An Unlikely Match

“I’m here to see if your mother will go somewhere with me tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Jane picked up the end of the boa and twirled it around. “She can go.”

“Not so fast, Jane,” Claire said. An idea occurred to her, one that had the advantage of easing her anxiety immensely. “There is the little matter of my nine-year-old daughter. Of course, if Jane can go with us…”

“Mommy, no,” Jane said. “Did you forget again? I’m going to make bags of potpourri with Aunt Pet to give to girls for Halloween. We’re putting in lavender and lemongrass, and…”

“That’s right. I did forget. You can stay with Aunt Pet.”

“Then you’ll go?” Jack asked.

“I guess so. Since you said it’s important.”

“Good.” He smiled down at Jane. “But I have a question. If you’re giving the girls nice smelly things, what are you giving the boys?”

“Aunt Pet says we’re going to give them little bottles of toad juice, and they can all get warts.”

Claire started to reprimand her daughter, but she was suddenly engrossed in watching Jack’s attempt to hide a smile.

“Remind me not to trick-or-treat at your house,” he said.

Dear Reader,

I’ve often been asked where I get the ideas for my stories. I am most often inspired by unique or off-the-beaten-path locations. A year ago, while scouting out fertile locations for my husband to do some deep sea fishing, we came upon a remote, laid-back island community about two hours north of Tampa on Florida’s west coast.

This island, which boasts great seafood restaurants and charming art galleries, does not have even one chain restaurant or name brand motel. Every business is unique to this location only. It’s a quirky, sit-a-spell place where visitors can enjoy Gulf breezes and wandering minds. And so, Heron Point, my fictional representation of this place, was born in my imagination and populated with characters I hope you will find memorable. Like me, the hero and heroine of this story never expected to end up here. And they never expected to find love here either, but that’s the wonderful thing about love—you never know where you’ll find it.

I hope you’ll visit Heron Point again in my next book from Harlequin Superromance, An Unlikely Father, available in 2006.

I love to hear from readers. Please visit my Web site, www.cynthiathomason.com, or e-mail me at [e-mail]. My address is P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33355.

Sincerely,

Cynthia Thomason

An Unlikely Match

Cynthia Thomason

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my two “moms,” Barbara Brackett, who gave birth to me, and Elsie Thomason, my mother-in-law. Voracious readers, both ladies read every one of my books and always offer encouraging words. Thanks, Moms.

And a special thank-you to my friend Nan Carter, whose expertise in tracking down the bad guys helped me realistically portray the illegal activity mentioned in this book. Thanks, Nan, for ALL you do.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“MOMMY, YOU’RE COMING to the school zone.”

Claire Betancourt glanced over at her nine-year-old daughter and automatically raised her foot off the accelerator. The Lexus sedan slowed to fifteen miles per hour before proceeding under the blinking yellow light. “Thank you, Jane, for your infallible back-seat driving,” Claire said.

“You were speeding, weren’t you, Mommy?”

“No.” At the girl’s pointed stare, Claire relented. “Maybe a little. But we’re late.” Still, it wouldn’t look right if the mayor was caught doing a reckless twenty miles per hour through Heron Point’s only school zone. Especially when she had an elementary student in the passenger seat.

Jane sat forward, straining against her seat belt. “Look, Mommy, isn’t that Mrs. Hutchinson?”

Claire groaned. “Oh, no. Not again.” This was the second time in two weeks that the regular crossing guard hadn’t shown up for duty. And the second time Heron Point’s most conscientious citizen and self-proclaimed mother-of-the-year had taken it upon herself to guide the town’s children safely across the street to the school building. Claire slowed to a crawl, lowered her window and spoke to the woman whose short arms were flailing about in an exaggerated attempt to direct Heron Point’s youngest citizens. “Hi, Missy,” Claire said. “I guess Bella didn’t show this morning?”

“You guessed right,” Missy answered. “Really, Claire, you must do something about that woman. We can’t have our children subjected to the dangers of a busy school crossing without competent adult supervision. And I can’t be expected to step up every time Bella Martingale is too hungover…” She stopped speaking when she realized Jane was listening to every word.

