Forgotten Father (14 page)

Laughing, he allowed her to urge him into his chair,
the still blazing cake on the desk in front of him. He felt touched
and foolish, all at once. Not since his grandmother’s death when he
was a teenager had he had a birthday cake with candles to blow
out.

Ignoring the sudden rush of emotion clogging his
throat, Mitchell took a breath.

“Don’t forget the wish!”

To please her, he closed his eyes and hesitated,
only one wish rising in his mind. That this moment would actually
be the way life really and that his laughing, sexy redhead would
keep wanting to bring him birthday celebrations.

“Blow!” she urged when he hesitated too long for her
taste. “How complicated can a wish be?”

Mitchell opened his eyes and blew out the candles,
choosing not to think about how tangled was this particular
wish.

“Here.” She flew over to the kitchenette and
rummaged through the cabinets till she found a knife and two
saucers. Advancing with purpose on the smoldering cake, she hacked
out a wedge with a haphazard flourish.

Mitchell frowned, remarking humorously, “You’d think
a woman with an eye as good as yours could do a better job cutting
a cake.”

“Celebratory cakes are supposed to be cut with more
passion than precision,” she pronounced loftily as she slid the
piece of cake onto the saucer, extinguished candles and all.

Lifting one of the candles, she brought it to her
mouth and licked off the frosting.

Mitchell stared at her, a bolt of heat lightening
sizzling through his body.

God, she was beautiful. Warm and funny. Smart and
sexy. He wanted her right then. Here in his grandfather’s lair, on
top of the desk, in the chair. Any where. He wanted to kiss the
smile off her face, wanted to again hold her naked body against
his.

All because she’d brought him a silly cake and
teased him into sharing her bright, particular madness.

He couldn’t remember a moment quite like this. An
instance as light and shimmering as a soap bubble. Out of some
whimsical impulse, she’d splashed sunlight over him. For no
ulterior reason, she’d brought him a celebration.

Still clutching the saucer with its untidy spill of
cake crumbs, he said, “Thank you for the celebration.”

***

“What did you say?” Mitchell snapped, drawing Ben
Norton’s attention from the papers in the resort manager’s
hand.

Ben looked up from his desk, blinking. “I…just said
we’re almost ready for the Goldberg wedding. Oh, oh, yes. We’re
referring to it by another name, aren’t we? Like a code name. We
wouldn’t want the paparazzi camping in the woods before the big
event.”

“Not that part,” Mitchell said, irritably. “What did
you say about Ms. Carlyle keeping the workmen out of the way? What
workmen?”

“Oh.” Ben’s worried frown disappeared. “Yes, I did
mention that. Delanie arranged to start the renovation on the villa
this week—“

“What?” Mitchell thundered.

“Yes,” the manager faltered. “I know it seems like
bad timing what with the ‘Keiner’ wedding and all the guests that
entails, but Delanie’s arranged to keep all the work equipment and
trucks up at the villa. So starting the renovation now shouldn’t be
a problem.”

Biting back a searing retort, Mitchell finished his
business with the manager and stalked out of the office.

So they were starting the renovation of the villa?
Without so much as a word to him, she was forging ahead with her
plans. Ignoring his request to make the decision jointly, she was
acting like she owned the whole damned place.

Not if he could help it, by God. No matter how much
he’d enjoyed her company the last week since they’d talked in the
conservatory. No matter if she’d brought him birthday cake and sang
to him. The Cedars was still half his.

Mitchell went swiftly to the front desk in the main
lobby. “Where can I find Ms. Carlyle?”

The clerk’s head snapped up. “Mr. Riese! Yes, sir.
Ms. Carlyle? Well, let’s see. Yes, I believe she’s up at the villa.
At least, that’s where she was this morning.”

“Thank you.”

He should be grateful to her, Mitchell thought in
disgust, as he stopped by his room to retrieve his overcoat. In the
days since they’d shared his mangled birthday cake, he’d found his
resolve weakening. Found himself questioning his course of action.
Maybe he just needed to accept the situation with The Cedars and
let his grandfather’s wishes stand.

