It Happened One Week (3 page)

Desperate to salvage his foundering career, Parsons had come up with theidea of taking the teams to a resort, where, utilizing a number of out ward-bound-type game-playing procedures he’d gleaned from his latest managementtraining tape, the various independent-minded individuals would meld into one forceful creative entity.

“The problem is,” Amanda said, “like it or not, my fortunes are tied to Greg.”

“Lucky him. Since without you to run interference and do all his detail work, he’d undoubtedly have been out on his Armani rear a very long time ago,” Susan said.

“That’s not very nice.”

“Granted. But it’s true.”

Amanda couldn’t argue with her assistant’s pithy analysis. From the time of Greg’s arrival from the Dallas office
three months ago, she’d wondered, on more than one occasion, exactly how the man had managed to win the cor porate plum of creative director. It certainly hadn’t been on merit.

Then, six weeks after he’d moved into the expensively redecorated executive office, the question was answered when Susan returned from a long lunch with the other administrative assistants where she’d learned that Greg just happened to be married to Ernst Janzen’s granddaughter. Which, Amanda had agreed, explained everything.

It was bad enough that Greg was frightfully incompetent. Even worse was the way he saw himself as a modernday Napoleon—part dictator, part Don Juan. And although she’d deftly dealt with his less-than-subtle passes, her refusal had earned Amanda her superior’s antipathy. He rode her constantly, belittling her work even as he routinely took credit for her ideas in upper-level corporate meetings.

It was no secret that the man was unhappy in Portland. He constantly berated the entire West Coast as hopelessly provincial. It was also common knowledge that he had his eye on a superior prize—that of national creative director and vice president. Along with the requisite increase in salary and numerous perks, the coveted slot also came with a corner-window penthouse office on Manhattan’s famed Madison Avenue.

“I still don’t see why you put up with the man,” Susan said, her acid tone breaking into Amanda’s thoughts.

“It’s simple. I want his job.”

“It should have been yours in the first place.”

Once again, Amanda couldn’t argue with the truth. While she hadn’t specifically been promised the creative director’s spot when she was first hired, there’d been every indication that Patrick Connally considered her on the fast track to success.

She’d worked hard for the past four years, forgoing any social life, giving most of her time and energy to the company.

The sacrifices had paid off; there had been a time, not so long ago, when the job of creative director had looked like a lock. Until Greg Parsons arrived on the scene.

“Blood’s thicker than water. And unfortunately, Greg happens to be married to Mr. Janzen’s granddaughter.”

“Talk about sleeping your way to the top,” Susan muttered.

“Unfortunately, family ties seem to have gotten Greg this far.” Amanda frowned up at the oil portrait of the new creative director hanging on the wall. The ornate, gilt-framed painting featured Parsons in one of his dress-for-success chalk-striped suits, holding the cigar he was never without. The same cigar he took pleasure in lighting during meetings, never mind that it caused everyone there discomfort.

“But,” she continued, “after the problems he’s had instituting the team concept, he’s stalled in the water.”

Susan arched a jet eyebrow. “Are you saying you think he’s on the way out?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think—unless Jessica Janzen Parsons wises up and divorces him—there’s any chance of that. So, I’ve come up with a plan to get the guy out of my life—and out of town—once and for all.”

“Please tell me it involves tar and feathers.”

“Not quite.” Actually, although she’d never admit it, Amanda found the idea of running Parsons out of town on a rail—like in the good old days of the Wild West—eminently appealing.

“Actually, it’s simple. Or at least it was,” she amended with another bleak glance toward the television screen. “Until the resort went up in smoke.”

“Let me guess. You were going to lure the bastard out onto the cliff behind the resort late one night, hit him in the head with his precious new PING nine iron, then shove him into the ocean. Where, with any luck, he’d be eaten by killer sharks.”

Despite all her problems, Amanda smiled. “As attractive as that scenario may be, the sharks would probably spare him because of professional courtesy. Besides, I’ve come to the conclusion that the easiest way to get Greg out of my hair is to give him what he most wants.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re going to go to bed with him?”

“Of course not.” Amanda literally shuddered at the unpalatable idea. “Actually, I’ve decided to get him promoted.”

A slow, understanding grin had Susan’s crimson lips curving. “To Manhattan.”

Amanda returned the smile with a cocky, confident grin of her own. “To Manhattan.”

