to be a warm day and that the Ohio humidity was headed from sticky all the way to downright sultry.

Just because Gabe (definitely) let his gaze slip from her hair to her face and from her face to her neck and from her neck to her breasts and then back up again, didn’t mean she had to feel self-conscious about the smear of flour on her cheek, or the freckles sprinkled across her nose like cinnamon, or her electric-blue, sleeveless sundress, the one cut just low enough to show a little more skin than any guest had a right to see.

When he got around to looking her in the eye again, she was ready for him. “Are you done now—” Although she’d watched him sign his name, she glanced down at the guest register anyway. It seemed like a better option than drowning in those brandy-colored eyes. “—Mr. Morrison?”

“You can call me Gabe.” One corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. “And I can call you—”

“Meg.” It was a better answer than anytime. Which, for some unaccountable reason, was what she was tempted to say. In fact, she was tempted to say a lot of things. Like how tired he looked and how stiff his muscles seemed and how—once long ago and far, far away—she’d been known as the best sore-muscle massager on the east coast.

Like it or not, thinking about Baltimore and massaging sore muscles made Meg think of Ben. Sore muscles, sore egos. And that brought up a whole lot of memories that had been and still were a sore point.

Rather than risk even the remote chance of adding more painful experiences to her history, she decided it was smarter to keep the conversation on safer subjects. “How do you know all that stuff, anyway?” she asked Gabe. “About Duke and Diana. Was it in the latest issue of People or something?”

“Actually…” For just a second, she saw the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. As if he was used to receiving compliments and the rewards that went along with them, he stood tall and flashed her a smile so devastating, she found herself catching her breath. Just as quickly, the expression dissolved and he was back to looking tired and worried. “People? Yeah, something like that.”

Meg could take a hint as well as anyone. Some matters were best left alone. Especially when there was a chance that bringing them up might offend one of Maisie’s guests.

“I’ll show you up to your room. I’m Maisie’s granddaughter and the chef around here. Greeting the guests isn’t usually my job, but Maisie’s a little busy.” The lie came out as smoothly as peanut butter. It stuck in her throat just the way peanut butter always did. But then, she figured a little lie was better than the big ol’ truth, especially when the truth was all about how Maisie just happened to get busy at the most inopportune times.

Like when a handsome, unattached guy was checking into the Hideaway all by his handsome, unattached self.

Like when Maisie’s stick-her-head-in-the-sand granddaughter was insisting she was doing just fine on her own, thank you very much, and that she didn’t need anyone or anything to make her make her happy or to fill that little hollow spot right where her heart used to be. The spot that had always seemed filled to overflowing when Ben was around.

Meg dashed the thought away and grabbed the brass key chain with the name of the room etched on it. She dangled it in front of Gabe. “You’re lucky there was a cancellation. This room is usually the first one to get booked.” When he didn’t respond to her offer of help with his luggage, she walked around to the other side of the desk and stepped aside so he could start up the stairs ahead of her. It took her a second to realize he hadn’t moved—and that Gabe looked as if someone had pulled the tablecloth magic trick on him, too.

“What did that say?” He pointed at the key chain in her hand. “That key chain, what—”

“There are four of them,” Meg explained. She glanced back to the desk, where the keys hung on their little brass hooks when guests weren’t using them. “One for each room. There’s Smooth Operator, our secret-agent room. And Almost Paradise. That’s sort of a tropical theme, what Maisie likes to call her Garden of Eden room. And then there’s Close to the Heart.” She made a face because although that particular room was popular with guests, it wasn’t her favorite. “Red velvet, lace, plenty of cupids,” she said, as if that would explain it all. “And this one. An experience straight out of the King’s life. Complete with blue suede shoes under the bed.” She tossed the key chain up in the air. “You’re staying in—”

Before Meg could catch it, Gabe reached out and grabbed the key chain. Staring at it, his cheeks went dark and he made a funny, choking sound. “Love Me Tender? You’re kidding, right?”

Meg grinned. “Last room on the island.”

“Right.” His shoulders slumped, Gabe stepped around a display of brightly wrapped packages and started up the winding stairs that led to the second floor and the inn’s guest rooms. “Looks like I’m stuck.”

Stuck?

Stuck was one concept Meg didn’t want to think about. Not when it came to Love Me Tender. Because when she thought about Love Me Tender and she thought about stuck, she just naturally thought about the Crawfords. And thinking about the Crawfords made her all too aware that she was studying every detail of the way Gabe’s jeans were worn and smooth over his backside.

“Not a good idea,” she reminded herself. She shook away the notion as well as the sensations cascading through her. The ones that made her feel as if she’d just gone under a Lake Erie wave and was having trouble coming up for breath.

Truth be told, she knew she’d be better off keeping her gaze on anything but Gabriel Morrison’s rear end.

Which only made her notice exactly where she was still looking.

Meg grumbled a warning to herself. If she wasn’t careful, she’d get trapped by the siren-call of lust and the heady promise of romance.

And that meant she could get stuck, too. Just like she had back in Baltimore when she refused to believe that Ben could be so heartless as to pretend to love her just so he could get his hands on her cooking secrets. She’d been blind. She’d been stupid. And until she came to her senses, what she got in return for trusting him with her heart was a mess of a relationship she should have gotten unstuck from long before.

No way.

No how.

Meg let the words echo through her head, a mantra designed to keep her fantasies at bay.

Stuck, she promised herself, was something she’d never get again.

Chapter Two

“Stuck.”

Gabe couldn’t imagine why, but when he grumbled the word, Meg’s face went a little pale and her steps faltered.

“What’s that you said?” She stopped a couple of feet away and gave him the kind of look he usually reserved for folks on the subway who talked to the empty seats beside them.

“I said stuck.” Gabe rattled the brass knob on the door next to a metal sculpture that took up a good portion of the hallway wall. He knew he had the right room.

As if to reassure himself, he glanced at the artwork. It wasn’t what he expected to find in back-of-beyond Ohio. Quirky, well done, inspired—the sculpture was a one-quarter-size flamingo-pink Cadillac, complete with wide tail fins and enough chrome to make it gleam, even in the muted pink light of the hallway. In honor of the island holiday, a red sack filled with gift-wrapped packages had been tucked in the back seat.

