The Wrong Bed

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.

2

AMELIA STARED UP at the ceiling of her room at the Blackstone Inn. Somewhere deep inside the darkened inn, a grandfather clock chimed. She counted three chimes, then threw her arm over her eyes. But nothing she did helped her find the peace of sleep.

She sat up, tossed aside the down-filled pillow and swung her legs off the bed. She needed something to eat. Just a little something to get her through until breakfast. Her mind was racing with thoughts of work and Sam Blackstone; a confusing jumble that didn’t make any sense no matter how hard she tried to put it all in order.

She grabbed her sweater and pulled it on over her T-shirt and yoga pants, then searched her bag for something to put on her feet. She found a pair of socks and slipped them on. Dragging a deep breath, she snuck out into the dimly lit hall and headed for the stairs.

The stairs creaked with each step she took and Amelia winced, wondering just how far away the family slept. She assumed they had quarters somewhere in one of the newer wings. By the time she reached the kitchen, her heart was pounding and she was breathless.

“Apple pie,” she murmured. She and Sam had taken the first two pieces of the freshly baked pie. All the other guests had eaten and left the dining room by the time Amelia had finished. So the rest of the pie had to be around somewhere. Amelia searched the refrigerator first but all she found was the can of whipped cream. A search of the freezer resulted in a carton of vanilla ice cream. But there was no pie.

Amelia glanced around the kitchen and noticed an old pie safe. Tall and narrow, the ancient cabinet sat in a spot near the stone hearth. She walked over to it and ran her hand across the pierced tin panels on the door. Of course the pie would be in the pie safe.

To her surprise there was also a raspberry pie tucked in beneath the apple. She pulled them both out, set them on the island and grabbed a dinner plate and fork from the drying rack beside the sink.

The pie tasted as good as it had earlier that evening, and Amelia’s thoughts drifted back to the man who’d shared her table in the dining room.

She’d only ever had one boyfriend in her life and to say that Sam Blackstone was his exact opposite was stating the absolute truth.

Her thoughts shifted to Edward. She wasn’t really sure what to call him anymore. He’d been her boyfriend, then her fiancé and then her ex-fiancé and then her friend. He’d said he’d wait for her, but as time passed, their relationship had grown more and more distant.

Amelia took another bite of the pie and sighed softly. Edward Ardmore Reed the Third. Heir to an old and very successful Boston banking dynasty. He’d been the only man she’d ever loved. At least she’d thought she’d loved him. But he’d been her parents’ choice from a very early age. She hadn’t even dated anyone else. And when she’d broken from her parents’ control, she’d ended her engagement, as well.

In her anger and frustration, she’d thrown him in with her parents, certain that he’d try to control her life the moment her parents signed her over to him. He’d always been good to her, but Amelia wanted more.

They’d stayed in touch over the past year and Amelia knew that he hadn’t given up hope she’d come to her senses. But though there was affection between them, there had never been any heat or passion.

“Can’t sleep?”

The sound of his voice startled her and she spun around to find Sam watching her from the shadows. Her heart skipped a beat, then began pounding in earnest. “I—I didn’t see you there.” Amelia looked around, embarrassed to be caught raiding the kitchen. “I’m sorry. I’m a late-night snacker. I can’t sleep if I’m hungry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, stepping forward. “If you need anything, you just have to call.”

He was dressed only in a pair of basketball shorts that were slung low on his hips. His chest was bare, as were his feet. A tiny shiver skittered through her and her fingers twitched, eager to trace the muscles of his chest. “Would you like some?” Amelia asked.

“Sure.”

He pulled out a stool and sat at the island. “It’s been kind of a crazy day,” he murmured as he watched Amelia cut into the pie.

“Pretty crazy,” she repeated. “Not the typical day in the life of an innkeeper.”

“It’s an exciting life,” he muttered, a sarcastic edge in his voice. “Just what a guy like me always dreamed about.”

“You didn’t want to be an innkeeper?”

Sam took a bite of the pie. “Maybe at some point in my life. But not at twenty-five. To be tied down to one place for the rest of my life is kind of a daunting prospect.”

“Can’t you sell the inn?”

He shook his head. “This is a family business. It’s passed down from generation to generation, from the first son to the first son. And I got lucky. If I’d been the second son of the second son, I could have been an architect. Building great buildings instead of fixing leaky pipes.”