On the surface, she seemed to add to the place. The
staff liked her and she’d made several good suggestions about the
activities offered to the guests. Until now, she hadn’t made any
attempts to alter the running of the place and, most interesting in
his view, was the fact that Delanie hadn’t made any financial
demands from her inheritance. No outlandish personal expenditures
charged to the resort accounts. Not even a request for a salary to
compensate the time she was spending here.

Mitchell had found himself wondering about that. In
his experience, avaricious women didn’t wait long to slide their
hands into a wealthy man’s pockets. And this place was legally half
hers.

Yet, she hadn’t taken anything from it.

That fact combined with the strange, tenuous
connection he’d been feeling with her since she’d talked with him
about her father’s death had left him reconsidering his goal. It
didn’t seem possible, considering the circumstances, but could he
have been wrong about Delanie Carlyle?

CHAPTER SEVEN

For two days, he’d been wrestling with the dilemma
of Delanie’s true nature. As he’d come to know her better, she
didn’t seem anything like he’d expected. She exuded a warmth and
seemingly-genuine concern for others that he’d never seen before in
a woman bent only on monetary gain.

Yet, here she was, half-owner of The Cedars by his
grandfather’s decree. If she hadn’t been the old man’s mistress,
why would he leave such a significant family property to her?

As he walked towards the villa through the lightly
falling snow, Mitchell thought about this new development. With his
assessment of her hanging in the balance, Delanie’s high-handed
behavior with the villa almost seemed like a gift to him.

Golddigger, after all. Manipulative and devious. She
knew he hadn’t given his approval for the villa project.

He wondered if she assumed she’d get possession of
the villa when she was through squandering the resort’s income on
renovating the place. The palatial old stone house, situated as it
was up the hill from the main building, would be a spectacular
place for wild parties and living the high life.

He’d be damned if he let her have the only real home
he’d ever known.

******

Half an hour later, cold and disgusted, Mitchell let
himself in a side door of The Cedars’ main building. He’d walked up
to the villa and found ample evidence of repairs in progress, but
he hadn’t found Delanie.

Stamping the wet snow off his feet, he left his coat
in his room and headed back to the concierge desk. The damned
woman’s car was still in the lot, so she had to be here
somewhere.

As he approached the main lobby, he heard James
Martin’s voice raised in what sounded like a near-tearful
protest.

What the heck was the head chef doing in the lobby
this near the dinner hour?

“But you can’t close the kitchen!” James cried as
Mitchell crossed the open area, skirting the clusters of
comfortable armchairs.

“I’m sorry,” said a man standing next to him, the
clipboard he held and scribbled on seeming to indicate some
official capacity. “I don’t have any choice.”

“We have a very large, highly important wedding this
weekend,” the chef protested. “It’s imperative that we serve.”

“I still have to close you down,” the man said
implacably. “No food in or out of that kitchen. No cooking on that
stove.”

Seeing Delanie entering the lobby from the opposite
side, Mitchell checked, assessing which conflict needed the most
immediate attention.

“There are five hundred people expected here this
weekend,” James said tearfully, “and the bride’s counting on us to
feed them—“

“Without that vent fan working, a fire could start,”
the official said severely, “and threaten the safety of all five
hundred of those people.”

Obviously, the kitchen situation had to be addressed
immediately. A celebrity wedding meant increased publicity and
revenue. Chewing Delanie out could wait.

As Mitchell changed his course, already trying to
think who he knew in the health inspector’s office, he saw Delanie
join the harassed chef and the man with the clipboard.

Slowing his pace fractionally, Mitchell wondered
what she thought she could do about this.

“Good afternoon,” Delanie stretched out her hand,
“I’m one of the owners. I understand we have a problem?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the inspector said, shaking her hand.
“Six weeks ago, we cited you for an improperly functioning vent fan
over the stove in the kitchen—“

“We had the repairman out here,” James said, turning
to Delanie. “He said we needed a special part because this model
vent fan is the top of the line—“

“As per our requirements,” the inspector interrupted
officiously, “we returned to make sure the repairs were done and
found the situation unchanged—“

“The repairman said they sent the wrong part,” James
protested tearfully. “He assured me that the fan’s in good
condition, other than this one part. He said there’s no real
likelihood of fire in the short period until the part arrives.”