“Love Me Tender.” He read the words painted on the trunk of the car in gleaming black enamel. “It’s the right room, isn’t it? But the door…” Just to show he knew what he was talking about, he turned the handle again and bumped the door to the room with his shoulder. It didn’t budge. “It’s—”

“Stuck. The door. The door to the room is stuck.” Meg breathed a long sigh that did remarkable things to the gauzy, hand-embroidered sundress she was wearing.

The fact that he wondered why she looked so relieved didn’t seem as important to Gabe as the fact that he’d actually noticed the way her breasts pressed against the gossamer fabric, the way her cheeks darkened to a color that nearly matched the glistening stones in her dangling earrings.

So he wasn’t completely brain-dead after all. And if the sudden fire in his blood and the fierce tightening in his gut meant anything, the rest of him was working pretty well, too.

That was enough to cheer him. He might be a man on the edge—of his patience, of his sanity and of what had once been a fulfilling, enjoyable, not to mention lucrative career—but at least all his good sense hadn’t deserted him. He still knew a beautiful woman when he saw one.

“The door of Love Me Tender always sticks.” Good thing Meg didn’t know what he was thinking. Otherwise, she might not have been so quick to hurry over to where Gabe was standing. And if she hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to breathe in the mingled scents of cinnamon and herbs that surrounded her.

“There’s a trick, actually,” she said. To get to the door, she squeezed between Gabe and his luggage. Almost close enough to touch. The air warmed and Gabe’s insides felt a little like they had on the ferry that brought him to the island.

“I should’ve warned you.” For a second, he wondered what she was talking about. Warned him? About the sensation swooping through his insides?

She smiled and pointed to the door before she gave a demonstration that had nothing to do with Gabe’s insides. And everything to do with physics. With a triumphant little smile that made her nose crinkle and brought out a dimple in her left cheek, she turned the shiny brass doorknob at the same time as she lifted it.

The door opened without a hitch.

“Your room.” Meg stood back and made a sweeping gesture toward the room and Gabe grabbed his suitcases and went inside.

“If there’s anything we can get you…” he heard her say from the hallway.

If he hadn’t been so stunned, he might have suggested an ice pack and a couple aspirin.

Gabe deposited his suitcases on the floor and glanced around Love Me Tender. What had he been thinking? That just being with a woman as vivacious and beautiful as Meg was enough to make him forget his troubles?

Well, he could forget about forgetting.

One look at Love Me Tender, one moment over the threshold, and Gabe felt…well…

“All shook up.” He didn’t think he groaned the words loud enough for her to hear until Meg stuck her head back in the room.

“All shook up? That’s over here.” She darted around both Gabe and his suitcases and stepped further into the room. Past the stained-glass window decorated with peacocks that took up most of one wall. Past a full-size, honest-to-gosh classic pink Cadillac parked in the center of the room, one that had no roof, a waterbed where the front and back seats had once been and a pair of blue suede shoes tucked near the steering wheel. Past a baby grand piano that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight and a wall covered with framed gold records. Along the far wall was a genuine fifties soda fountain, complete with bar stools with bright-blue vinyl seats. Apparently in honor of the week’s festivities, there was a miniature aluminum Christmas tree on the bar, complete with bubble lights. Above the fountain was a sign. Meg pointed to it.

“All shook up. Maisie’s idea of a joke. Shook up. Milkshakes. Get it?”

“I got it.” Gabe was also getting a little queasy. He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t suppose any of your other guests might want to—”

“Trade rooms?” So, she was the resident mind reader as well as the inn’s chef. Meg crossed her arms and stepped back, leaning against one of the bar stools. “Not a chance,” she told him. “Honeymooners in Close to the Heart and they look like they’re there for the long haul. A middle-aged couple in Smooth Operator. Regulars. Maisie wouldn’t have the heart to ask them to move. And from what I’ve heard, card-carrying nudists in Almost Paradise. Don’t worry,” she added when his mouth dropped open, “they promised to dress for breakfast.”

“This…” Gabe did a slow turn around the room. “It’s a musician’s—”

“Dream?” Meg suggested.

He was going to say nightmare. He stopped himself just in time. After all, it wasn’t Meg’s fault that he was feeling the way he was feeling, and there was no use taking it out on her or her grandmother. That didn’t stop a cold chill from seeping through him. He got as far as the piano and paused there. Before he even realized he was doing it, his hands were poised over the keys.

For one brief, shining moment, hope blossomed in his chest and some of the tension that had been tying his stomach in knots for the last couple of months eased. As effortlessly as breathing, he played a C Major chord. He smiled when the notes vibrated through him, like a second heartbeat. Lost in the magic of the moment, Gabe closed his eyes, ready to ride the wave of creativity as he had so many times before.

He couldn’t think of even one more note.

“You play?” Meg’s voice reminded him what he was doing. Or at least what he was trying to do.

As if the keys were on fire, he pulled his hands to his side.

“Nah.” Gabe backed away from the Steinway. “Used to,” he admitted. “But that was a long time ago. I’ve…” He coughed away the sudden tightness in his throat. “I’ve forgotten how.”

“Too bad.” Meg walked back to the door. Her footsteps against the green shag carpet were as light as her laughter. “We’ve got another piano down in the parlor. And I’m always up for a song.” In front of the stained-glass window, she swung around. “You’re not just saying you don’t play because you’ve heard me sing, are you?”

Not when she looked delicious enough to kiss.

Gabe’s reaction caught him off-guard and he braced himself and wondered what was wrong with him, anyway. There were more important things to think about than the Hideaway’s sexy chef. More important, sure, he told himself. But not nearly as delectable.

He wondered if Meg had any idea how incredible she looked against the backdrop of stained-glass colors made molten by the afternoon sun. The blue of the peacock’s feathers matched her summer dress perfectly and brought out blue flecks in eyes that were a shade between the spicy green of a habenero pepper and the cool color of a crisp salad. The yellow in the bird’s beak and the plume at the top of its head touched her shoulders like liquid sunshine and kissed the freckles sprinkled liberally over her arms and neck. The undulating red border around the bird turned the sun’s rays into fire that was every bit as bright but nowhere near as beautiful as her mahogany-colored hair.

Sing?

She could sing to him, all right. Anytime. Anywhere. Even if her voice did remind Gabe of a not-so-happy marriage between the sounds of a freight train at full throttle and a coop full of frightened chickens. Her singing voice might make his teeth ache and for sure it was as flat as a pancake, but the rest of her was curved very nicely.

