Compromising Positions. Kate Hoffmann
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this letter from Miss Farnsworth gifting the bed to our museum.”
“It’s not hers to give away,” Sam said. “That bed has been in my family for generations and it’s coming back where it belongs.”
She studied him for a long moment, like a fighter evaluating her opponent. “And you are?”
“Sam Blackstone.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve read the bed’s provenance. You sold the antique to Abigail. I’m afraid I didn’t see that you’d purchased it back. There would have been paperwork, no?”
Sam let his gaze drift over her beautiful features. “My grandfather, also named Samuel Blackstone, sold the bed. Let’s just call Abigail and find out what she thinks.”
“I doubt that would solve anything,” Jerry said. “She seems to be legally obligated to both of you.”
“Who had the first claim?” Sam asked. He held out his letter and compared it to Amelia Sheffield’s. “I do.”
“But wouldn’t this be like a will?” Amelia asked. “In that case, the last draft supersedes all others and my letter would be the valid document.”
“I’m not going to be the one to decide this,” Jerry said. “For now we’ll take the bed to a secure storage facility, along with the other disputed pieces of furniture, and figure this out later.”
“That’s unacceptable,” Amelia said. “We’re counting on this piece for an exhibit that opens next week. The day after President’s Day.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Sam said.
“Will you just...go away? I need this bed and it’s mine by right.”
“Not a chance. You think I’m just going to give up because you’ve got a nice smile and a sexy voice?”
She gasped. “What did you say?”
“Oh, don’t pretend to be shocked. I saw you checking me out earlier. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that you’re attracted to me.”
“Attracted to you? Has anyone ever told you that you’re delusional?”
Sam chuckled. He usually wasn’t this bold with a woman but he needed to keep Amelia Sheffield off balance. She was a threat, to his business and to centuries-old tradition. And he was enjoying flirting with her.
It didn’t take her long to return the volley and they continued to throw verbal hand grenades until a small crowd had gathered around them. Finally Minerva Threadwell stepped forward. Sam groaned as she pulled out her notepad. Minerva was editor of the local newspaper and her husband, Wilbur, ran the local radio station. They were the king and queen of Millhaven gossip.
“I understand there’s a dispute over the ownership of the George Washington bed,” Minerva said. “Would either of you care to comment?”
“No,” Sam said.
At the same time Amelia said, “Yes, I would. My name is Amelia Sheffield and I am from the Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts. Our attorneys have looked over the gift letter quite carefully and they assure me that everything is completely in order. The bed will be going to our museum in Boston.”
Minerva turned to Sam, an inquisitive look on her face.
“No comment,” he muttered.
“We’ll hold on to it for now until this can be resolved,” Jerry said.
Sam waited until the movers had shifted the bed from the Mapother trailer into one of the moving vans, then gave them very specific instructions to treat it carefully. As he climbed into his truck, he took a last look back and saw her leaning against the Lexus, her arms crossed over her chest.
Sam took a ragged breath. He felt exactly as he had the day he’d been out hiking along the cliffs overlooking the Hudson and the rock beneath his feet had sheared off. In a split second his life had flashed before his eyes and he’d been sure that he was about to tumble into the abyss. At the last moment he’d stumbled back and away from the edge.
It was the same sensation now, as if he’d managed to escape from some terrible danger.
Amelia Sheffield was too beautiful, too sophisticated, and exactly the kind of woman he found intriguing.
“Walk away, Sam,” he murmured. “Just walk away.”
* * *
“I’M GOING TO have to stay here until I’ve removed the roadblock,” Amelia said, leaning against the driver’s-side door of the SUV. “The minute I leave town, this guy is going to take that bed, I know it. And they say, possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“This is not an important piece,” her boss, Vivian Brown, said. “Can you afford to be out of the office?”
“I can work from the road for a few days,” Amelia told her. “You won’t need me on-site until setup. I have everything here on my computer, so give me a chance. I don’t want to let this go.”
Vivian sighed. “I hired you because of your tenacity. I suppose that’s why I ought to let you see this through. You’re like a bulldog. You never give up.”
“Arf?” Amelia replied.
Vivian chuckled. “Stay as long as you need to. It seems I want that bed as much as you do now.”
“Thank you,” Amelia said. “I’ll get it. I promise.”
She disconnected the call and breathed a sigh of relief.
Her boss was right. The bed wasn’t an important piece. It was not as if it had been designed especially for George Washington or that it had resided at Mount Vernon. It was just an old bed that Washington had slept in on occasion.
She frowned, remembering Sam Blackstone’s accusation that she was attracted to him. Was she simply looking for a reason to extend her stay? She could go back to Boston and let the lawyers deal with it.
No, that man had picked a fight and Amelia wouldn’t back down. There was too much riding on this job. Her future, her security; the chance to make her own choices in life.
She hadn’t always possessed such an independent streak. As the only child of a notable Boston Brahmin family, she’d been carefully groomed to be sweet and compliant, the kind of girl who would grow up to marry well and transfer the family fortune to an equally wealthy family who would preserve it for future generations.
She’d host luncheons and cocktail parties, she’d bear clever and handsome children, she’d serve on the boards of at least three charitable foundations and she’d see her children married well, too. It had taken her nearly twenty-two years to realize that she wasn’t really a person at all, but a prize.
She’d had the traditional education for a girl of her station: a private, all-girls day school, four years at Miss Porter’s, then an art history degree from Sarah Lawrence. Though it had been a good education, it had also been a case study in maintaining the chastity of a naïve young girl. The first time she’d even touched a boy she’d been thirteen and taking dance lessons for her tea dance at the club.
She’d led such a silly life as a teenager, paraded around in a white gown and gloves, her hair sprayed until it barely moved, a smile pasted on her face to indicate she was having fun. Inside she’d felt as though she was on display for all the mothers to judge: Amelia Gardner Sheffield, heiress in search of a husband. Only blue bloods need apply.
And she’d followed her parents’ plan almost all the way to the altar before she’d realized she was capable of making her own decisions.
Since she’d walked out on her engagement, she’d been determined to make a success of herself without her family’s intervention. She’d managed to get the job at the museum without any promises besides hard work and dedication. It was only after she’d been hired that she’d mentioned