Busy school crossing? Claire checked her rearview mirror. There were two cars behind her, and only one had passed going the opposite direction in the last minute. And this was Heron Point’s rush hour. But Missy was right. Even if there were only seventy-six children enrolled in the elementary school, it was the community’s responsibility to provide them with adequate crosswalk protection.

“I’ll speak to Bella,” Claire promised.

“Are you going to fire her?” Missy asked.

Claire flinched. She really liked Bella. “Yes. But in the meantime, I’ll ask Aunt Pet to fill in at the crosswalk this afternoon, and I’ll be here tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll be able to make permanent arrangements over the weekend.”

“What about now? I have to open my gallery in exactly ten minutes.”

“You go on,” Claire said. “I’ll take over until eight o’clock.” She pulled to the curb, got out and waited for Jane to pick up her sweater and lunch box from the floor of the front seat. “Have a nice day, sweetheart. I won’t pick you up. Aunt Pet will be here this afternoon, so you can ride home with her.”

Jane looked up at her with the doe-brown eyes that were so like her father’s, like all the Betancourt men’s. Beautiful, heart-stopping, warm, Latin eyes. “Is Mrs. Martingale drunk again?” she asked.

“No, I’m sure she isn’t,” Claire answered. Bella had sworn to Claire just yesterday that she hadn’t had a drink in over a month, since school had started the fall term. But she might very well be high on something. Claire had insisted the woman mow the trio of marijuana plants blatantly growing under a bright green awning in her backyard. But Claire had never gone back to see that the job had been completed. And now she had to admit that Bella had used up all her chances for leniency. She would have to relinquish her post as crossing guard and the small salary she earned.

Claire escorted the remaining half dozen children to the parsonage-turned-schoolhouse. The two-story clapboard structure had served as the minister’s residence for more than a hundred years. When the last of the reverends had died, twenty-five years ago, the citizens had decided they could manage without a bona fide religious leader. They’d elected to modify the parsonage to serve as a schoolhouse for Heron Point’s elementary children. Seven state-certified teachers, a principal and a guidance counselor had been hired, and the youngest children were no longer bused thirty miles to the Micopee school district on the mainland.

Since that time, Sunday morning services were still held in the island’s small wooden chapel and conducted by whichever citizen volunteered. The resulting variety of programs seemed to suit everyone from the most righteous to those who, like Aunt Pet, merely thought of themselves as spiritual beings.

Once back in her car, Claire drove the mile toward town. She would just have time to stop in her office on Island Avenue and look over the day’s calendar. Then, by ten o’clock, she would open her shop also located on the main thoroughfare through Heron Point.

Claire waved to neighbors in passing vehicles as she proceeded to the town hall. Heron Point was populated with as diverse a citizenry as one could find in such a small area. Except for the weekend influx of tourists, the town was mostly a quiet, peaceful place to live, which was why Claire decided to move here from Miami when her husband died of cancer almost three years ago. And why she’d been persuaded to run for mayor. Unopposed.

But as she pulled into the parking space with her title painted on the cement bumper, she was immediately aware of unusual activity. Two women waited outside the door to her office—Patty Barnes, the town’s top saleslady from Heron Point Realty, and her company’s secretary, Lucy Gaynor.

Patty hurried to the driver’s side of Claire’s car and tapped on the window. “Hurry up, Claire,” she said. “Big news. Really big news!”

Patty was too breathless to voice her excitement in complete sentences. This was big.

Claire stepped out of the car. “What’s happened?”

Lucy nudged her co-worker in the ribs. “Tell her, Pat. Tell her.”

Patty grinned with barely repressed excitement. She tucked a strand of dyed red hair behind her ear, revealing a glittery aqua seahorse dangling from the lobe. “We sold Dolphin Run! Can you believe it? The offer was just accepted last night.”

Dolphin Run? For a moment, Claire couldn’t bring to mind a property with that name. “Oh, you mean that old inn on the north shore?” she finally said.