“You have Sarah to help you.”

“She stays out of guilt.”

“Why?”

“The tradition is that the inn is passed along in a person’s later years, almost like a job for retirement. I got it about thirty years early because my father and stepmother wanted out.”

“What about your mother?”

“They divorced when I was ten,” he said. “My mother never wanted the whole inn-keeping life. It’s a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. The demands never go away.” He sighed deeply, then rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain. Hell, I have a job and it’s not like I’m digging ditches for a living.” Sam pushed back from the counter. “I’m just going to leave you to your pie.”

“Don’t,” she said, reaching out to grab his hand. “I like the company.”

“The grumpy company?”

“You’re not grumpy.” She smiled. “Well, maybe a little bit. But that’s what the pie is for. Pie always brightens one’s spirits. Look at that cabinet over there. It’s quite a wonderful piece. A Colonial-era pie safe.”

“You’ve been examining our antiques?”

“I can’t help myself,” Amelia said. “It’s what I do. And I can tell you that I wish I had that pie safe in our collection. It’s gorgeous.”

“It was a wedding present from my seventh great-grandfather to his new wife. There’s an inscription carved in the back.”

“That’s amazing,” she said. “Do you have more? I’d love to go through the inn and see everything you have. Especially in the attic.”

“I’ll take you on a private tour,” he said.

“I’d like that,” she said. Amelia looked and realized they’d made a big dent in the pie. “I think I’d come back here just for the pie.”

“It’s an authentic Colonial recipe,” he said. “Right down to the lard. My sister believes that if you’re going to stay in an eighteenth-century inn, you need to be prepared to eat like they did then.”

“I admire that you’ve dedicated yourselves to authenticity. It’s honest and pure.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Amelia finally broke her gaze away from his and stood, placing her hands flat on the counter. “I should go to bed.”

“When are you going back to Boston?” he asked.

“When my bed is packed in the trailer,” she teased. “Do you want to get rid of me? That’s how you can do it. Pack it up and I’ll be out of here.”

“No, I don’t want to get rid of you,” he said with a grin. “I’m starting to like having you around. You make things interesting.” Sam reached out and took her hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you up to your room.”

They strolled through the dining room and the keeping room, the old plank floors creaking beneath their feet. When they reached the second floor, she had to walk ahead of him through the narrow hallway. They stood in front of her door for a long moment and Amelia noticed how dark it was in the hallway—how private, intimate.

He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her head. “It’s been an interesting day,” he murmured, his gaze scanning her features in the dim light.

“Yes, it has,” Amelia said.

“Kind of a change of pace for me.”

“Really?”

Sam nodded. “You’re the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” His gaze moved to her lips. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispered, leaning close. His lips brushed against hers. It was so sweet, so simple, that she wanted it to go on forever. But Sam seemed determined to leave her needing more. He stepped back and smiled. “Good night, Amelia. Sleep tight.”

“Sam?” she called out.

He looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Do you kiss all your guests good-night?”

He chuckled softly. “No. You’re the first.”

He continued down the hall. Amelia’s knees started to buckle and she leaned against the door for balance. This was what Sam Blackstone did to her. He kept her completely off balance, until she really wasn’t sure what was up and what was down. And she was starting to enjoy the feeling.

* * *

JERRY HAD CALLED early that morning with the news that he’d spoken to Abigail Farnsworth and she’d made a decision. He’d asked Sam to meet him at the warehouse. When Sam had asked about Amelia, Jerry had told him that he’d contact her, as well, but Sam decided to take the initiative.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, a mug of hot coffee in his hand, and walked down the hall to her room. He paused, his mind rewinding to the kiss they’d shared in the predawn hours.

Sam had never been an impulsive guy, especially when it came to women. But Amelia was unlike any other woman he’d met. From the moment he’d set eyes on her, he’d felt as though a clock had begun ticking, measuring out the minutes and hours they had together.

He had no time to contemplate every move he made. When he’d felt the urge to kiss her, he’d had to act. To his surprise, she’d seemed pleased that he’d kissed her. But he wondered if that feeling would survive the light of day. Well, he was sure he could find a pleasurable way to convince her.

Sam rapped on the door and waited. A few seconds later it swung open and Amelia greeted him with a soft, “Hi.” She brushed the dark strands of her hair out of her eyes and smiled.