From halfway across the lobby, Mitchell watched the
official’s face, reading complete immovability there. The man was
determined to close them down, he thought, wondering how much it
would cost to have food for five hundred airlifted in from the
closest supplier.

“Be that as it may,” the inspector said nastily, “I
gave you time to repair the fan and it’s not repaired.”

“But I keep telling you--,” James said
indignantly.

“James,” Delanie said, placing a hand on his arm.
“I’m sure the inspector understands we’ve done everything possible
to make the repairs.”

The inspector didn’t look overly impressed at her
vote of confidence, but he said nothing.

“We have a hotel full of guests,” James reminded
her, “plus this huge wedding! We can’t close the kitchen!”

“We’ll manage something,” she said soothingly.
Turning back to the inspector, she smiled. “What a tough job you
have! People getting mad and yelling at you for trying to keep the
public safe!”

Mitchell watched cynically, wondering if she thought
female charm alone would get them out of this situation.

“Well, yes, it can be quite difficult,” the man
said, thawing slightly. “We have regulations.”

“Of course,” she said, both her voice and face
serious. “And I’m glad you do. Otherwise, none of us could trust
the food we didn’t prepare ourselves.”

“That’s right. It’s a public service.”

She smiled at him in approval. “Actually, I know
about this vent fan. I ordered it installed over a year ago when we
renovated the kitchen along with the rest of The Cedars.”

“If it was installed just over a year ago,” the
inspector said severely, “it should still be under warranty. Don’t
let that repairman charge you!”

“Yes,” Delanie agreed as if she appreciated his
concern. “This particular model is top of the line, as vent fans
go, and I’m sure that’s why they’re having difficulty getting the
part. These fans normally have an excellent track record.”

“I guess that would explain why the parts aren’t
handy,” the inspector agreed, but he added in a autocratic tone,
“Still, we can’t have you using the stove with no vent fan.”

“Of course,” she agreed, her face thoughtful. “But
you do see our dilemma here?”

“Yes,” he agreed, making no other comment.

Delanie turned to James, who stood at her elbow, a
disgustingly trustful expression on his face. “What is the wedding
menu?”

“Barbecued ribs,” he said, shrugging, “and
squabs.”

“Ribs, huh?” She looked at him meditatively before
turning back to the inspector. “Would you let us keep the kitchen
open if we didn’t use the stove?”

“Well, I don’t know,” he said uneasily.

James protested, “But Delanie—“

She placed her hand soothingly on his shoulder,
still addressing the inspector. “If we used the outdoor barbecue
pits, there wouldn’t be a ventilation problem in the kitchen.”

“Outdoors?” James looked scandalized. “We’ll
freeze.”

“It’ll work,” she insisted. “We’ll bundle up and
cook outside while the guests are inside, nice and warm.”

“You have to have a permit to cook outdoors,” the
inspector protested. “This is New Hampshire, not the wilds of
Wyoming.”

“Naturally,” Delanie agreed. “We want to stay in
compliance. Can you renew our permit to cook outdoors?”

“I’m not the inspector who handles that,” he said, a
tinge of satisfaction in his words. “I can put in a request for him
to stop by sometime next week.”

“Next week!” James shrieked.

“We serve a large area,” the inspector informed him
loftily. “You can’t expect us to be able to come immediately.”

“I understand,” Delanie said with a warm smile that
was at odds with the suddenly steely light in her eyes. “I’m sure
they work you like slaves. I’ll just call your supervisor and
explain the situation. Maybe he can help us sort this through.”

“Well,” the man said, a sudden hint on anxiety on
his face, “I’ve got a few moments. Maybe I could step outside now
and just look over the cooking facilities. Tell you how it looks to
me.”

“Would you?” she asked, beaming. “How wonderful!
Then we’ll be all ready when your supervisor sends someone else
by.”

She gestured toward the kitchen doors. “Right this
way.”