Taking his time, Gabe glanced from the tips of her toenails with their candy-apple-red polish to the top of her head. He stopped in between for a quick mental inventory of the more interesting places, wondering in spite of himself what a woman who was bold enough to wear a brightly colored dress with her ruddy complexion and Titian hair wore underneath.

Like it or not, the idea heated Gabe clear through to his bones.

Meg could sing him to sleep after a night of wild lovemaking, he decided. She could sing him awake just so that he could scoop her into his arms and stop her singing with a kiss before they started the lovemaking all over again. She could sing through his bloodstream and she could sing through his dreams. She could sing to him like—

“Your phone.”

Meg’s voice startled him back to reality. He found her with an expectant look on her face and her eyes homing in on the right side pocket of his jeans, where he’d tucked his cell phone before he hopped out of the car. “Your phone. It’s ringing.”

Gabe shook off the momentary paralysis caused by his own wayward thoughts. That was what he got for dipping his toe in the deep waters of fantasy. Blindsided. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get drawn in and towed under and—

“Your phone is still ringing.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He plucked the ringing phone out of his pocket and bobbled it from hand to hand. At least it didn’t play Beethoven’s Fifth like it used to. Gabe had changed it back to an old-fashioned, boring, non-musical ring a couple of weeks before. But although it wasn’t loud, the ringing was insistent.

“You’re not going to answer it?”

Good question. He didn’t even stop to consider it. He tossed the phone over on the bed and watched it shimmy on the water-filled mattress.

It kept right on ringing.

“That’s it?” Like a rubbernecker at the scene of an especially gruesome accident, Meg was staring at the phone. “That’s how you answer the phone?”

Gabe poked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “That’s how I answer the phone.”

She slid him a sidelong look. “Woman?” she asked.

Maybe it was his imagination. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. He could’ve sworn that waiting for his answer, she tensed a little.

“Worse.” He marched over to the 55 Cadillac, picked up the phone and shoved it under the pillows in their pink satin cases. It was still ringing, but at least now the noise was muffled. “Secretary.”

Imagination again. It had to be. Meg looked…relieved.

She glanced toward the bed. “Determined little devil. Must be some secretary.”

“Oh, she is. The best there is on the Left Coast. Way smarter than me. More organized than the dictionary. Has the scheduling talents of those folks at NASA who can make a camera do a fly-by of some planet a million miles away.”

“She is a paragon.” Meg nodded. “Can she leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

“Never seen her do it, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Latoya is also—” It wasn’t until the phone abruptly stopped ringing that Gabe realized his thumbs were tight around his fists. He flexed his fingers. Forced the muscles in his neck and shoulders to relax. Unclenched his teeth.

When an entire minute went by and the ringing didn’t start again, he let out a long breath. “She is also persistent.”

Meg swung her gaze from the bed to Gabe. “Which would make an ordinary person wonder about what Latoya’s being so persistent about.”

Maybe because he’d dodged another Latoya bullet, Gabe felt unaccountably pleased with himself. Or maybe it was the shimmer in Meg’s eyes, the impossible blue of her dress, the surprising way his blood buzzed when she flicked her tongue over her lips. Whatever the reason, he stepped just a little closer and lowered his voice. “In most cases it would,” he said. “But you haven’t known me long enough to find out that I’m far from ordinary.”

“Wrong, Mr. Morrison.” As if the statement didn’t make her very happy, Meg’s bottom lip puckered and her eyebrows dipped over her eyes. She shook her head and though she moved as gracefully as a dancer, Gabe couldn’t help noticing that when she spun around and headed into the hallway, it looked more like a retreat than a well-timed exit. “I realized that,” she told him, closing the door behind her, “the moment I saw you.”

For what seemed a very long time, Gabe stood staring at the closed door, feeling as if the world had tipped on its axis. Crazy reaction. But then, he suspected there was a lot about Meg that would cause the kind of peculiar humming he felt in his bloodstream.

It took a couple of minutes for his thoughts to settle and a couple more after that before his heart rate throttled back to a beat that was even close to normal.

Cupid’s Hideaway might be—as the lady at the local hotel where he’d first stopped for a room had informed him—the most romantic spot east of the Mississippi. But romance and the racing heartbeat that went along with it weren’t on his agenda.

He twitched away the idea and hauled his suitcase on to the couch. He unzipped it and flipped it open, looking for a change of clothes.

Better to leave the romance to the honeymooners and the nudists, he told himself. All he wanted was a place to lie low. For as long as he could get away with it.

Sooner or later, he’d have to fess up and admit the truth. To Latoya. To Dennis. To the Tasty Time Burger folks.

Even to himself.

Did he really think hiding out on an island in the middle of Lake Erie would buy him some time?

“Damn straight,” he grumbled.

He grabbed a handful of clothing and walked over to the dresser across the room to put it away, stopping to glare at the reflection frowning back at him from the mirror.

“Gabriel Morrison,” he mumbled, addressing the worried-looking man in the mirror. “World’s greatest jingle writer. The guy who’s got more awards piled up in his office than even Latoya knows what to do with. Aren’t you the guy who’s never at a loss for clever words? The one who can write music in his sleep? The clown who unleashed the Love Me Tenders commercial and Duke the Dog on an unsuspecting and gullible public? Good going, Morrison.”

He yanked open the top dresser drawer, tossed his clothes inside and went back for another handful.

“A meeting in New York in two weeks and just like always, you’ve promised them the world, haven’t you?” he muttered when he was in front of the mirror again. “Only this time, things are different.”

The hard reality of the situation nagged at him while he paced between the kitschy fifties soda fountain and the pink Cadillac.

Things were different, all right. Because whenever Gabe had promised the world before, he’d always delivered it on a silver platter.

And this time?

This time, Gabriel Morrison, the Mozart of the advertising industry, the man whose name was synonymous with catchy tunes and clever lyrics and ad campaigns that never failed to raise clients’ notoriety as well as their profits…

This time, Gabriel Morrison had a major case of jingle-writer’s block.

“DELICIOUS!”

Meg didn’t have to turn around from the stove. She knew when her grandmother walked into the kitchen from the dining room where she’d just poured the morning orange juice, she was definitely not talking about the ham-and-cheese omelets Meg was making. There was a little nuance in Maisie’s voice, a little skip in her step that Meg recognized as having nothing to do with food—and everything to do with romance.