Amanda couldn’t deny that losing the conference-center resort to fire was a setback. After all, without someplace to hold the corporate challenge, Greg couldn’t prove that his idea had merit. Which in turn would keep him here in Portland indefinitely.

But it wasn’t the first challenge she’d overcome in her rise up the advertising corporate ladder. Amanda doubted it would be her last.

A part of her hated the idea of Greg Parsons getting any more credit, when in reality, if the upcoming week proved a success, it would be her doing. A stronger part of her just wanted him gone. She would swallow her pride, along with her ego, if it meant getting the obnoxious man out of her life.

Now all she had to do was find some other location for the challenge. Which wasn’t going to be easy, considering this was the high tourist season on the Oregon coast.

Could she do it? Amanda asked herself as she pointed the remote toward the television and darkened the screen.

You bet.

Satan’s Cove

“We’ve got a problem.”

Dane Cutter stopped in the act of nailing down cedar shingles and glanced over the steep edge of the roof. “So why don’t you tell me something I don’t know?”

He’d been the proud owner of Smugglers’ Inn for two months. Well, if you wanted to get technical, he and the bank actually owned the century-old landmark building. Since he’d signed the final papers, Dane doubted a single day had gone by that he hadn’t had to overcome some new catastrophe.

Having paid for an extensive professional inspection of the building that, because of competition from larger, fancier resorts catering to the corporate trade, had fallen into disrepair during his time away from Satan’s Cove, Dane knew the problems he was taking on. And although they were considerable, he’d foolishly expected to have some time to do all the necessary renovations.

Thus far, he’d tackled the inn’s ancient plumbing and electrical systems, evicted countless field mice and killed more spiders than he cared to think about.

He’d also replaced the ancient gas oven, replastered the algae-filled swimming pool, and was in the process of replacing the shingles that had blown away during last night’s storm.

The next thing on his lengthy list—barring any further emergencies—was replacing the ancient gas heater, after which he planned to resand and seal the oak parquet floors in the public rooms, then resurface the tennis court.

Since reopening last week, he’d reassured himself at least daily that it was just as well potential guests weren’t exactly beating down his door. Although he admittedly needed all the bookings he could get to make the hefty mortgage payments, he also needed time to restore the inn to its former glory.

Reva Carlson grinned up at him. “Technically it’s a bit of good news and some bad news. I suppose it’s all in how you look at it.”

“Why don’t you give me the good news first?”

The way things had been going, after the storm and the burst pipe that had left the inn without water for twenty-four hours, Dane figured he could use a little boost. Hell, what he needed was a miracle. But he was willing to settle for whatever he could get.

“Okay.” Reva’s grin widened. “It looks as if we’re going to meet this month’s mortgage payment, after all.”

“We got a booking?” If he’d had his choice, he would have kept the inn closed until all the needed repairs could be done. Unfortunately, his cash flow being what it was, he’d been forced to open for limited occupancy.

“We’ve sold out the entire place,” Reva revealed proudly.

She was right. This was definitely a case of good and bad news. “Not including the tower room?” The last he’d looked into the hexagonal-shaped room that boasted a bird’s-eye view of the Pacific Ocean, the wallpaper had been peeling off the walls.

“Of course not. You’re good, boss, but you’re not exactly a miracle worker. However, every other room, every bed, every last nook and cranny of Smugglers’ Inn is going
to be taken over by some Portland ad agency for an entire week.”

Dane rapidly went over a mental list of repairs he’d have to accomplish in order to accommodate such a crowd.

“So, when are these ad people scheduled to arrive, anyway?”

“You could at least pretend to be pleased,” she complained. “Besides, it’s not that bad. We’ve plenty of time to get ready.”

“What, exactly, do you consider plenty of time?”

“Three days.”

“Three days?” He dragged his hand through his hair.

“Well, technically four. Including this one.”

It was already four in the afternoon. “Damn it, Reva—”

“You’re the one who’s been bitching about needing bookings,” she reminded Dane. “Well, now you’ve got some. Or would you rather me call the woman back and tell her that we’re full?”

Reminding himself that the difficult could be accomplished immediately, while the impossible might take a bit longer, he said, “You did good, lady.”

Another thought, beyond the necessary repairs, occurred to him. “You’d better warn Mom.” He’d taken his mother out of a forced retirement and put her back in the remodeled kitchen, where she had happily begun stocking the pantry and whipping up recipes that rivaled those of any five-star resort in the country.

