It's a Wonderful Wife (3 page)

His chest tightening with some indefinable emotion, Jesse reached out and gently ran a finger along the tiny roofline that rose like a deep ocean wave just about to crest. The house was so much more than he had envisioned—more beautiful, stunning, organic, so . . . perfect.

But how was that possible? How could an unassuming architect hidden in a remote Maine town, with only a two-hour discussion and half a dozen emails asking Jesse to elaborate on something from their meeting, design a home which shouted—no, unpretentiously whispered—that this particular configuration of concrete and steel and glass, sitting on this particular bluff, was the heart and very soul of Jesse Sinclair?

Either Stanley Kerr was a genius or the man had a pact with the devil.

No; not even the devil himself could have—

“What
is
that noise?”

Startled out of his spell, Jesse turned to see an elderly woman frowning up at the ceiling as she stood in the doorway of the front office. “Does anyone else hear that banging and squeaking mixed in with the music?” she asked no one in particular.

“Sounds to me like there's already a party going on up there,” a man said as people started spilling back into the lobby.

Jesse looked toward the open door leading upstairs while listening along with everyone else, and finally realized that embedded in the blaring music—which he recognized as Wagner's
Tannhäuser
—was the rhythmic thump and accompanying squeak of . . .

Christ, those were
bedsprings
. His chest tightening again, this time with the realization that Cadi Glace's day was about to go from crappy to devastating, Jesse started toward the stairs only to stop when the music suddenly stopped.

The thumping and squeaking, with labored breathing and soft moans now clearly audible, continued on for several heartbeats before ending abruptly with a startled feminine shriek and male shout of surprise. Jesse looked over to see the peanut gallery frozen in place, every last one of them staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. He started forward again just as a succinct, distinctly male curse echoed down the stairway, but stopped with his foot on the bottom step when the same man growled, “Paula, get me out of these damn cuffs! Jesus, Mark, help her!”

The ceiling shook when what sounded like several people suddenly sprang into action, the footsteps accompanied by male and female voices muttering curses—not one of those voices sounding as though it belonged to Miss Glace.

Jesse was just starting up the stairs again when she suddenly appeared at the top, her face pale but for the two flags of red darkening her cheeks and her expression completely unreadable. Uncertain how involved to get in something that was absolutely none of his business, Jesse backed away when she calmly started down toward him, deciding to stay out of it unless things got physical. Well, if
Stanley
got physical. But if Miss Glace felt like taking a swing at the stupid bastard, Jesse sure as hell wasn't stopping her.

“Cadi!” Stanley shouted, sounding like he was trying to put on his pants while hopping after her. “Dammit, Cadi, don't leave. Let me explain!”

She exited the stairway only to suddenly stop and blink in surprise, as if she'd forgotten everyone was there.

“Cadi, what's going on?” an equally pale-faced woman whispered.

“Who all is up there?” another woman asked. “What did you see?”

Seriously? They hadn't figured it out? No, the men had, Jesse realized when he noticed every last one of them staring down at their feet.

The whole building shook again when a small herd of footsteps came tromping down the stairs. “Cadi!” Stanley shouted as he burst into the room, the arm contorted over his head trying to find the sleeve of his shirt being hampered by the handcuffs dangling from his wrist. Stanley jerked to a barefooted halt when he saw everyone, only to be knocked forward when three . . . no, four . . . no,
five
people in various states of undress came barreling out of the stairway behind him to the collective gasp of the female portion of the peanut gallery.

The townsmen merely remained mute and motionless, but instead of staring at their feet were now eyeing Stanley's party guests—most likely focused on one of the ladies in particular, who was wearing a tight leather corset under a partially buttoned man's shirt. But Jesse would bet
two
years' salary it was the hot pink dildo strapped to her pelvis that really had their attention.

“What are all you people doing here?” Stanley snarled, still wrestling with his shirt while also trying to keep his unfastened jeans from falling down.

The woman who had been carrying the pot of chowder earlier, her face the color of cooked lobster, strode up to the counter and flipped open the pastry box, pulled out the ruined cake, and held it up for him to see. “Gee, Stanley, I can't imagine why your
fiancée
would sneak all your friends in here today of all days.”

Speaking of Miss Glace, Jesse scanned the room looking for her.

“Happy birthday, you no-good, cheating pervert!” the woman added in a shout, winding back and hurling the cake at him.

Stanley managed to duck enough that it only hit his shoulder, sending chunks of cake flying toward his fellow perverts as they also ducked to avoid being hit. But Miss Pink Penis, apparently too short to see it coming, took a large piece of cake directly to the face, which sent her stumbling back with a shriek of surprise, her flailing arms taking two of her buddies with her.

