Читать книгу Compromising Positions - Kate Hoffmann, Kate Hoffmann - Страница 8

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“SAMUEL JEFFERSON BLACKSTONE! Where are you?”

Sam winced at the sound of his younger sister’s voice as it echoed through the ground floor of the Blackstone Inn. He gave the pipe wrench one last twist, then wriggled out of the cupboard.

“I’m in here,” he called. “In the kitchen.”

By the time Sarah reached the kitchen, he was washing his hands in the newly repaired sink. At least he’d thought it was fixed until he heard the unmistakable drip of a leaky drainpipe. Sam cursed softly.

This was one of those moments when he was painfully reminded that the Blackstone Inn didn’t come close to turning a profit from year to year. If it did, he could call a real plumber to take care of these nagging maintenance problems. But Sam couldn’t recall a time in his life when the inn had provided more than a meager living to the person who owned it—and right now that guy was him.

“Is it fixed?” Sarah asked.

“Not yet,” he muttered.

“Did you use the goop and the strips?”

He shook his head. “Just the goop.”

Sarah rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I told you to use the strips, too. That’s how James fixed it the last time.”

Sam glanced over at his sister. “Maybe you could call James and invite him over to dinner? Take him to a movie and then just casually mention our leaky pipes?”

“Do you really want my entire dating life taken up by romancing the various craftsmen around town?” Sarah asked, grabbing an apple from the wood bowl on the counter. “I’ve dated electricians, roofers, carpenters, masons... I draw the line at plumbers.”

“James seems like a nice guy,” Sam commented. “And it would be very helpful if you married someone handy. That would solve all our problems.”

“I’m not going to date James.” Sarah pushed away from the counter. “Besides, you and I both know exactly what would solve our problems. And since you refuse to find a ridiculously wealthy wife, it’s going to be at least another twenty-five years of this.”

A wife with deep pockets would certainly help, Sam mused. But why would a woman with money saddle herself with an old inn and a husband who was tied to it like a ship to an anchor? This was his burden. Why would he wish it on any woman, especially a woman he loved?

“You don’t have to stick around,” Sam said. “The inn isn’t your problem.”

She shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere better to be right now. And if I leave, who is going to cook the meals for our demanding guests?” Sarah started out of the kitchen, then stopped. “Oh, I thought you should know. I saw moving vans parked in front of Abigail Farnsworth’s house. It looks like they’re finally clearing her stuff out. You might want to go get the George Washington bed before they cart it away.”

“Jerry Harrington told me they’d call me when I could pick it up,” Sam said.

“I’m not sure I’d trust him with something so important.”

“He’s our cousin.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Sarah said. “Half the people in this town are related to us in some distant way. Abby Farnsworth is our third cousin twice removed.”

“Fourth,” he corrected. Sam grabbed his keys out of his pocket and hurried to the door. “Stick the bucket back under the sink to catch that leak. I’ll get on it later.” He sighed as he remembered all the other repairs the old building needed urgently.

The Blackstone Inn was the third oldest inn in the state of New York and the only one of the three in continuous operation since the time of the Revolutionary War. It sat on a beautiful bluff above the Hudson River on the outskirts of the town of Millhaven.

It had been built by Sam’s seventh great-grandfather, added to by his sixth and fifth great-grandfathers, and been passed down for nine generations to the eldest son of the eldest son in the family.

During the Revolutionary War, the inn was an important military landmark on the road between New York City and Albany, and north to Quebec City. After the war, it was a waypoint for settlers moving into the northern reaches of the state. And then, in 1797, when Albany was named the capital of the state, it became a favorite spot for traveling politicians and businessmen.

Sam steered the truck into the quaint environs of the town. He had grown up in Millhaven and from a young age he’d known that his future was predetermined. He was the eldest son of an eldest son and, as such, the Blackstone Inn was his birthright.

There were moments when he felt the burden of his family’s history, much like a royal might chafe against a life of duty. For a long time he’d tried to find a way out, but his father and grandfather had both put in their years at the helm. It was his turn now. And there was no out.

If Sam walked away, his father, Joseph, would be forced out of retirement to run the inn, and when he died, a family committee would choose an heir—most likely Sarah. His sister had so much talent, Sam didn’t want her to be tied to an old inn in a small town. So Sam accepted his legacy with gritted teeth and a tight smile. He’d do his duty for as long as he could.