“I already did,” she assured him, reminding him why he’d hired the former night manager away from the world-famous Whitfield Palace hotel chain. “Which reminds me, she told me to tell you that you’ll have to drive into town for supplies.”

“Tell her to make out a list and I’ll do it as soon as I finish with the roof.”

Dane returned to his hammering. And even as he wondered exactly how he was going to get everything done in time for the arrival of all those guests, he allowed himself to believe that things around Smugglers’ Inn were definitely beginning to look up.

Portland

“Y
ou were right about every motel, hotel, resort and cottage up and down the coast being booked to the rafters,” Susan reported to Amanda. “Every place with the exception of Smugglers’ Inn, which, I’ll have to admit, made me a little nervous. But the woman from the Satan’s Cove visitors’ bureau assured me that it’s listed on the historical register.”

“It is,” Amanda murmured, thinking back to that wonderful summer she’d spent at Satan’s Cove.

The memory was, as always, bittersweet—part pleasure and part pain. She’d never been happier than she’d been that summer of her first love. Nor more heartbroken than on the day she’d driven away from Smugglers’ Inn—and Dane Cutter—back to Los Angeles with her family.

He’d promised to write; and trusting him implicitly, Amanda had believed him. For the first two weeks after arriving home, she’d waited for a letter assuring her that she was not alone in her feelings—that the kisses they’d shared, along with the desperate promises, had been more than just a summer romance.

When three weeks passed without so much as a single postcard, Amanda had screwed up enough nerve to telephone
Dane at the inn. But the woman working the desk informed her that he’d left Satan’s Cove to return to college. No, the woman had insisted, in a bored tone, he hadn’t left any forwarding address.

She’d thought about asking to talk to his mother, who’d been the inn’s cook. But youthful pride kept her from inquiring further. So, believing she’d simply been one more conquest for a drop-dead-gorgeous college boy who already had more than his share of girls throwing themselves at him, Amanda tried to write the intense, short-lived romance off to experience.

And mostly, she’d been successful. But there were still times, when she would least expect it, that she’d think back on that summer with a mixture of wistfulness and embarrassment.

“I’m surprised they could take us,” she said now, recalling the inn’s popularity. Her father had had to book their rooms six months in advance. “They must have had a huge cancellation.”

“According to the reservations clerk, the place has been closed for several years,” Susan revealed. “Apparently it’s recently changed hands. This is the new owner’s first season.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” Amanda muttered. Even in an industry built on ego and turf, the agency had become a nest of political intrigue and backbiting. The corporate team challenge week was going to be lough enough without them having to serve as some novice innkeeper’s shakedown summer season.

“You can always call Popular Surplus and order up the tents.”

Despite her concerns, Amanda laughed. The truth was, she really didn’t have any other choice. She could put twenty people—none of whom got along very well in the best of circumstances—into tents on the beach, eating hot dogs
cooked over an open fire, or she could trust the new owner of Smugglers’ Inn to know what he or she was doing.

After all, how bad could it be? The landmark inn, located on one of the most scenic stretches of Pacific Coast, was pretty and cozy and wonderfully comfortable. She thought back on the lovely flower-sprigged wallpaper in the tower room she’d slept in that long-ago summer, remembered the dazzling sunsets from the high arched windows, recalled in vivid detail the romance of the crackling fires the staff built each evening in the stone fireplace large enough for a grown man to stand in.

“Smugglers’ Inn will be perfect,” she said firmly, as if saying the words out loud could make them true. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it in the first place.”

“Probably because you’ve had a few other things on your mind,” Susan said, proving herself to be a master of understatement. “And although I have no doubt you can pull this thing off, I’m glad I’ll be holding down the fort here while you lead the troops in their wilderness experience.”

That said, she left Amanda to worry that this time she’d actually bitten off more than she could chew.

Never having been one to limit herself to a normal, eighthour work schedule, Amanda remained at her desk long into the night, fine-tuning all the minuscule details that would ensure the challenge week would be a success.

But as hard as she tried to keep her mind on business, she could not keep her unruly thoughts from drifting back to the summer of her fifteenth year.

She’d fallen in love with Dane the first time she’d seen him. And although her parents had tried to convince her otherwise, she knew now, as she’d known then, that her feelings had been more than mere puppy love.