“Nice to know your guests are enjoying themselves so much.” Meg was an expert at both cooking and ignoring Maisie’s less-than-subtle hints, and she put both talents to use. She flipped the omelets, added a sprinkling of dill and firmly refused to get hooked by the bait Maisie was dangling in front of her. “The honeymooners are happy?”

“Nonsense!” Out of the corner of her eye, Meg saw her grandmother wave away the very thought. “Of course the Kilbanes are happy. Honeymooners are always happy. Since they’ve checked in, they’ve gone through two bottles of champagne, three boxes of scented candles and two pairs of those bubble-gumflavored edible undies we have on special in the Love Shack. They’re as happy as clams. I wasn’t talking about Brian and Jenny Kilbane, and you know it.”

“The nudists?” Meg slid the omelets onto china plates and passed the plates to Maisie. “Or the spy wannabes?”

Maisie nodded her approval of the omelets, but even so, she didn’t look very happy. “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she said, frowning at Meg.

“I do.” Meg reached for the pan of hash-brown potatoes that was sitting on the stove. She scooped a pile of perfectly browned potatoes onto each of the festive plates—decorated with fir trees and snowflakes—that Maisie used only twice each year, in December and for Christmas in July. “I know you’re talking about Gabe Morrison.” Finished with the potatoes, she set down the pan, wiped her hands on her white apron and gave her grandmother her full attention. With any luck, Maisie would catch on to the fact that she wasn’t kidding.

Then again, if luck had anything to do with the way things were going, Meg wouldn’t have spent the entire time since she’d checked Gabe into the inn thinking all the things about him that Maisie thought she should be thinking.

All the things Meg knew she shouldn’t have been thinking.

Meg’s spirits plummeted. Delicious was the least of her problems. When it came to their newest guest, there was also charming to consider—in those few and far between moments when he seemed to forget himself enough to allow his natural sense of humor to come through. Then there was gorgeous, available and successful. Not to mention tempting.

Meg drew in a long breath to steady her suddenly racing heartbeat. “I’m not interested,” she told Maisie. And herself. “So whether Gabe is delicious or not doesn’t change anything…” She looked the breakfast dishes over one final time. “I need something,” she grumbled.

“Of course you do.” Maisie’s expression brightened. “It’s what I’ve said all along. You need something. A little companionship. Is that such a bad thing? Or how about a full-fledged, all-out, over-the-top fling?” Maisie laughed the same throaty laugh Meg had heard from her grandmother’s private rooms on the nights Doc Ross visited. “If you ask me, sweetie, an amour would do you a world of good. Help you forget that chef of yours, the one who had oatmeal where his brains were supposed to be and nothing but ice cubes inside his chest. You know, that what’s-his-name.”

“Ben.” Still staring at the hash browns and omelets, Meg supplied the name automatically. It took her a second to realize that saying it didn’t hurt. At least, not as much as it used to, anyway. “Ben,” she said again, testing out the theory and discovering that for the first time in the fourteen months she’d been back on the island and out of the magnetic pull of Ben Lucarelli’s overblown personality and his overrated talent, the very memory of him didn’t skewer her like a shish kebab.

“And I wasn’t talking about Ben.” She looked at the door that led into the dining room where Maisie’s guests were waiting for breakfast. “Or about anyone else, for that matter. I was talking about breakfast.” She studied the plates, and the answer hit her. “Strawberries,” she mumbled and she hurried over to the refrigerator on the other side of the room. She found seven of the plumpest, reddest strawberries she’d picked just two days before over on the mainland and, in a flash, had them washed, sliced, sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar and arranged on each plate.

“Much better,” She said with satisfaction. “The muffins are already on the table?”

“I did that first thing,” Maisie assured her. “And everyone’s enjoying them.” Her expression fell. “Everyone but poor Gabe.”

Meg already had four of the plates in her hands. She stepped back to let Maisie leave the kitchen with the other three, but not before she rolled her eyes, just so her grandmother would know what she thought of her little stab at theatrics. “And I’m supposed to care, right? I’m supposed to ask why he’s not enjoying the muffins. Or am I supposed to be worried about why you’re calling him ‘poor Gabe’?”

“Good heavens, dear.” Maisie clicked her tongue and went into the inn’s dining room. Although she didn’t have the nerve to pretend she was embarrassed, she at least had the decency to blush a shade darker than her hot-pink pantsuit. “You are so suspicious! You can’t possibly think I’m so meddlesome that…”

Her comment trailed away, and Meg supposed it was just as well. She didn’t need her grandmother to elaborate. Not about Gabe.

In the hours since she’d met him, Meg’s own imagination had done enough elaborating for the both of them.

That brought her up short, and right before she bumped the swinging door with her hip and entered the dining room, Meg paused to catch her breath. The last thing she needed were her own fantasies sneaking up to destroy her self-control. Not when she was about to walk into the dining room and come face to face with the man who’d inspired those fantasies. All night long.

Meg twitched the thought away as inconsequential, inconsistent with what she wanted out of her life and her career, and just plain old insane. She gave the door an authoritative smack and got down to business—which would’ve been considerably easier if it wasn’t for the scene that greeted her in the dining room.

Maisie was fluttering around the table pouring coffee and chatting up a storm, just as she did every morning when they had guests. The Kilbanes were holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. The nudists and the spies…

Meg glanced around the table. Because she wasn’t usually involved in the day-to-day operation of the inn outside the kitchen, she wasn’t sure which guests were the nudists and which were the James Bond fans. She did, however, know exactly which guest Maisie was referring to when she’d mentioned delicious.

Delicious was a word that didn’t adequately describe how Gabe looked early in the morning.

He was wearing khakis and an inky shirt that brought out the highlights in his dark hair, and though he was sitting with his back to the windows with their view of the lake, she could tell he’d shaved since she’d last seen him. Yesterday’s sprinkling of dark stubble was gone, replaced by a smooth sweep of jaw that was squarer—and more stubborn—than she remembered.

The impression did nothing to dampen the little thread of awareness that wound through Meg. Her mind on everything but the dishes she was placing on the table in front of their guests, she went through the motions, calling on a lifetime of experience in the restaurant industry and fourteen months’ worth of experience in the I’m-thinking-about-him-but-I’m-not-going-to-let-anyone-know-it department. She succeeded at both. By the time she got around to sliding his dish in front of Gabe, the other guests were murmuring their admiration of her presentation, nodding their approval of her menu selection and digging in.

