A Princess for Christmas

“Mariabella!”

She turned at the sound of the familiar voice. “Miss Louisa. How are things with you?”

The older lady hurried over to Mariabella, her portly dachshund tottering at her feet, his four legs struggling to walk underneath the thick red Santa coat Louisa Brant had buckled around the long, short-haired dog. “Have you heard the latest? About that man trying to buy up our property?”

“I have. And I am not selling.”

“I was thinking about it. You know how I hate the winters here. It sure would be nice to retire in Florida. Take me and my little George here down to a sunny little place for the rest of our days.” She let out a long sigh, and clasped her thick wool coat tighter, as if just the thought had her feeling winter’s chill a little more.

“If you do, who would head the women’s tea every New Year?”

Louisa patted Mariabella’s hand. “Now, dear, you know that’s hardly my doing at all. You’re the one who takes care of all of us in this town. Why you’re practically a one-woman organizing dynamo. I don’t know how little Harborside existed before you came along. You’ve got us holding dances, and teas, and summer regattas and all kinds of things. This place has become a regular hotbed of activity.” Louisa laughed. “Or maybe a hot water bottle, considering how tiny we are.”

Mariabella smiled. “I am not doing this alone. I have a lot of help.”

“Every spear has a point, you know.” Louisa’s dog gave a tug on the leash, straining toward the park on the other side of the street. “Well, I must be going.”

“Miss Louisa—”

The older woman turned back. “Yes, dear?”

“Promise me you’ll talk to me before you consider selling to that man. We businesses in Harborside have to stick together. Surely, as a group, we’ll be fine.”

Louisa smiled, but her smile shook a little. “Of course, dear.”

Then she was gone, the dachshund’s tail wagging happily. He seemed to be the only one pleased with the way the conversation had ended.

Mariabella redoubled her determination to rid Harborside of this interloper. As long as he was here, people would continue to be upset and worried about their futures. Louisa loved her shop and had never mentioned retiring before today. Once this stranger was gone, everyone would calm down again and business would return to normal. She returned her attention to his limo, and to the license plate.

Okay, so now she knew two things. He was wealthy. And he was from out of town, but not so far that the distance couldn’t be driven. She hurried down the sidewalk and peered around a telephone pole at the limo’s license plates.

New York. She started memorizing the numbers, intending to call Reynaldo and have him—

“Checking me out?”

Mariabella jumped at the sound of his voice, and pivoted back. The man stood a mere two feet behind her, close enough that she could see the shades of cobalt flecked with gold in his eyes. See the sharp angle of his jaw, catch the woodsy scent of his cologne. Notice him three times more than she had earlier today.

But not be affected one iota. At all.

“Yes.” Damn. She hated having to admit that to him. He’d startled her and she couldn’t come up with another excuse.

“I’m no criminal, I assure you, and I have only the best intentions.”

“Depends on who you ask, and how you interpret your intentions.”

A smirk raised one side of his lips. “Touché.”

She glanced back over her shoulder at the limo, trying again to memorize the numbers on the license plate. If this man wasn’t going to tell her who he was or why he was here, she would find out for herself.

“Planning on playing detective?” he asked, reading her mind.

“No.” Mariabella was not much better at lying than she was with idioms, and a flush filled her cheeks.

“I’ll save you the trouble of bothering the local police chief. Not that he seems to have much to do in a town this size.” The man reached into his suit jacket, withdrew a slim silver case and produced a business card. “Jacob Lattimore, CEO of Lattimore Properties.”

She took the embossed white linen card. It was simple and clean, giving only a New York address and an office telephone number. Nothing that told her who he was, or why he had picked her town—and she had come to think of Harborside as hers, ever since the little community had welcomed her, without reservation—and what he intended to do here. “What kind of properties?”

“Resorts. Vacation properties. Condos, hotels.”

Mariabella’s jaw dropped. “Harborside is not that kind of town.”

Another smile, the kind she was beginning to hate. “It can be, once the owners of the shops along this boardwalk see how a Lattimore resort can transform this place into a money machine for everyone.” He waved a hand down the length of the boardwalk, as if he were a magician, making all of it disappear, and in its place, creating a gargantuan eyesore of a hotel.

Thus turning Harborside into a cartoon version of what it was right now, something he’d stamp on some silly brochure and market to travelers, as a “destination.”

