Passions in the North Country (Siren Publishing Classic) (20 page)

“I’m from the bank,” he said. “Loans. Mr. Taylor.”

“Oh.”

He looked around. “Could you tell me where I might find Mr. North?”

She brushed off the dirt and cast her most glorious smile. “How do you like the new look?”

“Awesome!” he said. “Very impressive.” He smiled back. “The word around town is that you’re turning this place into something special again.”

“Helping,” Jenny corrected. “Mr. North has the superman outfit on.”

Mr. Taylor laughed. “I believe you deserve some credit, too,” he mentioned with a slight nod.

A moment later Devon returned with two bags, saw Mr. Taylor, and instantly his bright expression turned gloomy. He nodded emotionlessly at the man, glanced at Jenny, then laid the bags on the ground and went into the inn. Mr. Taylor solemnly followed him. A few seconds later, able to constrain her curiosity no longer, Jenny quietly slipped into a side door and stole up to the office. Mr. Taylor was seated and looking over some papers. Devon stood staring out the window with his back to the banker.

“You vastly overspent on the renovations,” Mr. Taylor informed him, pushing some papers onto the table, “and you’ve missed a payment at the bank. You’ve been a good client and I know you’re doing great work, but I need something to take back to my superiors. Can you tell me what, if anything, you have planned to positively influence cash flow in this business?”

“I’ll pay what I owe,” Devon said in a cranky voice, as if greatly resenting Mr. Taylor’s presence. “I always pay my bills.”

“You didn’t last month,” Mr. Taylor reminded him.

Devon bit his lip. “I think you already said that.”

“Mr. North,” the banker said, growing more serious, “you and I are both businessmen. You know as well as I do that you’ve invested money in the hope of making money. We’ve invested money in you, too, and under the same conditions. I’m under a lot of pressure to make sure you don’t fail, because if you fail, I fail.” His voice grew rigid. “And I don’t like to fail. Nothing personal, but it’s my job.”

“Nothing personal?” Devon said, his eyes flashing. “I put everything I have into this inn. I’ve worked like a dog trying to get it up to par and now you come waltzing in here with your threats. I don’t know about you, mister, but where I come from, that’s personal.”

Mr. Taylor was exasperated. “As I said on the phone, we are trying to work with you, but we have to be prudent, just like you.”

“Your people have been harassing me,” Devon said. “They’ll get paid. Just give me some time without breathing down my neck. Sheesh.”

“What if I tell you we’re not sure we want to give you any more time?”

“What if I tell you this is my inn and that you’re bloody well invited to leave.”

“You’re mistaken, Mr. North,” the banker said with a grave look. “Unless you pay your bills, this is our inn.”

The muscles in Devon’s cheek twitched and he unconsciously clenched and opened his fist. From her hiding spot near the staircase, Jenny could tell he was about to lose it. As angry as he was, with sweat on his brow and the muscles of his thick neck straining against his shirt, Devon reminded Jenny of a bull in the ring. A huge, powerful, explosive bull. She feared not only that he might say something to jeopardize his position with the bank, but that he might physically throw Mr. Taylor out. She couldn’t wait any longer. Devon might hate her for intervening, but she could not stand idly by and watch the inn come crashing down before her very eyes. She had to do something.

Jenny walked into the room with a beaming smile. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, acting surprised to find people in the office. “I didn’t realize anyone was here. I just wanted to use the phone, but I can go upstairs for that.” She looked at the banker. “You did say your name was Mr. Taylor, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Mr. Taylor answered stiffly, obviously feeling very uncomfortable.

“Are you any relation to the Mrs. Taylor who runs the craft shop in Martin Brothers?”

“She’s my wife,” he said, appreciating the friendly tone.

“What a beautiful store!” Jenny exclaimed, lightly clapping her hands. “I was there ordering the sign and I wanted to buy everything in sight. Your wife is very pleasant. I liked her very much.”

“Thank you,” he said, surrendering a smile. “That is nice of you to say.”

Jenny whispered, “I’m going to recommend your wife’s shop to our guests.” She looked left and right. “But don’t tell anybody. I don’t want other merchants in town to know I’m playing favorites.” Jenny had such a serious expression it was as if she was a spy conducting a top secret mission. “You won’t mention it, will you?”

“No,” he said seriously.

Jenny held up her hands. “It’s just that her shop is so unique.”

“That’s what she says,” Mr. Taylor noted with pride. “She calls it unique.”