Gabe, on the other hand, was staring into his coffee cup which, Meg noticed, was empty.

“Coffee?” When Maisie picked that exact moment to zoom by, Meg plucked the silver coffee pot off the tray she was carrying. She stepped back and waited for Gabe to answer and when he didn’t, she gave it another try.

“Coffee?” she asked again.

As if he’d been touched with a cattle prod, he snapped to attention and for the first time, Meg saw that while everyone else had been munching her island-famous blueberry muffins and making small talk, Gabe had been lost in his own world. He’d brought a legal pad down to the dining room and it was covered with doodles.

“Buildings.” She tipped her head and examined the pictures that covered the entire top page of the pad. Though she was no expert when it came to art of any kind, she knew good work when she saw it. And Gabe’s drawings were definitely good.

There was a sketch of the Chrysler building in New York on one corner of the pad. Another toward the bottom of the page reminded her of the glass pyramid at the Louvre. In between was a building she didn’t recognize, one with broad lines and a bold silhouette.

“You’re pretty talented,” she told him.

“No. I’m not.” Gabe frowned at the drawings before he ripped off the page and scrunched it into a ball. He glanced around as if he didn’t know what to do with it and Meg held out her hand. “I’m just doodling,” he told her, dropping the ball of paper into her hands. “Passing the time. Doodling.”

“Whatever you say.” Meg stuck the paper in the pocket of her apron and held out the coffeepot, trying again. Gabe finally took the hint. He held up his cup for her to fill and she had another chance to look at him. This close, she saw that there were still dark smudges under Gabe’s eyes. He was just as on-edge as when he’d arrived at the Hideaway. Just as tired-looking.

As if she’d seen it, too, Maisie stepped in. “I do hope you slept well, Mr. Morrison.” She offered him one of her patented smiles and an expectant look that told him whether he liked it or not, she was about to draw him into the conversation. “The Kilbanes here…” She tipped her head toward the honeymooning couple. “They were just saying that the bed in Close to the Heart is the most comfortable they’ve ever been in. For sleeping or for…” Maisie’s gentle laughter rippled around the room. “Well, they are on their honeymoon, after all!”

The other guests nodded and smiled, and one of the other men (either the nudist or the spy) raised his orange-juice glass and proposed a toast. Gabe didn’t say a thing. He drank some of his coffee and held the cup out for Meg to top off. When she was done, she backed away from the table and returned to the kitchen. Better to hide out with the dirty dishes and the greasy pans than to stand here and listen to Maisie’s barefaced attempts at drawing Gabe out of his shell and into a heart-to-heart.

Once the door was safely closed behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief.

The reprieve didn’t last long.

“I think it’s going very well.” Maisie breezed into the kitchen with the empty orange-juice pitcher, a smile on her face and a purr of satisfaction in her voice. “He’s fitting right in, don’t you think?”

“I think,” Meg told her, being careful to keep her voice down, “that he’s sullen and in a world of his own. Can’t you see that, Grandma? The man obviously has problems, and I don’t think your attempts to introducing hearts and flowers into his life will help. He’s worried.”

“He needs someone to help him not worry.”

“He’s crabby.”

“Who wouldn’t be if they were all alone?”

“He’s not interested.”

“Did I say anything about him being interested?” Maisie’s silvery eyebrows rose nearly as far as the sweep of fluffy white hair that touched her forehead. “Really, Meg, I think you’re way ahead of me here. You’re having ideas I haven’t even thought of. Do you want him to be interested?”

“I’m—” Meg grumbled her displeasure. Of Maisie’s shameless tactics. Of her own inexplicable reaction to Gabe. “It doesn’t matter whether I want him to be or not,” she admitted. “He’s obviously not.”

Maisie leaned against the countertop, head cocked, eyes sparkling. “How do you know?” she asked.

“How do I—” Too restless to stand still, Meg tugged her apron over her head and threw it on the countertop. “Did you take a good look at him?” She pointed toward the closed door and the dining room beyond. “How can the man be interested in anything? He’s preoccupied. He’s troubled.”

“Pish-tush.” Maisie tossed her head. “I haven’t met a man yet who’s too preoccupied to notice a woman noticing him. And if I haven’t told you this before, Meg, I’ve met plenty of men in my life.” Warming to the idea, she went over to the coffee maker to refill the silver pot they passed around the table. “Maybe he just doesn’t realize how interested he really is,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Or at least how interested he could be, if he had half a chance.”

“Oh, come on, Grandma!” Meg laughed, which was mighty peculiar considering she wasn’t feeling the least bit happy with the way things were going. “Are you telling me that if I threw myself at the man—”

“Would I ever suggest a thing like that?” Maisie’s cheeks went noticeably pale. “It’s so…so low-class, this whole notion of women coming onto men as if that was the only way to attract their attention. You know me better than that! What you need to do is be more subtle. More discreet. Take my word for it, that will attract a man’s attention surer than if you walked through the dining room stark-naked. Well…maybe if you walked through the dining room stark naked…”

“Oh, no! I’m not going for the Lady Godiva routine.” Because she knew a losing cause when she saw one, Meg gave up the fight. She took the coffeepot out of Maisie’s hands and turned toward the dining room.

“Bet you it’s true.”

The challenge was delivered in the sweetest tones, but it was a challenge nonetheless.

Meg turned and faced her grandmother head-on. “You mean about attracting his attention? Bet it’s not,” she said.

Maisie’s lips twitched with a barely controlled smile. “Bet if you flirted with him, he’d react. Big-time.”

Meg clenched her teeth. “Bet he wouldn’t.”

“You brave enough to find out?”

Whether it meant jumping into the lake from the highest rock on the shore, swimming the farthest, running the fastest or outrunning a storm in the family sailboat, Meg couldn’t stand to have her courage questioned. It was one of the reasons she’d gotten into so much trouble as a teenager. One of the reasons she’d had her eyes on a life on the mainland and her heart firmly set on Ben Lucarelli, even when everyone who’d ever met the man insisted he wasn’t right for her.

It was the one and only reason it had taken her so long to break up with Ben. Even when she finally found out that he wasn’t as interested in Meg the person as he was in Meg the chef, the woman who could make him—and his chi-chi Baltimore restaurant—a five-star hit.

Meg had never backed down from a challenge in her life.

And Maisie knew it.