“One and the same. The Holcombs’ heirs are overjoyed. That place has been on the market for years.”

Claire was aware of the inn’s existence, though she’d never ventured beyond the eight foot wrought iron fence that surrounded the property. Consequently, she’d never seen the interior of the old hotel, but she knew that Dolphin Run stood as a sort of silent, decaying sentinel on the island’s northernmost point. The hotel was a remnant of Heron Point’s glory days of the 1950s and 60s when wealthy and influential northerners vacationed on the secluded island.

Claire reached back into her car and grabbed her purse. Then, with Patty and Lucy following, she opened the door to the town hall, Heron Point’s only official government building. She stepped inside the room that served as both her office and the town’s meeting facility. To her left, through a pair of swinging doors, one of the town’s four-member police department sat at a desk, manning the telephone.

“Hi, Gail,” Claire called to the young officer.

“Morning, Claire.”

Patty and Lucy took a detour into the police department and began regaling Gail with the latest news. Another Heron Point employee, Ingrid Olson, peeked her neatly coiffed gray head through the doorway behind Claire’s desk that led to the town library. “What’s going on?”

“The Dolphin Run property sold,” Claire said, pointing to the next room where women’s voices had reached an exuberant pitch. “You can get the details from Patty.”

Claire sat down and opened her calendar. At nine o’-clock an electrician was scheduled to fix the faulty outlet behind the flag stand. Later, Claire had a meeting with a contractor who wanted a permit to put an addition to the marina at the entrance to the island. But now she had to return at least a dozen phone calls from citizens with concerns ranging from the placement of a stop sign to nuisance pet problems. She picked up the phone and a pencil.

“His name is Anderson,” Patty said from the next room. “I don’t know anything about him. He’s had a representative negotiate the sale. But whoever he is, his money’s good. The sale is going through today without a hitch. And no mortgage!”

Unsuccessful in tuning out the excitement about the big sale, Claire waited a moment before punching in the numbers of her first call. It was understandable that everyone would be interested in the sale of Dolphin Run, the town’s largest property. Plus, any time there were rumors of a new resident, people got excited. And nosy.

“He’s sending somebody this morning with a cashier’s check for the whole amount,” Patty said. “I’d better get back to the office. I wouldn’t want to miss him.”

Patty and Lucy scurried to the door and practically barreled into a tall, substantially built man whose muscular physique was evident even through his well-tailored black sports jacket and trousers. The ladies stepped aside to allow the stranger to enter. He nodded to their gaping faces, removed a pair of dark sunglasses and walked up the aisle between the wooden pews that seated citizens for town meetings.

Lucy whispered to Patty. “Who died?”

Patty nudged Lucy into silence. “I think he looks like Rockford,” Ingrid said. “Remember, on TV? He always wore a jacket.”

“Well, it looks to me like he’s going to a funeral.”

Claire smiled as the man came toward her. Who died indeed? Either he truly was in town to attend a memorial service or he was masquerading as a Secret Service agent. Since none of her neighbors actually wore formal clothes anymore, Claire decided that Heron Point must have become the target of some sort of federal investigation.

The man stopped in front of her, looked first into her face and then at the metal name placard on her desk. “Are you Mayor Betancourt?” he asked.

Realizing for the first time that the telephone was still in her hand and was beeping from inactivity, Claire quickly settled it back into the cradle and tapped the pencil against her desk blotter. “That’s me.”

If he was surprised or disappointed to find a woman in Heron Point’s top government position, she couldn’t tell. She stuck her hand out and he shook it. “How can I help you?”

“My employer just purchased a piece of property in Heron Point,” he said.

“It’s him, the guy who’s come to close the deal,” Patty whispered much too loudly. Neither woman had moved so much as an inch since the man had entered the office.

“I’m the supervisor of his advance team,” he continued.

Claire almost laughed. “His advance team? In advance of what?”

“His arrival in a few weeks.” The man crossed his arms over a broad chest. “Didn’t anyone tell you who my boss is?”

She shrugged. “I believe I heard the name Anderson associated with the purchase.”

“Right. I work for Archie J. Anderson.”

