Roxanne Rustand - Her Sister's Children

The woman shook her head and tapped the toe of her shoe against the floor. “When I called in June, I was promised the end cabin, as always. Check your book again.”

Claire dutifully rechecked the reservation book. “That one will be open tomorrow, but three does have a lovely view.”

A heavy, disapproving silence hung in the air. “We stayed in three once. My Henry, rest his soul, said the bed didn’t have enough support—” With a sharp intake of breath, Mrs. Rogers stepped backward, her eyes widening.

Apparently, she’d seen Igor. “Anything else?” Claire asked sweetly. A companion for your cabin, perhaps?

Handing the speechless woman a pen, Claire snagged a set of keys from the strip of Peg-Board on the wall and silently thanked Igor for cutting short a potential tirade. Until a month ago, Claire had fired irritating people. Now she had to smile at them.

It wasn’t easy.

After Mrs. Rogers backed out, key in hand, Claire lifted a bag of blueberry potpourri from a shelf above the desk, but decided that the delicate fragrance wouldn’t have a chance against the raw scent of cologne still clouding the air. Frowning, she opened the three windows behind the claw-foot oak table, then watched the lacy white curtains dance high on the incoming breeze. The children deserved a clean, cheerful home, not one smelling like a nightclub at midnight.

She glanced over her shoulder at the clock above the stove. Two-thirty. Just enough time to finish cleaning the last cabin before meeting the school bus at the resort entrance.

For a moment, an image of the children’s smiling faces and eager chatter warmed her heart. Maybe this time one of the kids would give her a hug. But Claire knew there was a greater chance for an August blizzard. The twins’ subdued, sad-eyed compliance and their brother’s veiled hostility hadn’t changed since she’d picked them up in Minneapolis last month and brought them north. Brooke’s will had given Claire the resort and custody of the children, but no legal document could guarantee an easy adjustment.

A second sharp knock at the door startled Claire. Another pleasant guest, no doubt.

She gave the snake a stern glance. “Stay!”

Motionless, with approximately the same dimensions and personality as a small pile of men’s underwear, Igor stared back at her. He looked unimpressed.

Summoning her best innkeeper’s smile, Claire lifted her chin and turned toward the door. A tall, broad-shouldered man in faded jeans and an ancient Nike T-shirt stood outside. His buff-colored jacket had the scent of fine leather. Backlit by bright af ternoon sun, his features were cast in shadow, but Claire had an eerie feeling she had met him before. A shiver raced down her spine.

“Yes?” She moved a half step closer and looked up into the stranger’s face.

Only he was no stranger.

Her heart stopped. Her breath caught raggedly in her throat. Logan. The past fourteen years had hardened the youthful beauty of his features, adding breadth and power to his elegant body. His hair had darkened to deep, sun-streaked caramel, but there was no mistaking those seductive deep blue eyes. Her pulse raced. Her knees wobbled. He was everything she’d remembered, only much, much more.

But this man was as safe as a plateful of nightshade or a midnight stroll in Central Park. He’d been the object of her first adolescent crush, then become the creature of her youthful nightmares.

And he had nearly destroyed her sister’s life.

Suddenly aware she was staring, Claire lowered her eyelashes. She felt momentarily unable to speak. What did one say to the devil himself? And why on earth was he here?

The silence lengthened, grew awkward. After taking a steadying breath, she lifted her gaze and caught his expression of supreme frustration. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” The boyish charm and humor of years past were gone, leaving a man who could glare the snarl off a rottweiler. “All I need is information. Can I come in for a minute?”

Claire considered the options of firmly dismissing him, or slamming the door in his face. The latter would be infinitely more satisfying, but—

Taking advantage of her brief hesitation, he reached out, opened the screen door and strode into the kitchen.

Claire pulled herself together—fast—and snatched the receiver from the phone on the desk. Her finger punched the first number of 911 before she had the receiver halfway to her ear.

Logan reached out, but she slid away and punched the second number. “Back off,” she snapped.

He looked at her in surprise and held out his hands, palms up. “I was going to shake hands and introduce myself. Are you always this edgy, lady?” He managed a damn good expression of innocence.

“Of course not. People don’t barge into my house every day.”

“Believe me, I’m no threat.” His voice was calm and low, with the quiet reassurance one might use with a frightened child.

Claire’s finger hovered over the last number. “Make one more move and I finish this call. The sheriff will respond whether I say a word or not.”

“No need.” He stepped away and slowly turned. The tension in his body seemed to dissipate as he studied the antiques and small paintings adorning the lace-curtained room. “Someone has been busy,” he said with a trace of bitterness. “Brooke was never one for the warm-and-welcoming look. I’m Logan Matthews, her first husband. All I need is the address and phone number of her executor.”

Claire stared at him. He doesn’t recognize me. Of course, fourteen years ago she’d been a child in pigtails and cutoffs, and the effects of her passion for French fries and hot fudge had been all too obvious. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve had remarkably bad luck trying to contact members of her family in New York and Minneapolis.” Logan ran a gentle hand over the surface of the old oak cupboards, as if reliving a memory. “My lawyer’s calls haven’t been returned and my letters came back unopened. Not twenty minutes ago, her mother’s housekeeper hung up on me for the third time.”

“Must have been your gracious manner,” Claire muttered under her breath, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that Brooke’s children were the product of her second marriage. Once Claire got Matthews out of her kitchen, she would never have to see him again. “Surely you can’t think you were mentioned in the will.”

He gave her a look of complete disgust. “Of course not. But Brooke died owning something that belongs in my family.” He looked away and hesitated, as if considering how much to say. “She won this half of Pine Cliff in our divorce settlement. She’d always hated the place, yet she refused to sell her half back to me at any price.”

Claire lowered the phone to her side, feeling continued reassurance in its cool surface under her fingertips. “There must be other properties you could buy that are in much better condition.”

He moved across the room to the trio of windows overlooking Lake Superior. Bracing one arm high on a window frame, he silently stared out at the waves. Claire studied him in the bright sunlight. He had the face of an angel, but she knew his heart and soul belonged a lot farther south.

“I inherited this place from my grandmother years ago,” he said at last. “I just want a chance to buy it back.”

The faint note of underlying pain could not have come from him. Not unless he’d decided to gain her sympathy. She remembered Brooke’s tearful stories of how deceptive he’d been, how callous. But Claire was not the breezy, naive girl her sister had been. If he thought he could manipulate Claire Worth, he was dead wrong. She marshaled her coldest, most businesslike tone. “I’m her executor. Pine Cliff is not for sale.”