“All right. You want proof. I’ll give you proof.” Meg raised her chin in the kind of I’m-not-budging-an-inch-on-this-look she’d learned at Maisie’s knee. She put down the coffeepot long enough to pull the elastic band out of her hair and combed through her ponytail with her fingers. When she was done, she shook her curls loose and grabbed the silver pot again. “I’m going in there and I’m going to flirt with Gabe Morrison. And it’s going to get me nowhere. Guaranteed.”

“We’ll see.” Maisie nodded. “And if I lose—”

“You will,” Meg assured her.

“If I lose and he’s not attracted to you…well, I’ll cook dinner for you one night. How about that? And if I win…”

“You won’t.”

“If I win…” She winked at Meg and, reaching for her, turned her toward the door. “If I win, you win, too. Now go get him,” she said, and nudged her out of the kitchen.

“Fine. Good.” Meg paused just outside the dining-room door, fighting the sudden urge to run.

She might have done it, too, if behind her, she didn’t hear the kitchen door open just enough to allow Maisie to peek out. “Remember, be subtle. Bet he’ll fall head over heels,” Maisie whispered.

“Bet he won’t,” Meg insisted, and because she knew she’d talked herself into something she couldn’t talk herself out of, she figured she had no choice but to get it over with.

Her shoulders squared, her jaw steady, her insides jumping like a fish at the wrong end of a hook, she marched back into the dining room to face Gabe Morrison.

And her own nagging insecurities.

Chapter Three

Gabe was drawing buildings.

Again.

Shaking himself back to reality, he studied the drawing that had somehow taken shape on the legal pad in front of him while he was lost in thought.

A facade that combined classical elements and post-modernist pizzazz. A frieze on the entablature. One that completely broke the rules when it came to horizontal bands of relief sculpture, dispensing with them altogether and replacing them instead with a loose pattern of lines that was less traditional carving and more like the empty staffs in an even emptier line of—

“Music.”

Gabe grumbled the word and glanced down at the drawing that was staring back up at him.

Kind of like the other guests around the breakfast table were staring at him.

He felt their eyes before he saw them, and because he knew that doing anything else would only make him seem crazier and more conspicuous, he forced himself to look up. Six pairs of eyes were trained on him, six expressions both cautious and curious. Six people were gawking at him as if he’d been talking to himself.

Which he had been.

Gabe made a sound that might have been a mumbled excuse. Or a growl of discontent. In keeping with the peaceful atmosphere of the Hideaway and the feelings of love that were as conspicuous as the swarm of chubby cupids that decorated the Christmas tree in the far corner, his fellow guests apparently decided it was an apology.

The fresh-faced, starry-eyed honeymooners across the lace tablecloth grinned in unison. The other two couples smiled and nodded and finished their meals. Watching them eat, Gabe noticed for the first time that there was food on the plate in front of him. And he hadn’t touched it.

“That’s right. You would like music.” The newlywed groom was done eating. He stood and because he was holding her hand, his bride popped out of her chair right along with him. “You’re staying in Love Me Tender. The music room. We haven’t seen it, but we hear it’s really cool.”

“We could switch. Rooms, I mean.” Gabe sounded a little too desperate, even to himself. He knew it. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t stop. The other rooms at the Hideaway might be heavy on the lace and light on the guy-all-alone-so-what’s-he-doing-in-a-place-like-this factor, but they wouldn’t remind him of the music he couldn’t compose or the lyrics that refused to form in his head. No matter how hard he tried.

At least they weren’t Love Me Tender.

This was his chance, and it might be his only one. He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t have much to pack. I could be out in less than ten minutes. If you’d like to check out Love Me Tender for the rest of your stay—”

“No way!” The groom might be a quicker eater than his blushing bride, but it was clear from the start who was going to make the decisions in the family. “Pink Cadillacs and Elvis pictures?” She barked out a laugh. “No—thank—you. Not exactly my idea of romantic!”

“That’s not what the Crawfords thought!” Chuckling, one of the other couples got up from the table. They were apparently regulars at the Hideaway and knew something Gabe didn’t know. He didn’t care, either, not if it meant he might get them to bite at his juicy offer.

He turned to them. “If you think Love Me Tender is romantic—”

Before he could even finish, both the man and the woman were shaking their heads. “Happy where we are,” the man told him. He looped an arm around his wife’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze before they walked out of the room. “‘Smooth Operator’ is our idea of romance, and besides, James Bond never visited Graceland.”

Gabe couldn’t argue with that. He turned his attention to the only couple left.

“Not us.” The man held up one hand, instantly rejecting the plan. “We love ‘Almost Paradise.’ The plants, the waterfall, even the jungle noises piped in through the sound system. That’s romance as far as we’re concerned. Besides, I hear the bar stools in Love Me Tender have vinyl seats and frankly, vinyl and nudists…” Even fully clothed, he squirmed in his chair. As if the suggestion was too much to take, both he and his wife got up and scurried out of the dining room as quickly as they could.

“Great.” Gabe mumbled the word. Even though he was feeling anything but. “Strike three. Me and Elvis. At least I don’t have to worry about the romance.”

“What’s the matter, Mr. Morrison? You don’t like romance?”

Gabe hadn’t noticed that Meg had come back into the room. A warm rush of awareness flooded the space between his heart and his stomach when her voice snuck up from somewhere behind him. Funny, although he’d been more than aware of Meg the day before, when she’d showed him to the fiasco that passed for his room, he’d missed the husky note in her voice. Ready to answer her—except that he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say—he spun around in his chair.

And stopped cold.

He remembered plenty about Meg, all right. But he’d forgotten that she was so beautiful.

When she’d come into the room earlier to pour the coffee, he’d been too preoccupied with the empty legal pad that dared him to try and fill its pages with clever jingle material. Or-not-so clever jingle material. Or anything at all except the doodles that were the only things that managed to ooze from his pen. He hadn’t paid attention to the mossy green dress that floated around Meg’s ankles and made her eyes look smokier—and far more sultry—than they had in yesterday’s afternoon sunlight. He hadn’t seen that today she was wearing her hair down, and that it brushed her shoulders in a riot of red tones that brought out the heightened color in her cheeks and made a startling backdrop for the turquoise earrings that peeked out from the tumble of her curls.

He certainly hadn’t noticed her standing the way she was standing now, the silver coffeepot in one hand, the other propped on her waist, and her hip cocked just the slightest bit. Because if he had noticed…

Gabe braced himself against the heat that built inside him.