When he pulled the pickup to a stop in front of Abigail’s house, he paused before getting out. The George Washington bed had become a symbol of the ups and downs of the Blackstone Inn. Over the years it had been sold and reacquired three times, often to relatives. Sam’s grandfather had been the last to sell it. Faced with a financial crisis, he’d finally accepted Abigail Farnsworth’s offer, but only because Abigail had promised to return the bed completely free of charge once she’d gotten her money’s worth out of it. Which was now, Sam hoped.

He hopped out of the truck and wove his way through the crowd of onlookers bundled against the February chill. As the tangle of moving men removed each beautiful antique, the crowd had a chance to see the life’s work of one the state’s most respected collectors. After a recent hip injury, Abigail Farnsworth had decided to join her sister, Emily, and retire to the warmer climate of Phoenix, Arizona. And today many of her precious antiques were headed for the auction block.

Sam spotted one of the workmen with the headboard from his bed and he hurried over, only to be brushed aside by a woman dressed entirely in black.

“You can put that in the back of the trailer,” she said. “Make sure to wrap it with the moving quilts. Do you have the side rails?”

“Hey!” Sam shouted. “Hold up there.” The workman looked up at him as Sam approached. “Where are you going with that bed?”

The guy shrugged. “I’m just following orders,” he said.

“That’s my bed,” Sam said.

The woman turned to face him and the moment their eyes met Sam felt his breath slowly leave his body. She was one of those women you wanted to meet only on your best day, when you’d bothered to shave that morning and put on something other than faded jeans and a T-shirt. And when you had something terribly interesting to say if the conversation lagged—as it just had.

She shifted her sunglasses down on the bridge of her nose and studied him with eyes the color of expensive cognac. Everything about her seemed to ooze elegance, from her dark hair pulled into a loose knot at her nape to her perfect profile, clear testament to generations of careful breeding. A shiver coursed through his body and Sam shifted uneasily.

She’s way out of your league, buddy.

“There must be some mistake,” she murmured, her eyebrow arched.

Sam reached up and ran his fingers through his tousled hair, then forced a smile. “That’s my bed,” he repeated.

“This bed?” she asked. “No, no. This is my bed.”

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter that Abigail had written, gifting him what they’d affectionately called “The GW.”

“I have a letter here from the current owner, Abigail Farnsworth.”

She frowned, then pulled out a paper of her own. “I also have a letter from Miss Farnsworth. But mine states that she wishes the bed to go to the Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts in Boston. I’m here to collect it and take it back to Boston.”

“Over my dead body,” Sam said.

She glanced at the workman. “Put it in the trailer,” she ordered.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave it right there,” Sam warned the man. He glanced around and caught sight of the town lawyer, Jerry Wright, standing on the front porch. “Stay here,” he said to the mover. “I’m going to get someone to sort this all out.”

As he walked away, Sam glanced over his shoulder at the woman in black. She’d removed her sunglasses and their eyes met again, and she quickly looked away. Sam smiled to himself. It was the first sign of weakness that she’d shown. The attraction wasn’t just one-sided. What was going through her pretty head? he wondered.

“Jerry! Get over here.”

“Sam, I was just about to call you.”

Sam cursed. “Sure you were. Come here and fix this. Some woman from Boston is trying to take my bed. The bed Abigail promised to return to the Blackstone.”

Jerry hurried down the porch steps and walked across the lawn to Sam’s side. “It seems that Miss Abigail made a lot of promises she didn’t tell me about, Sam. Half the stuff in that house is promised to more than one party and now I’m left to untangle this can of worms.”

“I don’t care about any of that. All I want is the bed.”

The other man sighed. “All right, come on.”

When they reached the bed, the footboard was already inside the woman’s trailer and the mover was just about to load the side rails. “Take that out of there,” Jerry ordered. “That bed isn’t going anywhere. At least not today.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” the woman said, rounding the back of what could only be her black Lexus SUV. She held out her hand to Jerry. “I’m Amelia Sheffield, Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts. I have 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 her family connections.

And until this crazy bed situation had come along, she’d delivered on every project she’d taken on. Now that she’d set her sights on the George Washington bed, she wouldn’t leave town until it was tucked safely in the museum’s trailer.

But there were some roadblocks along the way. For one thing, she didn’t know anything about her opponent. She’d be much more effective against him if she learned something of his motivations. Millhaven was a small town. Certainly someone in town would be willing to talk about Sam Blackstone.

He wanted that bed as much as she did, maybe even more. Unfortunately he wasn’t aware of just how stubborn and single-minded Amelia Gardner Sheffield could be.