Panic gripped Mariabella. He couldn’t be serious. If he did this, he would destroy the very refuge she had found. Ruin the small little town that had wrapped around her, safe and secure, like the cottage she’d been renting. Turning Harborside into a resort town would not only change the very fabric of the community, but worse, it would attract the very people she had tried so hard to avoid all these years—

Her peers. Her family. And worst of all, the media.

If any of the above came to Harborside, her biggest nightmare would come to life.

And her secrets would be exposed.

Her world here would be ripped apart, and she would be forced to return to the one she had left. Forced to step up and take her rightful place beside her mother and father. And eventually, on the throne.

No. She wasn’t ready, not yet. She had more time, not much, but a little, and she needed it desperately to have this…

Normalcy. Peace. Anonymity.

And then, maybe, yes, she could go back to the birdcage. But on her terms, not Jacob Lattimore’s.

She had to stop this man. Had to convince the other business owners on the Community Development Committee to hold firm, and refuse to sell. Surely, as a group, they would have the strength necessary to fend off his offers, no matter how tempting he made his financial proposals. Harborside would be preserved, just as it was, and Mariabella could be sure her town would never change.

“I understand you see this town as some kind of—” he waved vaguely “—step back in time. A little bit of nostalgia. But nostalgia, unfortunately, doesn’t always make money. You have to face reality, Miss Romano, you and the other business owners. Travelers want more on their vacations than a pretty view.”

She stared at him and fumed. “There are some people who want a quiet place to stay, not a zoo.”

“But not enough people. Your town is struggling, and the sooner you face the fact that you need a property like mine to shake things up, the better off everyone will be.” He glanced around at the garland draped between the streetlights and the crimson bows hanging on the storefronts. “No amount of Christmas spirit—” the last two words slipped off his tongue with a taste of sarcasm “—will mask the scent of desperation.”

“No one here is desperate.”

He arched a brow. A silent disagreement.

Mariabella wanted to throw a thousand arguments in his face. Except, there were a few businesses along the boardwalk that had struggled in recent months, a fact she could not overlook, no matter how hard she tried. A few who would jump at the chance to retire, or find a buyer for buildings that housed inventory that hadn’t sold in months. Harborside, like many seaside towns, struggled to compete for tourist dollars, and the members of the Community Development Committee had been brainstorming for months ways to increase traffic flow to the tiny town.

Jake Lattimore would not be the answer, no matter what. The town was not that desperate. To get rid of him, however, meant Mariabella needed to do whatever it took to protect what she loved.

Whatever it took.

Jake watched Mariabella Romano hurry down the sidewalk—in the opposite direction of her gallery—and had to admit he was intrigued.

She hated him.

And he liked that.

Clearly, he needed therapy, or a drink.

He opted for the drink. Faster, cheaper and easier. And in the opposite direction of the limo, where William had undoubtedly witnessed the entire exchange, and was waiting to offer his two cents about fireplaces and Christmas “presents.”

Jake didn’t need to hear that. Didn’t need any more advice from well-meaning people who told him to move on with his life. He’d spent five years moving on—by working.

He gave Mariabella one last glance—she was beautiful, a tall woman with curves in all the right places—before ducking into the Clamshell Tavern. Blues music greeted him, along with a nautical décor. White painted pine walls, navy blue vinyl seats and life rings hanging on the walls printed with the restaurant’s name.

All kitsch, all the time. Jake tried hard not to roll his eyes.

“Table for…one?” the hostess asked, peering around him, as if she thought he had a friend hiding in his pocket.

“I’ll just sit at the bar. Thanks.” He pushed through the glass doors and into the lounge area, which featured more of the same décor.

Good thing he rarely got seasick.

“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender, a rotund man in a red-and-white striped shirt, something that was probably supposed to be pirate style, but came off looking more like barber shop clown.

“Your best vodka. Dry. Two olives.”

The bartender nodded, then turned and mixed the drink. A minute later, he slid the glass in front of Jake and headed down to the opposite side of the bar.

An unappetizing mix of nuts and something resembling pretzels sat in a bowl to Jake’s left. He pushed it away. What he wouldn’t give for a tray with a good aged gouda, accompanied by a pear and cinnamon relish. Maybe a salad with grilled endive, apples and glazed fennel. Some real food, not this stuff that came out of a bag thrown together in a factory.

If he were back in New York, he’d have any gourmet food he wanted at his beck and call. He’d attended dinners, parties, openings, dining on the best the local chefs had to offer.