“Yes, unique!” Jenny exclaimed with the enthusiasm of a doctor who has just discovered the cure for the common cold. She glanced at Devon and saw that he was smirking at her over-the-top performance. She cast him a “Shut up!” glance, then turned back to Mr. Taylor. “Good, I’m so glad we’re clear on that.” She suddenly turned back to Devon, as if suddenly remembering something. “I just got off the phone and we’ve got another bus tour looking at us.” She looked gravely concerned. “There’s so much going on right now! The main thing is that do not overbook.” She turned to Mr. Taylor. “A business like this can take right off and the next thing you’re turning people away.” She raised her finger, as if severely reprimanding Mr. Taylor. “I don’t like turning people away, you know.”

“Yes,” Mr. Taylor muttered, overwhelmed by Jenny’s presence and swagger.

“So much to do and such little time to do it,” Jenny said emotionally, as if she was a movie star in a pivotal scene who decides to take a shot at the Oscar. “It’s nuts around here! I’ve been getting calls from travel agents up the yin-yang.” She suddenly covered her mouth and laughed. “Did I say that, Mr. Taylor?”

“Say what?” he mumbled, in awe at the slick-talking American woman.

“Yin-yang,” she said with a laugh, raising her eyebrows. “Is that a bad word in Newbridge? Are you going to call the local constabulary?” She burst out laughing. “Your wife sells trinkets with yin-yangs on them, doesn’t she?”

“I don’t know,” he said, totally distracted.

“I think she does,” Jenny said slowly, biting her lip. “She’s got everything in that store but the kitchen sink. Yes, Mr. Taylor, I’m definitely giving our guests directions to Mrs. Taylor’s store.”

Then, as quickly as she had blown into the room, Jenny stopped talking. Devon watched her like a bomb disposal expert watches a suspicious package, wondering if it will go off. Mr. Taylor shifted in his seat, recovering from the assault to his senses.

“Yes, yes,” Jenny suddenly continued out of nowhere. “Mr. Taylor, your bank has been a great partner in this venture. No wonder you have such a wonderful reputation. And you, in particular, Mr. Taylor. That’s what Miriam said to me, you know. ‘Make sure you deal with Mr. Taylor. He’s the best.’” Jenny looked hard at him. “The best!” she exclaimed. “That’s from Miriam herself. Do you know Miriam, Mr. Taylor?”

“Everyone knows Miriam.”

“Yes, of course. She’s been associated with this business longer than I’ve been alive.”

“Probably twice as long,” Mr. Taylor noted.

Jenny was hoping he would say that. “Yes, sir, good point! This hotel—now an inn—has been running through the two great wars, the Depression. It stood the test of time. Just like your bank! The inn, like your bank, is almost a symbol of the true and the enduring.”

Devon rolled his eyes.

“Yes,” mumbled Mr. Taylor in a robotic, almost-hypnotized voice.

“Miriam told me your bank has a wonderful reputation not only for outstanding services, but for working with its clients. The North Country Inn is a shining example. In a few weeks, with the bank’s help, the inn has gone from a rundown shell to a heritage structure that instills pride in the whole town. It’s the heart and soul of Newbridge, Mr. Taylor. No one can deny it. No one.” She looked at him without blinking. “Right, Mr. Taylor?”

“It has definitely improved,” he conceded.

“I absolutely agree with you,” Jenny said sweetly. “I absolutely agree with everything you say! The North Country Inn is the heart and soul of Newbridge.” She suddenly shook her head. “And I’ll challenge anyone who says you’re wrong, Mr. Taylor. Anyone! I’ve got your back. And you want to know why?”

“Why?” he asked, as timid as a mouse.

“Because you’re right,” she said. “And your bank is right.” She paused. “I’ve only been here a short while, but from all accounts the work Mr. North has done is nothing short of phenomenal. And whenever people pass by, they see not only a revamped inn, but a positive example of what a citizen can do in partnership with your bank. Your bank, Mr. Taylor. This inn is a living, breathing advertisement for your bank. It’s like a Super Bowl commercial for free. For that very reason, any bank would fight to have a partnership with the North Country Inn. But they’ll just have to dream on.” She nodded and winked. “Contest is over. You won first prize.”

“Right,” Mr. Taylor mumbled, now laid to waste in Jenny’s onslaught.