It had, admittedly, taken Dane time to realize they were a perfect match. But Amanda had steadfastly refused to give
up her quest. She pursued him incessantly, with all the fervor of a teenager in the throes of a first grand love.

Everywhere Dane went, Amanda went there as well, smiling up at him with a coy Lolita smile overbrimming with sensual invitation. After discovering that one of his duties was teaching a class in kayaking, despite her distaste for early-morning awakenings, she showed up on the beach at six-thirty for lessons. Although the rest of the class was sensibly attired for the foggy sea air in jeans and sweatshirts, she’d chosen to wear a hot-pink bikini that barely covered the essentials.

And that was just the beginning. During Dane’s lifeguarding stint each afternoon, she lounged poolside, wearing another impossibly scant bikini, her golden skin glowing with fragrant coconut oil. Grateful for childhood diving lessons, she would occasionally lithely rise from the lounge to treat him to swan dives designed to show off her budding female figure.

She tormented him endlessly, pretending to need his assistance on everything from a flat bicycle tire to fastening her life jacket before going out on a sight-seeing boat excursion.

Adding local color to the inn’s reputation had been the legend—invented by a former owner—that it was haunted by a woman who’d thrown herself off the widow’s walk after her fiancé’s ship was sunk by pirates off the rocky shoals. One night, Amanda showed up at Dane’s room, insisting that she’d seen the ghost.

It would have taken a male with inhuman strength to resist her continual seduction attempts. And, as Dane later confessed, he was, after all, only human.

Which was why, seven days after Amanda Stockenberg’s arrival at Smugglers’ Inn, Dane Cutter succumbed to the inevitable. However, even as they spent the star-spangled
nights driving each other insane, Dane had steadfastly refused to make love to her.

“I may be too damn weak where you’re concerned, princess,” he’d groaned during one excruciatingly long petting session, “but I’m not reckless enough to have sex with a minor girl.”

She’d sworn that no one would ever know, promised that she’d never—ever—do anything to get him in trouble. But on this point, Dane had proved frustratingly intractable.

And although, as the years passed, Amanda begrudgingly admitted that he’d done the right and noble thing, there were still times, such as tonight, when she was sitting all alone in the dark, that she’d think back over the bliss she’d experienced in Dane Cutter’s strong young arms and wish, with all her heart, that he hadn’t proved so strong.

Satan’s Cove

The day before the group was due to arrive at Smugglers’ Inn, Dane was beginning to think they just might make it.

The roof was now rainproof, the windows sparkled like, diamonds, and every room in the place—with the exception of the tower room, which he’d written off as impossible to prepare in such short time—was white-glove clean. And although the aroma of fresh paint lingered, leaving the windows open another twenty-four hours should take care of that little problem.

His mother had definitely gone all out in the kitchen. The huge commercial refrigerator was stuffed with food and every shelf in the pantry was full. Kettles had been bubbling away on the new eight-burner stove nearly around the clock for the past two and a half days, creating mouthwatering scents.

Using the hefty deposit Reva had insisted upon, he’d hired additional staff and although the kids were as green as
spring grass, they were bright, seemingly hardworking and unrelentingly cheerful.

He was passing the antique registration desk on his way to the parlor, planning to clean the oversize chandelier, when the sound of a stressed-out voice garnered his instant attention.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Mindy Taylor, the nineteen-year-old cheerleader, premed student and local beauty queen he’d hired, said in an obviously frustrated voice. “But—”

She sighed and held the receiver a little away from her ear, indicating that it was not the first time she’d heard the argument being offered on the other end of the line.

“Yes, I can appreciate that,” Mindy agreed, rolling her expressive eyes toward the knotty-pine ceiling. “But I’m afraid it’s impossible. No, it’s not booked, but—”

Dane heard the renewed argument, although he couldn’t make out the words.

“It’s a woman from that Portland advertising agency.” Mindy covered the mouthpiece with her hand to talk to Dane. “She’s insisting on the tower room, even though I told her that it wasn’t available.”

Dane held out his hand. “Let me talk to her.”

“That’s okay.” Perfect white teeth that Dane knew had cost her parents a fortune in orthodontia flashed in the dazzling smile that had earned Mindy the Miss Satan’s Cove title two years running. As this year’s Miss Oregon, she’d be competing in the national pageant, which made her a local celebrity.