And Jesse could only helplessly watch as all three of them slammed into Hundred Acre Isle, upending the chairs it was sitting on and exposing a second, larger-scaled model sitting on the floor beneath it—giving him a quick glimpse of his beautiful house before both models were crushed under the weight of the woman and two men landing on them.

Stanley abandoned his shirt with a muttered curse and turned to help untangle his friends from the mess of splintered wood, plaster, and dried modeling clay. “Are you hurt, Paula? Mark? Jason, your arm is bleeding. Why don't you guys go upstairs, and I'll be up in a minute.” He waited until they started up the stairs, the man named Mark with his arm around the sobbing Paula as she pulled tiny trees out of her hair, then rounded on his utterly silent audience. “Jesus, Beatrice, there's no need to get violent.”

“Don't you go cussing at me, Stanley Kerr,” Beatrice snapped. “You're the one carrying on like a godless heathen with no regard for your sweet, loving fiancée.”

“This is between Cadi and me.” Stanley angrily gestured behind him. “And if you're so worried about her feelings, think about the fact that you just caused three months of her work to be destroyed. I've never known Cadi to be more excited about a client seeing one of her models, and now she has nothing to show Mr. Sinclair when he gets here Friday.”

“Actually, Mr. Sinclair is here now,” Jesse said, smiling tightly when Stanley turned to him in horror. “And I don't know if any of you noticed, but Miss Glace is not.”

THREE

Jesse turned into the grocery store parking lot in Castle Cove just as the sun was setting. He pulled to the far end of the lot and shut off the engine with a tired sigh, then sat staring out the windshield at the whitecaps frothing beyond the breakwater that protected the small fleet of recreational and working boats crowded inside the small harbor. He couldn't see Hundred Acre Isle from this vantage point, but his contractor had assured him the well and septic system, generator, and gravel pad for the camper were all in place.

And even though he knew his own mood probably wasn't even close to what Cadi Glace must be feeling right about now, he was more than ready to crack open a cold beer and see the ass-end of this crappy day.

Two seconds; all he'd gotten was a two-second glimpse of the larger-scale model of his beautiful house before it had been crushed beyond recognition. And feeling it really wasn't appropriate to hang around and ask to see the plans, considering everyone—Stanley included—had been worried about Miss Glace, Jesse had waited only long enough to learn she hadn't run down to the pier and jumped in the ocean. Her response to Beatrice's text message asking where she was had said she was fine and wished to be alone. A second text had arrived after Beatrice had asked if she would like a ride home, in which Miss Glace had reiterated she was fine and promised to call tomorrow. A third text had said she was shutting off her phone.

Cadi was a levelheaded woman, Beatrice had assured Jesse as they'd stood on the sidewalk watching the silent exodus of shocked townsfolk, and she wasn't at all worried her friend would do anything crazy. The petite, sixtyish owner of the gift shop/hardware/feed store had also apologized for causing his models to be destroyed and promised she'd apologize to Cadi the moment she saw her. She'd then glared at the upstairs windows and gone on to assure Jesse that everyone in town would help Cadi through this ordeal, just as they had fourteen months ago when the poor girl had walked into the office one morning to find her father slumped over his drafting table, his body long cold.

Yeah, well, her friends might not think she'd do anything crazy, but Jesse figured Miss Glace wouldn't be in any hurry to call 911 if Glace & Kerr Architecture were to suddenly catch fire, either. Hell, considering it had been the scene of two recent heartbreaks, he wouldn't be surprised to hear the woman had set a match to the building, opened all the windows, and walked away just like she had her car.

Damn. Did Stanley keep copies of works in progress at home, or at least backup his computer to a cloud or off-site storage device? For that matter, did he even use a computer for drafting? Wait; maybe Miss Glace had a set of his plans. She'd brought clay with her today, which implied she fabricated the models at home.

The same home she shared with Stanley and would be in no hurry to return to?

Jesse pulled the key out of the ignition, grabbed the folded piece of paper out of the cubby on the dash, and got out of the truck, deciding he must be more tired than he realized to be letting his imagination run wild. A levelheaded woman did not torch a building simply because she'd walked in on her fiancé carrying on like a “godless heathen.”

Apparently Whistler's Landing didn't have many opera enthusiasts; not if they thought Stanley was painstakingly drafting detailed house plans whenever he locked the door and played Wagner's decidedly rapturous
Tannhäuser
. And they truly must spend their time listening to police scanners instead of watching television, considering how long it had taken them—well, at least the women—to guess what had been going on upstairs. Although to be fair, it hadn't been until he'd heard all the footsteps that Jesse had realized it was a full-blown orgy.

