A Princess for Christmas. Shirley Jump
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the problem. You’re going to be thirty this year, Jake. Don’t you ever wonder what life would be like if you had one?”
“Had one what?”
“A life. Outside of that.” Will waved at the PDA and laptop. “Inanimate objects aren’t the most affectionate beings on the planet, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Jake scowled and ignored Will. He’d had what Will was talking about once before—had even expected by this age to be going home to a wife, just as his best friend did at the end of the day.
But fate had another future in mind. And Jake wasn’t about to risk that kind of pain again. Once was enough.
“All I’m saying,” Will persisted, “is that it’s Christmas and it might be nice if you gave yourself a present this year.”
“No one buys themselves gifts on Christmas. Or at least they’re not supposed to.”
“I meant a present. A life outside of work. Someone to wake up to.” Will leaned forward and waited until Jake’s gaze met his. “You had that once. And it sure would be nice to see you that happy again. Real nice.” Will got out of the car and shut the door.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jake muttered to the closed door. “That kind of happiness doesn’t happen twice.” And he went back to where he found peace.
In those inanimate objects that didn’t leave him. And didn’t die.
CHAPTER THREE
“HE’S back,” Carmen said, tugging on Mariabella’s sleeve.
Mariabella turned away from the customer she was talking to, and saw the stranger from earlier cross by her front windows. Not him again.
She’d hoped she’d made her feelings clear this morning. Between that, and Savannah’s refusal to sell, the man should have let by now, realizing his “investments” weren’t welcome in Harborside.
Apparently, he was a slow learner.
“Carmen, can you help this lady find a painting for over her sofa?” Mariabella said, gesturing to the middle-aged woman beside her, who had entered the gallery just a few minutes earlier. “She is looking for something with tones of rose and cream.”
“Certainly. Right this way,” Carmen said, pointing toward the second room of the gallery. “We have some singularly cool sunsets that I think will be perfect for what you want.”
“Wonderful!” the customer exclaimed. “I have this huge blank wall in the great room just crying out for something spectacular.”
Carmen grinned. “If you want spectacular, you’ve come to the right place.”
The woman followed Carmen into the next room, the two of them chatting about the exquisite sunsets each had seen in Harborside, while Mariabella headed out of the gallery and in the direction she’d seen the stranger go earlier.
She didn’t see him. But she did see a long, black limousine parked across the street, in the public parking lot.
His, she was sure.
The driver sat behind the wheel, sedate and patient. Probably bored out of his mind, waiting on Mr. Investment to finish his fruitless quest for real estate.
“Mariabella!”
She turned at the sound of the familiar voice. “Miss Louisa. How are things with you?”
The older lady hurried over to Mariabella, her portly dachshund tottering at her feet, his four legs struggling to walk underneath the thick red Santa coat Louisa Brant had buckled around the long, short-haired dog. “Have you heard the latest? About that man trying to buy up our property?”
“I have. And I am not selling.”
“I was thinking about it. You know how I hate the winters here. It sure would be nice to retire in Florida. Take me and my little George here down to a sunny little place for the rest of our days.” She let out a long sigh, and clasped her thick wool coat tighter, as if just the thought had her feeling winter’s chill a little more.
“If you do, who would head the women’s tea every New Year?”
Louisa patted Mariabella’s hand. “Now, dear, you know that’s hardly my doing at all. You’re the one who takes care of all of us in this town. Why you’re practically a one-woman organizing dynamo. I don’t know how little Harborside existed before you came along. You’ve got us holding dances, and teas, and summer regattas and all kinds of things. This place has become a regular hotbed of activity.” Louisa laughed. “Or maybe a hot water bottle, considering how tiny we are.”
Mariabella smiled. “I am not doing this alone. I have a lot of help.”
“Every spear has a point, you know.” Louisa’s dog gave a tug on the leash, straining toward the park on the other side of the street. “Well, I must be going.”
“Miss Louisa—”
The older woman turned back. “Yes, dear?”
“Promise me you’ll talk to me before you consider selling to that man. We businesses in Harborside have to stick together. Surely, as a group, we’ll be fine.”
Louisa smiled, but her smile shook a little. “Of course, dear.”
Then she was gone, the dachshund’s tail wagging happily. He seemed to be the only one pleased with the way the conversation had ended.
Mariabella redoubled her determination to rid Harborside of this interloper. As long as he was here, people would continue to be upset and worried about their futures. Louisa loved her shop and had never mentioned retiring before today. Once this stranger was gone, everyone would calm down again and business would return to normal. She returned her attention to his limo, and to the license plate.
Okay, so now she knew two things. He was wealthy. And he was from out of town, but not so far that the distance couldn’t be driven. She hurried down the sidewalk and peered around a telephone pole at the limo’s license plates.
New York. She started memorizing the numbers, intending to call Reynaldo and have him—
“Checking me out?”
Mariabella jumped at the sound of his voice, and pivoted back. The man stood a mere two feet behind her, close enough that she could see the shades of cobalt flecked with gold in his eyes. See the sharp angle of his jaw, catch the woodsy scent of his cologne. Notice him three times more than she had earlier today.
But not be affected one iota. At all.
“Yes.” Damn. She hated having to admit that to him. He’d startled her and she couldn’t come up with another excuse.
“I’m no criminal, I assure you, and I have only the best intentions.”
“Depends on who you ask, and how you interpret your intentions.”
A smirk raised one side of his lips. “Touché.”
She glanced back over her shoulder at the limo, trying again to memorize the numbers on the license plate. If this man wasn’t going to tell her who he was or why he was here, she would find out for herself.
“Planning on playing detective?” he asked, reading her mind.
“No.” Mariabella was not much better at lying than she was with idioms, and a flush filled her cheeks.
“I’ll save you the trouble of bothering the local police chief. Not that he seems to have much to do in a town this size.” The man reached into his suit jacket, withdrew a slim silver case and produced a business card. “Jacob Lattimore, CEO of Lattimore Properties.”
She took the embossed white linen card. It was simple and clean, giving only a New York address and an office telephone number. Nothing that told her who he was,