If he’d noticed, he didn’t think he would’ve been able to sit still. He didn’t think he would’ve been able to pay attention to…

To whatever it was he’d been paying attention to.

The reminder was all Gabe needed. As fast as the heat built inside him, it froze into a block the size of the iceberg that had finished off the Titanic.

He glanced down at the legal pad sitting next to his untouched plate of food. For some reason he couldn’t explain and didn’t want to understand, he flipped the page on which he’d been doodling. So Meg couldn’t see it.

“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” Gabe had to give himself points. He’d recovered enough to sound perfectly normal. After all, the last thing he needed to feel on top of hopeless and discouraged was silly. “Something about romance?”

“Me?” Meg tried for a smile that she hoped looked a whole lot more seductive than it felt. It might have been easier if she wasn’t feeling so foolish. And if she didn’t know that Maisie had the kitchen door cracked a smidgen so she could watch the show. Her grandmother’s challenge still ringing in her ears, she refused to give up. Foolish or not, audience or not, she had a mission to accomplish. And right now, that mission was all about making Gabe pay attention to her.

Her steps slow and fluid, she moved across the room straight toward him. “Why on earth would I say anything about romance?” she asked.

“No reason. I guess.” He shrugged, ignoring the sway of her hips. And the hint of suggestion in her voice. He ignored it all. The cupids on the Christmas tree. The pink poinsettias that were everywhere. The picture above the fireplace that showed a sepia-toned couple in Victorian dress, the man in a top hat and tails and the smiling woman in nothing but a corset, a pair of fancy pantaloons and an elaborate red bow that had been taped to her rear in honor of the holiday.

It only proved her theory. If he didn’t notice the atmosphere in the romantic center of the universe, there was no way she’d ever get him to notice her.

A funny little sensation clutched at Meg’s insides and made her squirm. And that disproved her theory. The one about how much she didn’t care what Gabe thought of her.

Meg shrugged off the thread of doubt that wound its way around her self-confidence and choked off its air supply. If she could make the effort to be friendly, the least Gabe could do was be polite in return. Then again, maybe he’d pay more attention to her if she was a blank piece of yellow legal-pad paper.

She followed his gaze down to the empty pad and the full plate of food beside it.

“You’re a vegetarian.”

“What?” As if he’d forgotten she was there, Gabe flinched. “Vegetarian? No.” He frowned at the ham-and-cheese omelet and the pile of hash brown potatoes that was looking less appetizing by the minute. “I’m just not…” He pushed the plate away and grabbing the pen that sat next to it, tapped out a fitful beat against the tablecloth. “I’m not hungry.”

“I could fry up some eggs or throw together some pancake batter, if you’d prefer that. There’s yogurt, too, if you’re more interested in healthy things. And fruit and—”

“No. Thanks.” The comment was heartfelt and the smile Gabe gave her along with it so genuine, it nearly took her breath away.

Meg steadied herself, one hand against the table. She had walked in here thinking of flirting and fully expecting that no matter how hard she tried, Gabe would never respond. She’d figured that she’d try out a few of the come-and-get-it moves she hadn’t had the inclination or the opportunity to use in the last fourteen months, and that in spite of her best efforts, she would leave untouched—physically and emotionally. She was convinced she would win the bet and prove to her grandmother and, more importantly, to herself, that her mind was made up as far as romance was concerned, and that Maisie could stop with the matchmaking because it was just not going to work.

She hadn’t counted on him upping the ante with a smile.

Because she didn’t know what else to do, Meg held out the silver pot. “More coffee?” she asked, and this time, the breathiness of her voice was less her own doing than the fault of a heartbeat that refused to slow down.

“Sure.” Gabe held out his cup and she refilled it for him. While he drank it, she considered all the benefits of retreat.

She would have done it, too, if not for the quiet cough she heard from somewhere in the direction of the kitchen.

As tempted as she was to call off the whole bet, Meg was sure that if she gave up, she’d never hear the end of it. Not from Maisie. Not from her own ego, which had the tendency to remind her more often than she liked that she was piling up a list of failures.

She’d failed at life on the mainland. She’d failed to make a go of it in the big-city, trendy and very pricy restaurant she’d always dreamed would be the pot of gold at the end of her own personal rainbow. And even though she was self-aware enough to understand that most of what had happened between them was clearly Ben’s fault, she knew for a fact that she’d failed there, too. She should have pegged him as a loser long before he dumped her heart into his Cuisinart and took it for a slice-and-dice spin.

She wasn’t about to fail again.

She returned smile for smile and dropped into the chair next to Gabe’s. “That is the idea, you know. The romance, I mean.” She leaned closer. “Is it working?”

It wasn’t.

The words reverberated in Gabe’s head like the echoes of amplifiers at a rock concert.

The cupids weren’t working. The fussy, pink decor wasn’t working. Even the semi-suggestive picture over the fireplace wasn’t working. Nothing could possibly make him think about romance. Not when his head was filled with the knowledge of how empty his imagination was. And his stomach went cold every time he thought about the Tasty Time Burger people and the knock-’em-dead ad campaign he had promised to deliver to them in just two weeks.

Nothing. Until Meg showed up looking like a vision straight out of a dream. Not until she leaned closer and the perfume of strawberries tickled his nose.

“It’s not supposed to be working,” he admitted. “I’ve got other things to think about. Other problems…” He tapped his pen on the legal pad. “And then you come in here and you’ve got me thinking about things I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about.” The whole situation was absurd, yet Gabe didn’t feel like laughing. “Then again, how could anybody not think about romance in this place?”

“The Hideaway always has this effect on people,” she told him, and from her tone, he wasn’t sure if that was good news or not. “Young or old, it doesn’t matter. I think there’s something weird going on. You know, maybe Maisie built the house over a Native American burial ground. Or it’s a regular stop on the UFO express lane to the universe. Or it might be hypnotism.”

Gabe wasn’t buying Meg’s rationalization but he sure liked listening to her explain. He liked the way a little V of concentration crinkled the spot between her eyebrows when she was deep in conversation and how she worked her bottom lip with her teeth while she was collecting her thoughts. He liked the way she made him feel and the way thinking about the sway in her walk and the purr of seduction in her voice made him think maybe there were more important things in the world than empty legal pads.