“It’ll be good practice for Atlantic City. I need to work on my patience,” she admitted. “Sometimes I think if I’m asked one more stupid question by one more judge I’m going to scream.

“I understand your feelings,” Mindy soothed into the receiver as she tried yet again. “But you see, Ms. Stockenberg,
Smugglers’ Inn has been closed for the past few years, and-”

“Wait a minute,” Dane interrupted. “Did you say Stockenberg?”

The name hit him directly in the gut, reminding him of the time he’d been standing behind the plate and his cousin Danny had accidentally slammed a baseball bat into his solar plexus.

“Excuse me, but could you hold a moment, please?” Mindy put her hand over the mouthpiece again and nodded. “That’s right.”

“Not Amanda Stockenberg?” It couldn’t be, Dane told himself, even as a nagging intuition told him it was true.

“That’s her.” Mindy appeared surprised Dane knew the name. “The guest list the agency sent along with their deposit lists her as an assistant creative director.

“I put her in the cliff room, but she’s insisting on being moved to the tower. Something about it having sentimental meaning. I explained that it was impossible, but—”

“Let her have it.”

“What?” Eyes the color of a sun-brightened sea widened to the size of sand dollars.

“I said, book Ms. Stockenberg into the tower room.” His tone was uncharacteristically sharp and impatient.

Mindy was not easily cowed. Especially by a man she’d been able to talk into playing Barbie dolls back in his teenage baby-sitting days, when their mothers had worked together at this very same inn. “But, Dane, it’s a terrible mess.”

She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. “Don’t worry,” he said, softening his voice and his expression. “I’ll take care of it.”

Mindy eyed him with overt curiosity. Then, as the voice on the other end of the phone began talking again, she returned her attention to the conversation.

“It seems I was mistaken, Ms. Stockenberg,” she said cheerfully, switching gears with a dexterity that had Dane thinking she’d ace her Miss America interview. “As it happens, the tower room is available after all. Yes, that is fortunate, isn’t it?”

She turned to the computer Dane was still paying for. Her rosy fingernails tapped on the keys, changing Amanda Stockenberg from the cliff room to the tower suite.

“It’s all taken care of,” she assured Dane after she’d hung up. Her expressive eyes held little seeds of worry. “It’s none of my business, but I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”

“If I knew what I was doing, I wouldn’t have bought the inn in the first place.” His crooked grin belied his complaint. After years of traveling the world for the Whitfield Palace hotel chain, there was no place he’d rather be. And nothing he’d rather be doing. “If you see Reva, tell her I had to run into town for some wallpaper.”

“Ms. Stockenberg mentioned little blue flowers,” Mindy said helpfully.

“I remember.”

And damn it, that was precisely the problem, Dane told himself two hours later as he drove back to Smugglers’ Inn from the hardware store in Satan’s Cove with the newly purchased wallpaper. He remembered too much about Amanda Stockenberg’s long-ago visit to Satan’s Cove.

The only daughter of a wealthy Los Angeles attorney and his socialite wife, Amanda had come to the Oregon coast with her family for a month-long vacation.

Pampered and amazingly sheltered for a teenager growing up in the 1980s, she’d obviously never met anyone like him. Unfortunately, during his years working at Smugglers’ Inn—part-time while in high school, then summers and vacations to put himself through college—Dane had run
across too many rich girls who considered him along the same lines as a summer trophy.

Dane’s own father, scion of a famous Southern department-store family, had been a masculine version of those girls. Rich and spoiled, he’d had no qualms about taking what he wanted, then moving on after the annual Labor Day clambake, leaving behind a young, pregnant waitress.

Although Mary Cutter—a quiet, gentle woman who’d gone on to be a cook at the inn—had brought Dane up not to be bitter about his father’s abandonment, he’d decided early on that it was better to stick with your own kind.

Which was why he’d always avoided the temptation of shiny blond hair and long, tanned legs. Until Amanda Stockenberg arrived on the scene.

She pursued him endlessly, with the single-mindedness of a rich, pretty girl accustomed to getting her own way. She was part siren, part innocent; he found both fascinating.

When she showed up at his door in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm, swearing she’d seen the ghost reputed to haunt the inn, Dane took one look at her—backlit by flashes of lightning, clad in a shorty nightgown—and all his intentions to resist temptation flew right out the window.