Claire dropped the pencil, right before she dropped her jaw. “The Archie Anderson?”

The man almost smiled as if he were used to such a response. “If by ‘the Archie Anderson’ you mean the real-estate developer responsible for many of the five-star hotels in Manhattan, not to mention a half-dozen state-of-the-art sports stadiums, then, yes.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Most people have.”

Claire leaned forward and rested her elbows on her desk. “Would you mind answering one question for me, Mr….?”

“Hogan. Jack Hogan.”

Mr. Perfect-Posture relaxed his stance just enough to reveal that he was actually made of bones and cartilage like the rest of humanity and wasn’t a concoction of metal and screws. It was a good sign that he wasn’t a robot controlled by a computer a thousand miles away. “Sure. Ask your question,” he said.

“Why would Archie Anderson buy Dolphin Run? For that matter, why is he interested in Heron Point at all?”

Jack Hogan rolled one squared-off shoulder. “Let’s just say his motives are personal. All I know is that he’s going to reopen it.”

“You’re not surprised?”

“Sure. I must admit that when we started investigating your town, I didn’t discover any of the usual incentives that generally pique Mr. Anderson’s interest.”

“You mean he isn’t ordinarily drawn to decaying old fishing resorts that haven’t housed guests in over forty years?”

There was that hint of a smile again. Claire found herself strangely drawn to it and imagining what a full-fledged grin might look like on Jack Hogan’s face.

“Something like that,” he said. “But I only work for the man. I don’t make his investment decisions.”

“What do you do…exactly?” she asked.

“I’m head of security for Anderson Enterprises. It’s my job to scrutinize the community and make whatever adjustments I feel are necessary to insure Mr. Anderson’s safety and well-being once he arrives.”

“Adjustments?” It was a strange word to use. “You don’t think your boss will be safe in Heron Point?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Hogan said. “I haven’t been here long enough to determine whether he will be or not. But Archie Anderson is a very wealthy man as well as a prudent one. He’s well aware that the world is full of opportunists and crackpots. He leaves it up to me to ferret them out and defuse situations before they happen.”

Crackpots? Claire cupped a hand over her mouth. Now would probably not be a good time to laugh at Jack Hogan’s implied image of her town. He saw Heron Point as a hotbed of potential dangers? His boss might suffer from a sunburn while he was here or perhaps break a tooth on a clam shell, but Claire doubted that any more serious problems would occur during his stay.

But, on the other hand, maybe Hogan was right about one observation he’d made. Now that Claire thought about her neighbors, she figured Archie Anderson’s security expert could uncover a few crackpots in Heron Point, though Claire liked to think of them as merely odd. She lowered her hand and gave Hogan her most serious look. “So what exactly do you want from me?” she asked.

“Cooperation. I’ll be checking things out around town, looking at your communications systems, your police protection, medical facilities, the types of businesses you have here. I might run a few background checks on the people who live here.”

Suddenly Mr. Hogan wasn’t the least bit amusing. Claire stood up and came around the desk. “Now, wait a minute….”

He stared down at her from a height advantage made worse by her flat-soled Birkenstock sandals. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I’m starting to think so. I won’t have you investigating our citizens, Mr. Hogan. We didn’t ask for you to come here, and—”

He smiled, for the first time showing a line of even, white teeth. “Believe me, Madam Mayor, once Archie Anderson makes his mark on this community, you’ll be glad we did. If anyone can put this little town on the map, it’s Anderson.”

A slow sizzle began deep inside her. How dare Hogan patronize her by telling her how she was going to feel! She took a step closer to him and glared up into a pair of storm-gray eyes that refused to blink.

“We already are on the map, Mr. Hogan,” she said. “Maybe that little dot on the Gulf of Mexico is insignificant to you. Maybe you think we’ve been sitting here for a hundred years waiting for a developer to come in and make an Archie Anderson swan out of this ugly duckling little town, but you’re wrong. You do not have my permission to investigate anyone—”

“I don’t need your permission, Miss…”

“It’s Mrs.” She delivered the correction with an unnecessary and totally self-gratifying hint of defiance to her voice.