Lately, though, those platters had been leaving him with a feeling of emptiness, as if he could eat and eat and never have his fill. Or, as if every meal had too much fluff, and not enough substance.

Restlessness had invaded his sleep, his thought patterns—and at the worst possible time. He needed to be focused, aware, in order to execute this deal and prove himself to the company, while also boosting the bottom line.

Once the Harborside project was underway, surely that hole in his gut would fill.

It would.

“Well, you sure know how to rile people up around here, don’t you?” A man slid onto the stool beside Jake. He had a shock of white hair, and wore a long flannel shirt over a pair of thick khakis. He looked about sixty-five, maybe seventy, and sat at the bar with the ease of someone who had been there a time or twenty. “The usual, Tony.”

The bartender nodded, reached in the cooler and popped the top on a beer. He slid the dark beer down the bar to the older man, with a friendly hello, then went back to washing glasses.

“So, why are you doing it?” he said.

Jake pivoted toward the other man. “Are you talking to me?”

“Do you see someone else in this bar who’s got the whole town in a tizzy?” The older man arched a brow, then put out his hand. “Name’s Zeke Carson, short for Ezekiel, though no one calls me that and gets an answer. I’m the newspaper editor for this town, except our paper’s more like a newsletter.” He chuckled. “Small-town living. You gotta love it.”

Jake shook with Zeke. Will would have been proud to see Jake making a friend, of sorts. An acquaintance, really, but at least he could go back to the limo and reassure Will he hadn’t remained a hermit.

“Jake Lattimore.” No sense keeping his name a secret any longer. Mariabella Romano had undoubtedly set Zeke on him, another guard dog to chase him out of town. If she hadn’t already nailed up WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE posters around town with his name and face on them, Jake figured it was only a matter of time.

Instead of annoying him, as something like that might on any other day, with any other project, it had him even more intrigued.

Charged up. Ready to rise to whatever challenge Mariabella threw his way.

He hadn’t felt that way in a while. It had to be the Harborside project, not the woman, that had him feeling so challenged—because that was where his energies lay right now, and where they should lay.

Despite what Will had said, Jake had no intentions of entangling himself in another relationship. Especially not at this time of year.

He stared down into his drink, the frosted clear liquid a mirror to his heart. Five years ago this month.

Five years. Some days, it felt like five minutes.

Zeke took a sip of his beer. “I know who you are. Knew before you got here.”

Jake arched a brow, pushing the other thoughts aside. “You did?”

“I may edit a small-town paper, Mr. Lattimore, but that doesn’t make me stupid. I read the financial pages. I know all about your company, and I knew you were looking for some coastal properties to add to your portfolio.” Zeke grinned. “Read it in an issue last month.”

Jake nodded. “I’m impressed.”

Zeke tipped his beer in Jake’s direction. “I am, too. You’re one of those wunderkinds. Rocketship to the top and all that.”

Jake shrugged. He hated that label. Maybe he should color his hair gray. That might stop people from commenting on his status at the top of the company before he’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday.

“Must make your dad proud.”

“Something like that,” Jake said. He tugged his PDA out of his jacket pocket and began thumbing through his e-mails, hoping Zeke would get the hint and stop talking.

He didn’t.

“’Cept your dad’s had some troubles lately, I read. Company’s struggling a little.”

“It’s fine,” Jake said.

“And you…wasn’t there something that happened a few years back…?” Zeke rubbed at his chin. “Can’t remember what it was. Some accident and—”

“I’m not here to discuss my personal life, Mr. Carson.” The words clipped off Jake’s tongue. Harsher than he’d intended.

“Zeke, please.”

“Zeke.”

The other man didn’t say anything for a minute. Jake hoped he’d given up on the conversation. Zeke drank his beer, watched the game on television. Then he shifted in his seat toward Jake again. “So, why Harborside?”

Jake thought of cutting off the conversation, then reconsidered. Perhaps talking to the local newspaper editor would be a good idea. Could garner some good press for Lattimore Properties. “You read the financial pages. You tell me, Zeke.”

Zeke thought a second, clearly pleased to have his own brain picked. “It’s undiscovered. Centrally located. Has just enough beach for one of your fancy-shmancy hotels, but not so much sand that the place’ll get crowded with big bucks homeowners and their McMansions.”

