His Proposal, Their Forever. Melissa McClone
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He softened his voice. “Can I help you?”
A jade-green gaze locked on his. Wow. Talk about a gorgeous color. Her warm, expressive eyes made him think of springtime.
“I’m looking for Floyd.” Her voice rose at the end; her words weren’t a question but had a hint of uncertainty.
Hell. She must not know about Floyd selling out. Not Justin’s problem. Eyes aside, he didn’t know why he kept looking at her. Clothes, hair, demeanor. Not his type didn’t begin to describe what was wrong with the woman.
A brown dog barked and ran figure-eight patterns around the bulldozer and crane. Where had the animal come from?
“Oh, no. That poor dog is so skinny.” Her compassion surprised Justin. “Catch him. He looks like he’s starving.”
Oh, man. The guys still ribbed him for the time he shut down a demo for a missing ferret. Stupid thing took five and a half hours to find.
“Please,” she said, her eyes clouding.
Demands and a plea. Tropical-storm-strength pressure built behind his forehead. Easy jobs must be handed to worthier men. “Have you seen the dog before?”
“No.” Her gaze remained on the animal. The dog ran around and barked. “But I don’t see a collar. Could be a stray. Or lost.”
Justin wasn’t about to chase the dog on open ground, but he couldn’t have the thing running around the site inside the safety fencing. That would be too dangerous.
He glanced at Wyatt, who stood on the grass between the porch and the equipment. “Give the dog a leftover donut.”
“No chocolate.” The words exploded from her mouth like a cannonball. Worry reflected in her eyes. “That’s bad for dogs.”
Justin didn’t know that. He’d never had a dog or any kind of pet. His parents allowed guests to bring dogs and cats to the hotels, but had never let their children have an animal, not even a goldfish.
“Fine. Nothing chocolate. A sandwich, maybe,” he said to Wyatt. Justin wanted to get back to work. These stupid delays were killing him. “Then get the dog out of here.”
While he got rid of the woman. A McMillian team effort. That was the way things got done at their company. Each person did his or her part. The effort led to success. But when one didn’t do what was expected, like his ex-wife, the result was failure.
He faced the woman. “Where were we?”
“Floyd Jeffries. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Belize.”
Her nose crinkled. “Floyd never mentioned a vacation.”
“Floyd might not share his personal life with customers.”
“I’m not a customer.” She raised her chin. “I’m his partner in the gallery.”
Gallery. Justin’s headache ramped into a cyclone. That explained the artwork on its way to Oregon, the splattered coveralls and Green Eyes’ odd smells. “You’re an artist.”
“Painter.” She gave him a strange look. “If Floyd’s away, what are you doing here?”
“I’m the inn’s new owner.”
She flinched as if his words punched her. No clown makeup was needed to make her eyes look bigger. Any larger and they would be twins to her gaping mouth. The caricature was complete. All she needed was a dialogue bubble over her head to star in her own comic strip.
She took half a step back. “Floyd sold the inn?”
“We recently closed on the deal.”
“Where’s the artwork?” Her words shot out as if catapulted. “The textiles, paintings, sculptures?”
“Gone.”
Her face morphed into a look of horror, a worst-news-ever-face. “Where?”
The raw emotion in the one word drew him forward. She looked desperate. Of course she was. Junk or not, the art pieces he’d seen must have taken hundreds of hours to make. If someone made off with a set of his blueprints that took half that long, he’d go ballistic. Ridiculing the woman no longer seemed cool. If anything, he wanted to give her a hug.
He forced himself not to step closer. He...couldn’t. She was a stranger, a nuisance. “The inn’s contents were part of the purchase agreement.”
She bit her lip. Trying to decide what to say, or buy time? For what, he didn’t know. She blinked, then wiped her eyes.
She’d better not, not, not cry. His sisters always pulled that stunt. His ex-wife, too. Taryn had blamed him for their marriage failing, saying he loved his work more than her. She hadn’t understood that his job paid for everything, including their house, her shopping sprees and the numerous trips she took to Portland and Seattle while he was away at a site.
His sympathy well was drained. Not a drop of compassion remained. No way would he let this woman manipulate him. Time to send overwrought clown lady on her way. He handed her his business card.
“Talk to Floyd. Call my office for his contact information.” Justin’s voice sounded distant, unemotional, as intended. “You need to leave now so we can get back to work.”
She grabbed the porch rail, gave him a this-isn’t-over look, then sat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Of course not.
Justin should have known she wouldn’t make this easy, but a one-person sit-in? “We have a schedule to keep. It’s time for you to go.”
“You can rephrase your request over and over again, but my answer will be the same. I’m not letting you touch the inn, let alone destroy the second-oldest building in Haley’s Bay.”
Attitude poured from the woman as easy as milk from a carton. Too bad hers was sour. “I’ve called the police.”
Neither her gaze nor her facial expression wavered. If he wasn’t on the receiving end of her stare, he might have been impressed by her backbone.
“Good.” That attitude of hers wasn’t letting up. “Because you’re stealing.”
Justin laughed. The woman had nerve. He had to give her that. “I have a contract.”
“So do I. You may have bought the inn, but not the rest.”
“Okay, I’ll bite.”
“The artwork doesn’t belong to Floyd or the inn. He sold the pieces on consignment for local artists like me.”
“The inn’s contents belong to us per the deal—”
“The artists had contracts. Nontransferrable contracts.”
She talked faster as if her nerves were getting to her, and her words were making him wonder what the hell was going on here.
“I see the Oregon plates on your equipment. I hope whatever truck you were loading earlier isn’t headed across the bridge toward Astoria.” She leveled him with a stare. “Given the value of the artwork, the theft qualifies as a class-B felony. But I’m sure the police can place blame where it’s due and make the necessary arrests.”
The woman could be telling the truth or she might be delusional. Could this be nothing more than a ruse to stop the demolition? “Floyd never mentioned the art didn’t belong to the inn.”
“Due diligence, Mr....?”
“Justin McMillian.” Her vocabulary told him she knew something about business. Her know-it-all manner annoyed him like the sound of nails on concrete, but her point made his hope sink. Had Paige cut corners in a rush to get the deal closed? Their parents had put so much pressure on them it was...possible. He held out his arm to shake hands. “McMillian Resorts. And you are?”
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