Amelia opened the door of the Lexus and got in behind the wheel. She’d made the three-hour drive to Millhaven from Boston that morning and had had the presence of mind to pack an overnight bag in case the weather or the acquisition suddenly went bad.

But a bag was only part of the equation; she’d need to find someplace close to spend the night. Millhaven was a quaint little village set in the beauty of the Hudson Valley. There had to be a motel somewhere in town.

As she drove away from the Farnsworth house, she saw a signpost and slowed to read it. It listed three restaurants and one inn.

“The Blackstone Inn.” She remembered the bed’s provenance mentioning the Blackstone Inn, but it had never occurred to her that the inn would still be in existence. Could Sam Blackstone be connected to the Blackstone Inn? She smiled to herself. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

The road followed the river and she found the inn about a half mile from the edge of town, set high on a bluff overlooking the Hudson. As Amelia drove up to the front door, she marveled at the view. It was an idyllic spot and more than romantic.

“‘Established 1769,’” she read on the sign. Her gaze dropped to a scroll along the bottom of the sign with the words George Washington slept here.

“No wonder he wants the bed back,” she murmured.

The central structure was made of a type of red brick common throughout the area. The inn was three stories high, the façade featuring three Federal columns flanking each side of the front door and supporting a third-story gallery. It looked as though the two wings on either side of the central structure had been added at a later date, as the bricks were a slightly different color. Black shutters adorned the first-story windows, while window boxes filled with winter greenery marked each second-story window.

Amelia loved it on sight. She quickly got out of the SUV, anxious to see if the interior was as meticulously preserved as the exterior. She admired people who worked so hard to protect historical buildings. Their work was as important as the work she and the rest of the staff did at the Mapother.

Amelia stepped through the front door into a wide Colonial keeping room. On one side a hearth dominated the entire wall, with period chairs and sofas arranged neatly in front of the fire. On the other side a wood-paneled bar ran the depth of the room, the bottles and glassware sparkling beneath the flickering light of four kerosene lamps.

She walked to the front desk and rang the bell that sat on the scarred wooden counter. A few seconds later a young woman emerged from behind a door. There was something very familiar about her pale blue eyes and dark hair. She smiled and Amelia had the uneasy feeling that they’d met before.

“Good afternoon,” the other woman said with a warm smile. “May I help—”

“You will not believe what is going on down at Abigail’s place.” A familiar voice filled the room and Amelia’s spine stiffened. “That crazy old lady promised the bed to someone else. Some uptight, snooty museum lady from Boston. Amelia Sheffield. La-di-da. Man, what a piece of work.”

Amelia slowly turned and faced him. “Hello again.”

The woman behind the desk cleared her throat. “This is my brother, Sam Blackstone.” She laughed softly. “And I’d bet you’re Amelia Sheffield.”

Amelia held out her hand to Sam. “Hello. Piece. Piece of Work. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blackstone.”

He at least had the grace to show some embarrassment. His face flushed beneath his deep tan and scruffy beard. He really wasn’t the type she was usually attracted to but there was something about him that piqued her curiosity.

Maybe it was the fact that he seemed so intent on obtaining a historical piece of furniture that he’d be rude to a complete stranger to get it. It was exactly the way she felt about important furniture: obsessed.

“So, you own this place?” she asked.

“My sister and I do,” he said, nodding to the woman standing at the desk. “My sister, Sarah Blackstone.”

Amelia turned and offered Sarah her hand. “Amelia Sheffield. Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts. Boston.”

Sarah shook her hand, then stepped out from behind the counter. “I’m just going to leave your check-in to Sam. He’ll get you a room. Dinner is at six. There’s a menu in your room. Just call down with your choices before five.”

“Sarah is a great cook,” Sam said.

Amelia regarded Sam suspiciously. “You don’t get anywhere near the food, do you?”

“Do you think I’m going to spit in it?” he asked.

“No, of course not. I was more worried about poison.”

Sarah laughed again as she headed toward the kitchen. Sam waited until the door swung shut behind her, then turned and stepped behind the front desk. “You’d like to spend the night?”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said. “Do you have a problem with me taking a room?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Everyone is welcome here.”

“Are you busy?”

“We have just six guests tonight, so we can give you our full attention.”

“Good,” she said. Amelia pulled her wallet from her purse and grabbed her business credit card, placing it on the counter between them. “I’d like to see the inn and choose a room for myself. Would you give me a tour?”

He glanced up, as if surprised by her request. “Sure. Why don’t we leave your bag here? The rooms in the oldest part of the inn are smaller, but many of them contain original Federal furnishings.”