“So far, so good.” Jake pushed the PDA aside, and reached for his drink, but didn’t sip it.

“Let’s see…” Zeke leaned forward, his gaze meeting Jake’s. “You like a challenge, and Harborside is one. We’re New Englanders. Stubborn, set in our ways. Not much for change of any kind. Hence, the big challenge. Why pick an unpopulated area, with no one to push around and bully when you corporate giants can go after this place and have a little fun while you’re at it?”

Was that how people saw him and the company? As a bully? “I offer a fair price for the land. The buildings. There are no strong-arm tactics at work.”

“Maybe that’s how you see it.” Zeke raised his beer, took a sip, then put it down again. “You oughta read the paper more often. Sometimes it gives you the side of the story you’re not seeing.”

Jake had little use for the media. He found most reporters intrusive, annoying and hardly interested in anything other than a sensationalized headline to splash across their pages. He called them when he needed press for a new launch, tried to stay under their radar the rest of the time. “I’m only concerned about the business section, Mr. Carson,” he said.

“Zeke, please. Mr. Carson makes me sound like my father, and he’s old.”

Jake laughed. Despite everything, he found he liked Zeke. “Zeke it is.”

Zeke finished his beer, then slid off the stool. He placed a firm hand on Jake’s shoulder and met his gaze, with light blue eyes that had seen and experienced a lot of life. “I’m not here to tell you if your plans for this town are good or bad. There are arguments on both sides of the fence for that, and enough people to battle it out to start World War Three. But take some advice from a young-at-heart newspaperman.” He glanced around the bar, not to see if anyone was listening, but as if he was trying to include the Clamshell Tavern in his case. “There are people whose whole lives are Harborside, and what you’re proposing will turn their lives upsidedown. I’ve seen and read about the kinds of hotels your company builds, and they may not be the right ones for here. Change isn’t always a good thing, and you have to think about what’s going to happen after you build this thing and head back to your big glass office in New York.”

“What do you mean?”

Zeke pointed out the window, at a ship cutting through the cold ocean. “See that boat? It’s plowing forward, on to its destination. It doesn’t think about what happens in its wake. What the propeller is doing to the fish, the seaweed, all the flora and fauna living in the dark water underneath. That’s why those channel markers are out there, to keep the boats in line. Keep them from destroying nature.”

“And I’m the big bad boat, ripping up the seaweed in my wake, is that it?”

“You can choose to be, or you can choose to be a sailboat, leaving the ocean more or less as you found it.” Zeke gave Jake’s shoulder one last pat. “Think about it.”

The old man left, and Jake turned back to his drink. Well, he’d been given a warning and a philosophy lesson, all at once. Seemed this town didn’t want him around. Jake didn’t care. He saw a business opportunity here, one he needed, on a professional and a personal level, and he had no intentions of walking away from it.

Outside the window, he saw Mariabella Romano striding up the boardwalk toward the Clamshell Tavern. As he watched her, he realized something he hadn’t noticed before.

She had a way about her that didn’t seem to fit this town. Heck, this world. It was more than the accent, the exotic beauty. She carried herself straight and tall, spine absolutely in line, as if she were balancing a book on her head and her stride—well, that could almost be called…

Regal. Yeah, that was the word for it.

Maybe she’d gone to one of those finishing schools or grown up in a wealthy home. Either way, she didn’t fit his image of a small-town art gallery owner.

She entered the tavern, then the bar, her fiery gaze lighting on him as if he were the devil incarnate. A grin slid across his face. “Miss Romano. Just the person I wanted to talk to. I have an offer for you.”

“And I have one for you.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I would like to pay you to leave Harborside, and find another town for your hotel. Name your price, Mr. Lattimore, and I will pay it.”

Just when Jake had thought things couldn’t get more interesting—

They did.

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS an incredible risk, and Mariabella knew it.

But if money was what it would take to rid Harborside of Jake Lattimore, then she would take that chance. She had resources she could dip into—not an endless pool, of course, but probably more than enough to get this man to change his course. “So,” she said, “what is your price?”

He chuckled. “You couldn’t pay it. Not unless you have a few masterpieces in the back of your gallery that I don’t know about.”

“I have the resources I need to make this offer,” she said, leaving the issue of where the money was coming from out of the discussion.

He leaned an elbow on the bar and studied her, clearly amused. She shifted under his scrutiny. How long had it been since a man stared at her like that, with such clear interest?

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