Love Came Just in Time (17 page)

And once she was properly impressed, he would turn his thoughts to procuring some other kind of machinery. If there was a laptop within a hundred miles, he would find it.

He shaved quickly, then showered, hoping a good scrub would leave him smelling less like char. He tied a towel about his hips and dragged his hands through his hair, surprised at how much better he felt. Perhaps that was what he'd needed all along. He wiped off the fog from the mirror and stared at himself. A bit of holiday now and then wasn't such a bad thing. Snatching the occasional half hour every few months for a bit of rejuvenation might improve his disposition.

He stepped out of the bathroom, humming cheerfully. Then he came to a teetering halt.

His suitcase was on fire.

Or, more to the point, the clothes in his suitcase were on fire.

“Damn it!” he exclaimed.

He whipped off the towel and leaped across the room to beat out the flames. It took more doing than he'd expected, almost as if the fire was determined to burn through every last article of clothing he'd brought with him.

By the time all that was left was a bit of smoke wafting lazily toward the ceiling, Gideon was sweating and swearing with equal intensity.

He stared down at the ruins of his clothes, ashes which of course contained the clothes he'd been wearing earlier, and wondered at which end of his more colorful vocabulary to start. He had the pair of boxers he'd worn into the bathroom. Period.

He waved away more smoke. It was becoming a bad habit. He waved a bit more and considered.

“Hell,” he said, finally, unable to find anything else that properly expressed the depths of his disgust. He folded his arms over his still damp chest and glared at no one in particular.

“Would anyone care to tell me what I'm supposed to wear now?” he demanded. “The bed linens?”

There was a small squeak from the wardrobe to his right. His gaze snapped immediately to it and he looked at it narrowly. Wonderful. No clothes, but likely a very large rodent. He strode over to the wardrobe and jerked the door open.

There was nothing inside but a pair of baggy yellow tights and a long green tunic.

Gideon stared, agog. Tights? There was no way in hell he was going to put on a pair of yellow—

The tights shook themselves.

Gideon frowned. There had to be some kind of hole in the back of the bloody armoire. With that kind of draft, Heaven only knew what sorts of things were making their nests inside.

The tights wiggled again, brushing the tunic and sending it dancing as well.

Well, it was either wear the blasted things or go naked. Perhaps Mrs. Pruitt could be persuaded to go out in the morning and procure him something suitable.

Gideon donned his boxer shorts, then retrieved the tights from the closet. He stuck his feet into the legs and drew them up. It wasn't a pretty sight. He took an experimental step or two, finding the way the tights scrunched up between his toes to be highly irritating. He swore and hitched the tights up forcefully.

Then he coughed and abruptly hitched them back down.

He put on the tunic. It felt more comfortable than he'd dared hope. He looked into the wardrobe again, wondering if by chance there might be something to put on his feet.

Oh, but there was.

He pulled out a pair of bright purple elf shoes. Indeed, they could be nothing but elf shoes. The toes curled up several times. Gideon looked at them askance. Just watching him walk would probably put any rational person into a trance. Perhaps he could use them to hypnotize Miss McKinnon, aiding her in recovering what memories she had to have of him.

Gideon put on the shoes, cursing over the renewed scrunching of tights between his toes. But he didn't hitch; he'd learned his lesson about that.

He jerked open his bedroom door.

“The court jester arrives,” he groused. “Dinner can begin.”

MEGAN WALKED DOWN the hallway, feeling completely ridiculous in the King Arthur-era dress that made her look as if she expected the deluge to turn into a flood at any moment—and boy would she be prepared with her hemline halfway to her knees! If her own clothes hadn't been wringing wet, she would have put them back on and taken her chances with pneumonia.

Well, it wasn't as if she was out to impress anyone. And not that anyone in the vicinity would have forgotten about business long enough to be impressed. Gideon de Piaget was a man who needed to learn to relax. She could have taught him a thing or two about leaving work behind. Considering the times she'd done just that involuntarily, she could have written a book on the subject.

