His Proposal, Their Forever. Melissa McClone
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rough skin. Not unexpected, given that she worked with chemicals. Up close, she was kind of pretty with her pink cheeks and full lips. She might look halfway decent cleaned up.
Bailey removed the bag from her shoulder. “I’m happy to provide copies of the contracts to prove rightful ownership of the art. I have the information right here.”
Paperwork? Crap. So much for her being delusional. The foundation mess in Seaside wasn’t looking so bad now. At least they’d finally completed that project and had a viable hotel in a desirable market. But if what she said was true, he and his sisters were in trouble. His parents would never let them run the company. Hell, his mom and dad would probably refuse to pay bail.
Time to regroup. Get Greg back with the truck. Call Paige to find out if this Cole woman’s story checked out. Justin glanced around but didn’t see any of the crew. He texted Wyatt.
“I’ll call the artists to pick up—”
Justin cut Bailey off. “The artwork will be back shortly.”
Her jaw jutted forward, hard as granite. “You do know that transporting stolen property across state lines carries additional charges.”
She might be an artist and the poster child for What Not to Wear, but this woman was no delicate flower swaying in the wind. She was a tree, solid and unmoving, firmly rooted in the earth, a sequoia. A good thing they had chain saws in the truck.
“The artwork is in Washington.” He hoped.
Sirens sounded. Blue and red lights flashed.
Good. The police would get her off the property—no chain saws needed—and his team could get back on schedule.
A young, tall uniformed officer got out of his police car and straightened his hat. He took long, purposeful strides toward them.
Justin smiled at the guy who would save his day.
The officer stopped on the walkway in front of the porch. His attention, including a narrowed gaze, focused solely on Bailey Cole. The woman must be a known troublemaker in town to receive such scrutiny from a cop.
“What the hell are you doing, Bailey? And what’s wrong with your foot?”
Justin noticed her knee was bent so her foot didn’t touch the porch. No wonder she’d wanted him to go after the dog.
“You’re not here to give me a hard time.” She stood. A grimace flashed across her face. “I’m not the one who called you. This guy did, even though he stole the artwork from the inn.”
The officer looked at Justin. “Is this true?”
Justin’s smile hardened at the edges. He should’ve known she’d try to pin this on him, but he needed to keep his voice respectful. “My company, McMillian Resorts, bought the inn from Floyd Jeffries. The contents of the inn were included in the property’s purchase. She’s trespassing.”
“What part of consignment don’t you understand?” Bailey’s hands returned to her hips, elbows pointed out. “The artists retain ownership and Floyd only received a commission if a piece sold. The artwork wasn’t his, so it couldn’t be included in the sale. Thus, it’s been stolen.”
The pursed lips returned, distracting Justin from her accusation. He needed to focus. She hadn’t called him a thief exactly, but she was walking the line. She was still on his property. Her violation was clear. They needed to move this along.
He glanced at the officer whose face looked skeptical. Strange, but the guy had similar coloring to Bailey. Dark hair and green eyes.
On the lawn, Justin’s crew gathered within listening distance. No sign of the dog. The donut or sandwich must have worked. Progress. Time for more.
“We can discuss the return of the art—if necessary—once she’s escorted off my property.” Justin might not know the whole story behind the gallery, but he trusted his sister to have negotiated a legally binding contract on the building and its contents.
“Not yet,” Bailey said. “I’m here to protect my property and the inn, Grady. His construction permit did not go through the historical society’s approval process.”
She knew this how? Justin looked from Bailey to the cop, noticed the “Cole” name tag on the officer’s chest.
“I’m Grady Cole. Bailey’s my sister. She knows more about the approval process than anybody in town except Floyd Jeffries.”
Siblings. This was not Justin’s day. No matter. This project was not going to hell on his watch.
The crew moved closer, cutting the distance in half from where they’d stood before. He couldn’t show any weakness or worry. Not in front of his guys.
“No problem.” Justin removed the paperwork from his back pocket. “I have a permit.”
“We’ll see.” Grady flipped through the forms, not once, but twice before frowning. “This permit is from Long Beach. The approvals, too.”
“Yes, that’s where I was told to go.” Justin’s headache throbbed. Holding back sarcasm was becoming harder. How long was this going to freaking take?
Bailey’s smile widened. If she’d been a cat, canary feathers would be hanging from the corners of her mouth.
A knot formed in Justin’s stomach. Crap. She knew something he didn’t. “I checked the paperwork myself. We’re good.”
“You used the Long Beach zip code, not the one for Haley’s Bay.” Grady returned the papers. “This permit isn’t valid. The town’s municipal office must be used for projects within the city limits. You’re also missing an approval stamp from the historical committee, since this property is on its registry.”
The knot wrapped around the donut Justin had eaten for breakfast. “No problem. Floyd told me to go to Long Beach to get the permit. I’ll head over to your town hall and get that and approvals right now.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s not that simple,” Grady said.
Warning lights flashed. A cement roller pressed against Justin’s chest. A vise squeezed his brain.
Bailey opened her mouth as if to speak.
He raised his hand, cutting her off. He didn’t want Miss Know-It-All telling him why his must-succeed project was grounded. He wanted her gone; more than that, he wanted her to tell him this was a giant misunderstanding and they could work it out in the next two hours. And then smile.
Not gonna happen. “Once I have the permits, I’ll be free to work on my property.”
“Not exactly, Mr. McMillian.” Her gaze remained on his, unwavering. More sure of herself with every passing minute, but maybe—if he wasn’t stretching it—she was sympathetic, too. “Broughton Inn is on the Federal Register of Historic Places.”
“I know. I also know private owners are not bound by any restrictions if they want to improve the property.”
“Not bound by restrictions only if federal money—grants—haven’t been attached to their property.” The confidence in her words matched the determined set of her chin.
The knot-entangled donut in his stomach turned to stone. He had spoken to the former inn owner, taken notes, confirmed each detail about what being on the historical register meant for improvements and teardowns. The ticking-clock time frame of Floyd Jeffries wanting to close the deal was looking suspect. “We were assured—”
“Floyd lied. You got taken, Mr. McMillian.” Bailey pulled out files from her bag and handed one to Justin. “If you don’t believe me, check these papers. They’ll prove federal and state monies are attached to the Broughton Inn. Some are old, before Floyd’s time as owner.”
Justin noticed his crew creeping closer to the porch. The men had cut the distance