He liked the kick of awareness that buzzed through every inch of his body and he really liked the fact that when he leaned a bit nearer, Meg didn’t back off.

“I’m thinking it’s more physical than anything else,” Gabe said. “At least what I’m feeling is.” He paused for a moment. “Tell me, is there anywhere on this island where a man can take a woman? You know, on a date?”

She tipped her head, thinking and her hair spilled over her arm like a silky curtain. “There’s the bait and tackle shop,” she said and when his expression soured, she controlled a smile and went right on. “Then there’s the hotel over near the marina. They have a great buffet most nights and karaoke on Tuesdays but, of course, that’s a few days off. Let’s see…where else…There’s big doings in town tonight. Because folks can’t easily get to the island in December, we have our Christmas celebration in the summer. I hear there’s Bingo at City Hall. And free rides on the carousel in the park. It’s fun, but the ride only lasts a couple of minutes, and I don’t know…She gave him the once-over, her look so thorough and so frank, it actually made Gabe squirm. “Something tells me you’re the kind of guy who likes to take his time.”

“Think so?” Gabe liked a woman who knew what she wanted. “Glad you noticed.”

“I notice a lot of things.”

“Like…”

“You have impeccable taste,” she said immediately. “And you don’t mind showing it. Especially with clothing. You like fast cars and you’ve got a hair-dresser I’ll bet you’ve been seeing for years because he really knows how to handle your hair, even though it’s thick and probably not easy to cut.” She let her gaze flicker away for a moment before she settled it again on Gabe’s eyes. “You like to indulge yourself when it comes to life’s little luxuries,” she said. “Or did the expensive pen come from Latoya?”

“She spoils me shamelessly.”

“That must mean you’re a good boss.”

“I’m good at a lot of things.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I could show you.” There wasn’t much room between them but somehow, Gabe managed to close the gap. Meg’s hand rested on the lace tablecloth and he set his a fraction of an inch from hers. “You pick the excitement. I’m game for anything. That is, if you’re not busy here with lunches and dinners and—”

“There’s a reason it’s called a bed-and-breakfast.” Meg laughed and the sound of it shivered up Gabe’s spine. “One meal a day. That’s all we provide. You found that out last night, didn’t you? I hear you sent out for pizza.”

“It wasn’t nearly as good as your cooking.”

She called his bluff. “And you’d know that how?”

“Don’t have to know it. I can tell.” Snared by the dreamy sparkle of her eyes and the heady scent of ripe strawberries, Gabe lowered his voice. “I can guarantee that if you agree to spend the evening with me, we’ll have a terrific time. We can—” He slid his hand over hers.

As if he’d been zapped by a two-twenty electrical line, Gabe sat up straight in his chair and yanked his hand back.

“Dancing hamburgers,” he said.

“What?” Meg wasn’t sure she was hearing him right, but then again, she wasn’t exactly sure she was in her right mind, either. She’d come in here, determined that no matter what she did, Gabe wouldn’t notice her. And then she’d caved. Totally and completely. She’d fallen under the spell of the smile that wouldn’t quit. Gotten drunk on those intoxicating brandy eyes. And now he was talking about—

“Dancing hamburgers? Did you say dancing hamburgers?”

Gabe grabbed his legal pad and she saw him scrawl the words across the top page.

“Dancing hamburgers.” She read the words he’d written in his clear, distinct hand. “That is what you said. Only why—”

“I don’t know.” Still clutching the pad of paper, he bounded out of his chair, his eyes bright with excitement, his expression teetering just this side of bliss. “I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know why I thought it. I haven’t been able to think of anything. All these months, I’ve been trying and I haven’t had even a glimmer of an idea. And then I was sitting here talking to you and it came to me in a flash.”

“Dancing hamburgers.” Meg’s shoulders drooped. She wasn’t sure if she should be alarmed by the high color in Gabe’s cheeks and the excitement in his voice. Or disappointed that what had all the makings of an interesting encounter was suddenly over. When he spun around and headed for the door, disappointment won. Hands down.

“Where are you going?”

“Going?” Gabe’s body might be at the door of the dining room, but it was clear his mind was a million miles away. He turned, but only long enough to mumble, “Love Me Tender,” then he was gone. His voice trailed behind him when he hurried across the lobby and toward the winding stairs to the guest rooms. “Now that the juices are flowing, there’s no stopping them. I need more paper. And the piano. And…”

Meg had no idea how long she sat staring after him. The next thing she knew, Maisie was standing at her side.

Her grandmother smiled. “I’d say that went very well.”

“You think?” Meg got up from her chair and reached for the breakfast plates, stacking them carefully. “I’d say you owe me dinner, and if I’m picking the menu—”

“Dinner?” Maisie laughed. “No, no, dear. That was only if I lost. Only if he didn’t notice you. And in case you missed it, he noticed, all right. Big-time.”

“Yeah, until the dancing hamburgers showed up.” Meg made a face. Just when she was convinced that one evening with Gabriel Morrison was worth losing a bet for, she’d been rejected. Turned down. Overlooked. Ignored.

Ousted by dancing hamburgers.

“He did leave rather quickly.” As if she couldn’t believe it, Maisie studied the spot where a minute before, Gabe had been sitting. “Was he upset?”

“Not as far as I can tell.” Meg lifted a load of dishes into her arms and carried them to the kitchen. “He seemed happy as could be.”

“That means…” Maisie scurried ahead and held the kitchen door open.

“That means the experiment is over. Done.” Meg set down the dishes and reached for her apron. Once she had it on and tied, she opened the dishwasher and started loading. “Give up, Grandma. You’re going to have to admit that this is one instance in which you did not know better than everyone else.”

“Perhaps you’re right, dear.” The lobby phone rang and, shaking her head, Maisie hurried out of the kitchen to answer it. “Perhaps you’re right, after all.”

“Of course I’m right.” Meg finished with the dishes, added detergent, then slammed the dishwasher door closed. “I was right all along,” she mumbled. “I said he wasn’t going to notice, and he didn’t. Well, not for more than a few minutes. I said he wasn’t going to fall for the Meg-as-a-seductress act and he didn’t.” She punched the buttons and when the dishwasher started its cycle, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the counter, absently rubbing at the spot on her hand where Gabe’s fingers had brushed hers. The spot where the skin still felt tingly. And hot.

“He’s definitely not interested,” she told herself. “He’s got a lot of nerve.”

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