He walked down the length of the camper, momentarily stopping to inspect the tires, then continued around the back and up the other side, making sure none of the thousand potholes he hadn't been able to avoid had done any damage. Seeing nothing more than a good amount of road dust on the ditch-side tires, he unfolded the paper and scanned the grocery list his cook had handed him before he'd left Rosebriar.

He couldn't help but grin, remembering Sonya packing boxes with dishes and various cooking paraphernalia for the camper while giving him a lecture on eating nutritious meals, which she'd ended by threatening to have Peg—Rosebriar's former cook, who had followed Sam to Keelstone Cove and subsequently opened her own restaurant—drive over an hour down the coast to make sure Jesse's cupboards weren't filled with junk food.

He'd told the motherly woman he hoped Peg brought along a boat.

Jesse frowned when he spotted the unfamiliar handwriting on the bottom of the list, then snorted when he realized who it belonged to. It would appear the ever-interesting Miss Glace had passed her time waiting for the firemen to finish putting her car out of its misery by snooping through his truck, and had added
large pot of honey
to his grocery list.

Not the least bit apologetic for where his mind started heading—he was a man, after all—Jesse wondered how long it might take a woman to get over such a public humiliation, as well as how long before she might consider dating again. Because instead of stealing occasional visits to the island this summer like he'd planned, maybe he'd work on clearing his calendar when he got back to the office. Hell, if Sam and Ben could have the corporate jet shuttle them back and forth for meetings they needed to attend in person, he might as well begin his own ritual of commuting to work at the speed of sound.

And when he returned next month, he should probably pay Miss Glace a visit.

No, he'd better get back here in two weeks, just in case some of the local men also realized those sparkling blue eyes and delightful curves were suddenly available. Yeah; surely two weeks was enough time for an intelligent woman to decide that today's little disaster had probably saved her from a lifetime of crappy days.

As for Stanley Kerr . . . well, he hoped the stupid bastard knew a good model-building firm if he couldn't sweet-talk his
ex
-fiancée into recreating the ones that had been destroyed, because Jesse knew for a fact the check paying for them had already cleared the bank. He stuffed the grocery list in his pocket with another tired sigh, deciding to grab a frozen pizza and cold six-pack of beer and leave the rest of his shopping for the morning. But he stopped in mid-stuff, his fatigue suddenly vanishing when he spotted two deflated balloons dangling from the bottom of the camper door.

Well, this was . . . interesting. In his line of business, sneaking onboard a vessel to get from point A to point B was a serious crime. Hell, it could even be fatal. And despite Abram Sinclair knowing firsthand the risks people were willing to take to get ahead in this world, the international shipping company the old wolf had started nearly five decades ago with nothing more than a thousand dollars and a fondness for taking outrageous risks had purposefully garnered a reputation for not tolerating stowaways.

Shanghaiing a person like they had Willa's brother-in-law three years ago, however, was perfectly acceptable if it happened to be a Sinclair putting the idiot on a slow boat to Italy.

Was Miss Glace right now hiding in the closet, listening to see if he was going to enter the camper or go directly to the store? But Jesse suddenly bolted for the door at the realization there was an equally good chance she was passed out cold from hitting her head on something during any one of the times he'd dodged a monstrous pothole.

He vaulted inside without bothering to lower the steps and immediately tripped over the huge purse sitting just inside the door, his curse lost in the sharp pops of bursting balloons as he fell and nearly slammed his own head into the kitchen island counter. He cursed again when he spotted his stowaway lying faceup on the floor in the narrow space between two of the camper's retracted slide-outs, and he quickly scrambled to his feet.

“Cadi, are you okay?” he asked, dropping to his knees beside her.

“I will be just as soon as this stupid camper stops moving,” she said tightly, not opening her eyes as Jesse carefully brushed the curls off her forehead looking for bumps or blood.

Damn; she had to be concussed if she thought the camper was still moving. “Where are you hurt? Did you hit your head?” he asked, gently lifting one of her eyelids.

Both beautiful blue eyes snapped open as she jerked away. “I'm not hurt.”

Jesse sat back on his heels. “Then why are you lying on the floor?”

She looked around as if to confirm she indeed was on the floor, then went back to scowling at him. “Because it's impossible to lie on the bed or couch of a moving camper,” she said, turning her scowl on the couch beside her. “I know because I kept getting bounced off before I finally smartened up and just stayed on the floor.”

“What are you doing here, Cadi?” Jesse asked as he fought a grin, already knowing the answer but curious to hear hers—only to be surprised when he did.