Megan descended the last of the stairs only to find that Mrs. P. was no longer at her post. Megan took that as a sign: either the woman had flipped out and left the inn for good or she had retreated to the kitchen to whip up something for dinner. Megan sincerely hoped for the latter. The taste of airline food still lingered in her mouth.

Not knowing where to go, Megan began opening doors. She found a sitting room boasting the same kind of comfortable clutter her own bedroom did. It was tempting to curl up in one of the overstuffed chairs and do her best to forget the last twenty-four hours. On the other side of the hall was a beautiful library with shelves stocked full of books, and a cheery fire burning in the hearth.

After searching through several more rooms, she opened up a double door and hit the jackpot. This room contained a long, elegant dinner table, chairs, a side buffet, and several other chairs sitting against the walls seemingly waiting for their turn to be needed. Megan took it all in, delighted by the atmosphere. Then she realized what had nagged at her from the start.

There were no places set. No fine linens, no silverware, no candles in silver candelabras. Maybe Mrs. P. had driven off all her helpers.

Or maybe she'd driven herself off and Megan would be left to fend for herself.

The thought was terrifying.

All of a sudden there was a terrible clang. Megan ran to the door at the back of the dining room, then stopped short. What if intruders had come in? She looked around, snatched a handy ornamental dagger from the wall and put her hand on the doorknob. Maybe those fencing lessons would finally be of some use.

She opened the door a crack and looked into the kitchen.

Mrs. Pruitt was doing battle with thin air. She held a lid up as a shield and waved a cleaver in front of herself, frantically fighting off something Megan couldn't for the life of her see.

“Nay, I'll not listen to reason!” Mrs. Pruitt shouted. “Ye bloody Scot, I'm sick to death of ye and all yer undead cohorts! I'll sign the bloody deed and be done with ye all!”

And then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Pruitt dropped her pot lid and her blade and clapped her hands over her ears. With a screech she turned and ran straighttoward Megan. Megan jumped out of the way, then turned and watched, openmouthed, as the woman ran the length of the dining room. Gideon stood at the far doorway, wearing a similar look of disbelief.

“Out of my way,” Mrs. Pruitt said, giving him a healthy shove. “I'll not stay here another minute with these bloody old ghosts ahounding me!”

Megan watched Mrs. Pruitt disappear out into the hallway, then looked at Gideon, wondering what he thought it all meant.

Then she did a double take. Gideon was dressed in bright yellow tights and an apple green tunic that barely covered, well, all the important parts. His sandy hair was mussed. His aqua eyes were blazing. And his tights were sagging at the knees. That didn't even begin to address his shoes.

Megan set down her dagger and clapped her hand over her mouth. She didn't clap fast enough: an errant giggle escaped before she could stop it.

Gideon's expression darkened considerably.

“Oh my gosh,” she gasped, doubling over and wheezing. “If your board of directors could see you now!”

“Ah ha!” he said, striding forward and wagging his finger at her. “You
do
know who I am! I knew it would come to you soon enough. Perhaps you've seen me gracing the cover of
Fortune
, or clawing my way up the
Forbes 4
—”

Megan put her hand over his mouth. “Be quiet,” she said, straining her ears. “I think a door just slammed.”

“Wovwee,” Gideon said. He. took her hand away. “Lovely,” he repeated crisply. “We likely have other guests arriving and here I am, impersonating Robin Hood.”

Megan did her best to put on a sober expression. “I don't think Robin Hood would have been caught dead dressed like that.”

Gideon looked at her archly. “At least what I'm wearing reaches where it's supposed—”

“Sshh,” she said, “listen.”

They stood, silently, listening.

“I don't hear anything,” he whispered.

“Neither do I . . .” she began, then realized he hadn't let go of her hand.

It occurred to her, strangely enough, that she didn't mind. His hand was very warm. It was a comfortable sort of hand, the kind you would reach for across a dinner table or as you walked down a country road. Megan looked at her hand surrounded by his and was struck by the perfect picture it made.