“That sounds perfect,” Amelia said.

He followed her up the stairs and she couldn’t help but wonder what he was looking at as they climbed to the second story. All the doors were open and she strolled down the narrow hall, peeking inside each room.

The drapery and upholstery fabrics were a bit timeworn and faded, but very well chosen. Beautiful Federal-era beds dominated each room, the canopies reaching the high ceilings. Comfortable wing chairs sat in front of the small fireplaces and each room contained a small writing desk and a pair of bedside tables with oil lamps.

“We have electric lamps,” he said, “but a lot of our guests enjoy the true Colonial experience. I can switch the lamps out if you like.”

“No, I love antique lamps.” When they reached the corner room at the end of the hall, Amelia paused before entering the room. “This is nice.”

“There are shared bathrooms in this part of the inn,” he said. “The new rooms are en suite.”

“The shared bath is fine,” Amelia said. “I’m only here for a night.” She walked into the room and nodded. “Yes, I’ll stay here.”

“Funny,” Sam said. “This is the George Washington bedroom. The bed that you want to steal used to be in this room. George Washington slept right here.”

Sam smiled—the first true smile he’d given her—and it was dazzling. Her pulse began to beat faster and she felt a bit light-headed.

“I’ll just go get your bag,” he said and left the room.

Once the door shut behind him Amelia let out a tightly held breath. She sank down onto the edge of the bed and folded her hands on her lap. Until this moment she hadn’t realized the energy it took to maintain a calm and composed nature when he was standing next to her.

There was a current of anticipation that pulsed inside her, like an electrical current that threatened to spark and ignite if he touched her...or kissed her. Amelia groaned softly and pressed her fingertips to her lips.

Maybe that’s why she’d decided to stay. To see if he’d kiss her. As he’d led her through the rooms, she’d caught his gaze lingering on her mouth, as if he were thinking about it. Or was that all just in her imagination? Emotions ran so high between them it was hard to tell what it all meant.

And if they did succumb to curiosity or desire or passion, what then? It would only complicate an already tangled relationship. Maybe it was a mistake to stay, Amelia mused. She was only tempting fate. But, oh, what a fate...

“What are you thinking?” Amelia flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the coffered ceiling. “Stop all these silly fantasies.”

A knock sounded on her room door and she jumped to her feet, smoothing her hair as she walked to the door. Sam was waiting on the other side with her bag. He held it out to her. “Dinner is at six. The menu is on that table over there. Just call down to the kitchen and let Sarah know what you’d like.”

“Thank you,” she said. But he didn’t leave. Should she give him a tip? Maybe that’s what he was waiting for. Amelia grabbed her purse and took a step toward him. Sam took a step back.

“Well, I’ll see you at dinner, then,” Sam said and closed the door.

Amelia stepped up to it, pressing her forehead against the cool, painted wood.

* * *

“IS SHE OUT THERE?” Sam asked. He peered through the small window of the kitchen door but he couldn’t see the entire dining room from his viewpoint. “What did she order?”

“Fillet of beef, potatoes Anna and the house salad with Gorgonzola. She’s also put away two glasses of our best red wine and six slices of bread with butter. Would you like me to go out and get her pulse and temperature for you?”

“She’s not a vegetarian, that’s good.”

“Good for what?” Sarah asked.

Sam shook his head and turned away from the door. “I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

Sarah slid a pie pan across the kitchen island. “Why don’t you take her some dessert? There’s ice cream in the freezer and whipped cream in the fridge. If she wants coffee, you know how to make it. And you can take care of the dishes tonight. I’ve got Pilates class.” Sarah walked out, leaving him alone in the kitchen.

He’d been searching for an opportunity to speak to Amelia again since her arrival at the inn. He’d been tempted to check on her during the afternoon but hadn’t wanted to appear as if he were hovering.

Millhaven was a small town and it was almost impossible for him to have a social life. Sam knew almost everyone in the village who was single and around his own age. Since he’d come back to the inn four years ago he’d gone from an unrepentant skirt-chaser as a college undergrad to Mr. Responsible. He wasn’t even sure if he remembered how to flirt.

And he’d need to be at the top of his game for Amelia Sheffield. He sensed that it would take a lot more than prompt service and homemade desserts to break through her icy façade. She probably expected to be entertained with witty chitchat or intrigued by important conversation about art or current events. But Sam had never been comfortable at cocktail parties. His charm was more homegrown, rising out of the humor of the moment. Then again, they weren’t at a cocktail party. They were in his inn. His territory.