“I remember a similar situation in Los Angeles,” Jenny continued, deciding to drive the final nail in the coffin. “A beautiful heritage hotel was restored and everyone knew it would be a tremendous success. But the bank got impatient and moved in too quickly. They ended up with a huge outstanding loan, a building they had to sell at a major loss and, worst of all, terrible negative publicity. I mean, take the North Country Inn. Everyone loves what’s been done here. The community is excited, not only because a priceless monument has been restored, but because there’s great potential for drawing tourist dollars into the area. This type of inn can attract people who just want to say they stayed at the North Country. You’ll also see people stay for longer periods than the typical overnighters. That means more money spent in the area, increased business, new jobs. The potential is limited only by the imagination. This inn is a gold mine not only for your bank, Mr. Taylor, but for Newbridge itself.”

“Yes,” he stammered.

“The restaurant is open, everything is coming together exactly as planned, and Newbridge is full of this energy.” Her face became animated, as if she was a preacher delivering a powerful sermon. “This is so exciting, Mr. Taylor!”

“Yes, yes,” he assented, overwhelmed by her beauty and her enthusiasm. Mr. Taylor was like a leaf lying on the ground that is swept up by an unstoppable tornado. “Yes,” he said again, succumbing to Hurricane Jenny.

“Well, it’s been very nice to meet you, Mr. Taylor,” Jenny said sweetly. “Say hello to your wife for me.” She smiled and backed away. “I’ll go use the phone in my room.” She looked at Devon and silently told him not to spoil her chance at the Academy Award. He didn’t have to try for the Oscar, but he was not to be a liability against her performance. “There’s some more very exciting business news I’d like to discuss with you later, Mr. North,” she said in the tone of a business assistant. “It’s regarding a major booking I just took.” She lowered her voice. “But we’ll talk about it later.”

Devon knew she was lying. “Another one?” he said.

Mr. Taylor looked at Devon. “I’ll talk to head office and see what kind of a time extension I can get. But I can’t promise anything because, in the end, the bottom line is that you need cash flow.” He paused. “My superiors authorized me to use my judgment in this case. Everything considered, let’s say a three-month extension, no penalty.”

“Agreed,” Devon said, softening. He shook Mr. Taylor’s hand. “Thank you, sir, and please forgive me if I sounded rash. I’ve been working so hard of late.”

“Apology accepted,” Mr. Taylor said. “The inn looks fantastic. The sign sets it off like I’ve never seen before.”

“The Martin Brothers do great work,” Devon noted.

“Yes, they do,” Mr. Taylor said, then left.

“That’s positive,” Devon said, looking at Jenny with great appreciation. “He’s happy.”

“Appeased,” Jenny replied with the look of a general on the field of battle, “and only temporarily. Time to crank it up, Devon. We have to start putting bodies in the sacks.”

“You do whatever you want,” he said, holding up his hands. “I give you free rein.”

“Good,” she said thoughtfully, her eyes mightily distracted. “That’s a smart move.”

Devon suddenly, but gently, ran his fingers through Jenny’s hair. Then he tenderly kissed her lips. Jenny responded in kind. At first, he kissed her softly, but then with growing desire, and she could feel his strength against her soft body. He wanted her, craved her, needed her—but she pulled away.

Jenny smoothed back her hair. “I’ve got to get ready for the historical society meeting in half an hour.”

“Okay,” he said weakly, his knees almost buckling.

* * * *

Jenny went to her room and changed into a flowery, ankle-length dress. Only then did she notice her underwear by the door, discarded while still warm with her body heat, smelling of her sweat and natural scent. She wondered if Devon had seen her bra and panties. She hoped he had. She hoped he had picked up her underwear and smelled them, getting a big, raging hard-on in the process. She wanted a man like that, a man’s man, a man who would kiss her anywhere and love it. A man who would lie on his back or kneel behind her, a man who wanted it hot and hard, a man who was not afraid of satisfying her strong hunger.

That time would come. Sooner or later, it would come. It would be sexy, raunchy, hot, greedy, insatiable. Yes, she knew, knew beyond all doubt, that the relationship between the Captain and Maria would not be repeated. Bodies would slap this time. Fluids would be exchanged. Peaks reached…But that time had not yet come.

Jenny walked to the meeting of the historical society, arriving exactly on time. Mrs. Harris, president of the Newbridge Historical Society, greeted her at the door and introduced her to the other members, all of whom were there because they knew Jenny was coming and everyone wanted to meet her. Within minutes she had charmed all of them, as some women are able to do. They chatted for awhile and then Jenny made her pitch.