She looked up at him to find a most thoughtful look resting on his face. In fact, for possibly the first time since he'd drenched her, he was looking at her and truly seeing her. Completely. Intensely.

It was enough to make her start fanning herself again.

Then she paused. Other than her own heavy breathing, there was no noise.

“Mrs. Pruitt,” she whispered. “Oh, no, Mrs. Pruitt!”

“Wait—”

“She's not screeching anymore,” Megan said, pulling Gideon toward the hallway. “We can't let her leave!”

Gideon seemed to be struggling to keep up with her. She spared him a brief glance. The toes of his shoes were flapping wildly as he dashed alongside her.

And then the unthinkable happened.

His curly toes curled together.

He went down like a rock.

Megan left him behind without a second thought. She fled into the hallway just in time to see Mrs. Pruitt come dashing out from the library. The woman bolted for the front door, her apron strings fluttering furiously behind her.

The front door closed behind her with a resounding bang.

“Help!” Gideon called.

Megan ignored him. She leaped the remaining few steps to the door like a champion long jumper and jerked it open. She clutched the door frame.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed.

She heard Gideon thumping behind her. He lurched to a teetering halt on his knees at the threshold.

“Oh, no!” Megan repeated, pointing frantically outside.

“Oh, yes,” Gideon corrected grimly. “There she goes, pedaling her bicycle off into the gloom.”

“No other helpers?” she asked, looking down at him as he knelt beside her, staring off morosely after their former hostess.

Gideon shook his head. “My brother favors this inn for precisely that reason. Mrs. Pruitt is a widow and only hires in help from the village. There'll be someone in during the week to clean, but she does everything else. The place'll be dead as nails until then.”

Megan looked off at the increasingly small figure of their innkeeper. “Think she just ran to the store for an egg?”

He shook his head slowly.

Megan looked out into the twilight and sighed. “We're stuck, then.”

“It looks that way.”

“Doomed.”

“Very likely.”

“We'll starve before they find us.” She looked down at him. “I can't cook.”

A faint look of panic descended onto his features. “You can't?”

“Hot chocolate is the extent of my skills,” she admitted. “How about you?”

“I'm a powerful executive. I have a chef.”

“Ah,” she said, with a nod. “I was afraid of that. You know, I got a job a few months ago to try to learn, but . . .” She shrugged. “It didn't work out.”

“It didn't? Not even for an edible few dishes?”

“Nope. Fast food is unhealthy. I couldn't cook it in good conscience.”

“Sacked?” he asked kindly.

“As usual,” she sighed.

He laughed softly. “Oh, Megan,” he said, shaking his head.

Megan was so surprised by the sound that she had to look at him again, just to make sure he'd been the one to make it. And the sight of him smiling was so overwhelming, she had to lean back against the door frame for support.

“Wow,” she breathed.

The smile didn't fade. “Wow?”

“You have a great laugh.”

His smile was immediately replaced by a look of faint puzzlement. “Do I? No one's ever told me that before.”

“They must have been distracted by your powerful and awe-inspiring corporate self.”

“Ah
ha
,” he said triumphantly, “you really
do
recognize me this time.”

Megan rolled her eyes, pushed away from the door and started back to the kitchen. “Let's go see if Mrs. P. left us a cookbook.”

“Wait,” he said, maneuvering himself onto his backside. “I seem to have tangled my toes.”

Megan watched him fumble with the spirals for a moment before she knelt, pushed his hands away and did the honors herself.

“Nicely done,” he said, sounding genuinely impressed.

“I subbed for Snow White once. You'd be amazed what trouble dwarf toes can get into.”

“Hmmm,” he said, looking down at his feet.

Megan looked at him and felt something in the vicinity of her heart crumble. Just the sight of this intense and (by his own admission) powerful man sitting there with his sandy hair mussed, his tights bagging now around his ankles, playing with the toes of his purple elf shoes—well, it was enough to make a girl want to throw her arms around him and hug him until he couldn't breathe. That any man should look so ridiculous and so adorable at the same time was just a crime.