He placed the pie, plates and forks, and the can of whipped cream on a tray, then carried it out into the dining room. When Amelia saw him, her gaze followed his path as he wove through the dining room tables to where she sat.

Though she was still dressed in black, she’d let her hair down and it fell in soft waves around her face, the color a deep mahogany that set off the gold in her eyes. She didn’t wear a lot of makeup and her simple, clean beauty was much more attractive to him than the paint and perfume that some women chose to use.

“I know you’re happy to see me,” he said, smiling at her.

“I am?”

“I brought pie. My sister’s apple pie. Made from the Cortland apples we grow right here on our property. They’re the best.”

“I love Cortland apples,” she said. “They’re so hard to find these days. And I’ll admit I’m always happy when pie enters the room.”

“Mind if I join you?”

She hesitated at first, then quickly shook her head. “No, sit,” she said, indicating the chair across from her.

But Sam grabbed the chair beside her and sat, placing the tray in front of him. “Did you enjoy the dinner?”

“Are we really going to talk about food? I thought you’d prefer to get right down to negotiating,” she said.

He scooped up a generous slice of the pie and plopped it on a plate, which he handed to her. “There’s nothing to negotiate. I know that Abigail will clear this up and the bed will come home with me.”

“I have every faith in our lawyers,” she countered.

If the fight came down to lawyers, Sam would lose. He didn’t have the money to hire Jerry to represent him in a lengthy court case. The inn operated on a shoestring that didn’t include hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyers. “Why is it so important you get this bed?”

“George Washington slept in it,” she replied.

“The bed has been in my family since it was first made. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

“Sure it does,” she said. “But you want to close the bed up in a little room here at the inn. I want to show it to the public.”

“What exactly do you do for this museum of yours, besides pillaging the countryside and stealing people’s furniture?”

“I acquire items for our exhibits,” she said.

Sam chuckled. “Oh, well, that sounds so much better. You acquire.”

“How we lived is just as important as what we lived. I help to preserve that,” Amelia said. She paused, as if to gather her thoughts, then continued in a less aggressive tone. “You of all people should understand. You live in a monument to history. Look at this place. It’s perfect.”

Sam glanced around. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d attached the word perfect to the Blackstone Inn.

She continued. “My last exhibition was called ‘Cabin in the Woods.’ I set up three interiors of rustic Colonial-era frontier homes, complete with everything it would take to live in the wilderness. But it was interactive, so children could touch and experience everything. It fired their imagination, and that’s really all that’s left to us of history. Museums, a few historic inns and homes like yours, and our imaginations.”

He heard the passion in her words and admired her dedication. She even made him feel some pride in his own work at the inn, and it had been a long time since he’d held any sort of affection toward the Blackstone. “And this place is called the Mapother Museum?”

“Of Decorative Arts. It focuses on interior décor—furniture, china, linens, rugs and ceramics. The kind of place that draws busloads of retired ladies and interior designers,” she added.

“I still don’t understand why you have to ‘acquire’ my bed,” he said. “Any piece from the period should do.”

“Have we determined that it is your bed?”

“The bed has belonged to my family since the inn opened. Abigail bought it when we were short of funds, but she promised to return it to its rightful place.”

“We’re opening a new children’s exhibit about George Washington for President’s Day. The bed will be the perfect centerpiece for the gallery. Kids could lie on it and take photos, and we’ll get lots of publicity. Which is always good for the museum.”

“So my bed is going to be a...a historical bouncy house? Why not throw any old bed into the exhibit? No one is going to know any better.”

“I have a reputation for authenticity to protect,” she said. “And I can’t be sentimental.”

“I think a better word might be sympathetic or kind.”

“You can’t make me feel guilty,” she said.

“What can I make you feel?” he asked. The moment the words slipped out of his mouth, Sam realized his mistake. What the hell was he thinking? A cultured woman like Amelia would never respond to such a suggestive comment.

“I—I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she murmured.

“I should get back to work,” he said quickly. “Is there anything else I can get you, Ms. Sheffield?”

“No,” she murmured. “I’m quite content, Mr. Blackstone.”

He got up and walked to the kitchen, refusing to look back. So much for charm, Sam mused. He’d been right the first time: it was going to take a lot more than awkward small talk and apple pie to seduce Amelia Sheffield. He had one more day to figure this all out. One day to take this attraction beyond the theoretical to something real. Or else she’d be on her way back to Boston—with his bed.