“Isn't it obvious? I'm getting drunk,” she said, lifting her hand on the side away from him to expose the empty wine bottle clutched in her fist—which explained the pale pink spots on the front of her shirt. “I don't have a car anymore, so I don't have to worry about drinking and driving. And I
thought
hitching a ride in your camper would be a good way to leave town.” She dropped her hand and closed her eyes on a soft groan. “They don't need to keep building bigger and scarier roller coasters; they just have to load people up in a camper and haul them over a hilly, crooked Maine road.”

“Did you have any plans beyond reaching Castle Cove?” he drawled, quickly stifling his grin again when her eyes opened and shot to his. “Other than spending the night in jail?”

“In jail for what?”

“Trespassing.”

“Trespassing
where
?”

He gestured around them. “The business I'm in has zero tolerance for stowaways.”

Those beautiful eyes narrowed. “That's right,” she said over the sound of the wine bottle hitting the floor as she rolled over and awkwardly rose to her hands and knees. “You own some big shipping company with your brothers. Tidal-something-something,” she muttered, weaving slightly as she grabbed the corner of the slide-out and tried to stand before apparently deciding to simply sit on the floor and lean against the couch.

“It's Tidewater International.”

“And you really have poor, desperate stowaways arrested?”

“Only those who don't die from dehydration,” he said, turning serious and even angry. “You could have been badly hurt. Why didn't you just hide in my truck until everyone left?”

She dropped her gaze to her lap, a telltale blush rising to her cheeks. “Because I didn't want to see or talk to anyone, including—no, especially—you.”

Jesse was instantly contrite for teasing the obviously embarrassed woman. “Why especially me?” he asked gently. “I would think dealing with a stranger would actually be easier.
Especially
if he happens to be a slow-witted bear,” he added, wanting to lighten the mood.

She lifted her gaze and smiled sadly. “No one can spend three months building a man's home one wall and window at a time and not get to know him inti . . . intimately,” she ended in a whisper, her blush deepening as she looked down again.

“You can't know me very well if you don't even know the name of my business.”

She looked up with a frown and waved that away. “What you do to earn your millions isn't even close to who you really are. The model I built wasn't for the high-powered executive who tried to crush his competition by stealing their boat captains with outrageous salaries; it was for the man who asked an architect to design him a home that would instill wonderful childhood memories in a passel of kids who aren't even born yet.” The smile she suddenly shot him held hints of the interesting Miss Glace—or else that of a woman who'd just downed an entire bottle of wine. “You know the guy I'm talking about?
That
Jesse Sinclair?”

Jesse could only stare at her, undecided as to whether he'd just received a compliment or been insulted. “That article on Tidewater's personal little war with Starrtech was written over two years ago. Where in hell did you even find it?”

“We get the Internet in Whistler's Landing. I also read several
three
-year-old articles. Did your grandfather really leave his big fancy estate, his even bigger bankbook, and all his shares of Tidewater to a young woman he'd known less than two months?” Both eyebrows disappeared into her curls. “The same woman your older brother married six weeks after the funeral in order to save her from being forced to sell those shares to your archenemy for ten cents on the dollar?”

“No,” Jesse said, standing up. “Sam married Willa to save her from herself.” He walked to the kitchen and bent to pick up the purse, only to have it jerked out of his hand by the strings trapped in the door.

He heard a snicker behind him. “Those ribbons are stronger than steel. I know because I tugged on them until one of my purse handles broke.”

Jesse crouched down and opened the purse, remembering Willamina Kent's disastrous entrance to a Tidewater board meeting three years ago, when Sam had found her in the lobby holding a pair of handles as the elevator had ascended with her overnight bag still inside.

“Hey, you can't just go through people's belongings without their permission.”

Jesse pulled out a small brick of modeling clay and set it on the floor. “It's standard procedure with stowaways.” He glanced over to see her glaring at him from her hands and knees again—apparently still waiting for the floor to stop moving so she could stand up—and arched a brow. “But I try to refrain from adding items to their grocery lists.” Seeing those creamy white cheeks turn a lovely pink again, he went back to feeling his way through the cluttered, seemingly bottomless purse and pulled out a rolled-up pink canvas hat—not the one she'd thrown in the woods, as he remembered that one being blue. He set it on the floor beside the clay and dove in again. “Oh good,” he drawled, pulling out a large, rabbit-ear corkscrew. He set it on the floor beside the clay and hat, then resumed hunting until his fingers closed around his target. “I apologize for assuming you'd snooped through my kitchen looking for a cork—”