“Fine. Mrs. Betancourt. I don’t require your permission or your husband’s to do my job.” He snapped his sunglasses over his eyes. “I happen to be very competent at what I do, and I know all the ways of doing it. I don’t need to sit in this office with your blessing and go through listings of county files to find out who lives here.” His lip twitched up again in the suggestion of a smile. “I was hoping we could work together, however.”

“Don’t push me, Mr. Hogan,” she said. “I normally get along with everyone, but you could turn out to be the exception.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and glanced at his watch. “I’m due at the realty office in a few minutes.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“It’s a small town.”

He turned away from her and walked toward the exit. He was no sooner out the door than Patty Barnes clutched her hands to her chest and said, “Wow. What a hottie.”

Lucy, starry-eyed and grinning, nodded her head in agreement.

Claire scowled at them. “Ladies, please! Shouldn’t you be at the realty office dotting some i’s on that contract?”

Her voice grabbed their attention as if she’d wakened them from a trance. They hurried out of the office. And Claire picked up the phone again. Only now she’d forgotten who she’d intended to call.

THE GREEN DOOR CAFÉ was known for its sweet raspberry iced tea, conch fritters and fried grouper. And to the locals, for its eccentric, good-hearted, clairvoyant waitress, Petula Deering. Aunt Pet claimed to be able to read minds and see into the future, which sometimes annoyed the heck out of Claire. It also scared her half to death, because, on occasion, Aunt Pet got lucky and guessed right.

Her wild platinum hair tamed into a single long braid, Aunt Pet floated over to Claire’s table in her ankle-length, earth-toned caftan. The beads on her wrists jingled delicately as she deposited a chicken-salad platter in front of her niece. Claire recommended the seafood specialties at the Green Door Café to everyone she met, but since she was allergic to shellfish, she had to take her own word for its delectability.

Petula scanned the usual midweek clientele in the café and said, “Good, everybody’s been served.” She sat at the table across from Claire, spilled a few grains of salt on the vinyl tablecloth and attempted to stand the shaker on one of its hexagonal edges. Pretending to be absorbed in her task, she said, “I heard all about your visitor this morning, Claire. Including that he works for Archie Anderson, and that he’s handsome as the dickens.”

Claire scooped a mixture of raisins and chicken onto her fork. “I don’t know if that last part’s accurate…or particularly important.”

The shaker stood at lopsided attention, balanced on one single speck of salt. “He’s not handsome?”

“I didn’t say that. He’s, well, moderately good-looking I guess.” Claire lifted the fork to her mouth. “Frankly, Aunt Pet, I had a hard time seeing past his overbearing attitude.”

Petula sat back and studied her niece in that way she had when she was drawing conclusions based on biased and often inaccurate information. “If I know you, Claire, you probably gave him as good as you got.”

Claire took a sip of iced tea. “I tried. Hogan can do whatever he wants at Dolphin Run, but I can’t let him think he can come into town and order everyone else around.”

“True, but did you let him think that you were available?”

Claire dropped her fork on the side of her plate. “What? Of course not. Why would I let him think that?”

Petula righted the salt shaker and twirled it around in her hands. “Because you are available, and because Patty Barnes said she didn’t see a wedding ring on his finger.”

Claire scoffed. “Patty was staring so hard at the man she would have noticed if he had a freckle on that finger.”

Petula poked at a wrinkle in the tablecloth. “Well, he is the first new guy in town since Sam Jenkins moved in to open the bicycle rental shop.”

“Sam Jenkins is nineteen years old, Aunt Pet.” Determined to steer this conversation in another direction, Claire said, “Besides, I’m not interested in any new men in the community for the reason you’re suggesting.”

Petula wasn’t about to be silenced, not when she was on a soapbox. “I just think it’s time you considered getting married again, sweetie.”

Oh, here we go. Another lecture on my pitifully deficient social life. Defending herself on this subject again, Claire said, “You’re a fine one to talk. You’ve been dating Finn Sweeney for how long? Something like six years?”