On any other day, she would have let this go. Not everyone who walked through the doors of Harborside Art Gallery walked back out with a piece of art. But this man—
This man had an agenda; she could feel it in her bones. And somewhere on his list, was her gallery.
A surge of fierce protectiveness rose in Mariabella’s chest, overriding decorum and tact. “Who are you?”
He paused at the door, his hand on the brass handle, and turned back to face her. A shadow had dropped over his face, from the awning outside, but more, it seemed, from something inside him that he didn’t want to tell her. “I’m…an investor.”
“Well, sir, if you are thinking you are going to buy this shop, think again.” She took a step closer to him, emphasizing her point. Like a terrier guarding her territory. “The owner loves this place. She will never sell.”
A smile took over his face, but it held no trace of friendliness, not a hint of niceness. “Oh, I don’t want this shop.”
Relief flooded Mariabella. She’d read him wrong, he wanted nothing to do with her precious Harborside Art Gallery. Or her. Thank God. “Good.”
That smile widened, and dread sunk in Mariabella’s gut. And then she knew—she’d gotten it all wrong. She hadn’t read him right at all.
“I want the entire block,” he said. “By the end of the week would be convenient.”
CHAPTER TWO
JAKE LATTIMORE peered down the boardwalk of Harborside, Massachusetts, and knew he didn’t see the same thing the other people did. The brightly waving flags on the masts of the few covered boats wintered in the marina didn’t beckon to him. The shop windows hawking T-shirts and sunglasses didn’t attract his attention. The cafes and coffee shops, their doors swinging open and shut as people drifted in and out, sending tantalizing scented snippets of their menus into the air didn’t call to his appetite.
No, what Jake saw wasn’t even there. Yet.
Condos. A hotel. Maybe even an amusement park, and down the beach, Jet Ski rentals, parasailing stations.
By this summer, if at all possible, so profits could start rolling in immediately.
In other words, a vacation mecca, one that would expand his—and that of his financial backers—portfolio, and take this sleepy little town up several notches.
He glanced again at the boardwalk, at the festive holiday decorations. The notes of a Christmas song carried on the air as someone walked out of the stained-glass shop across the street. The melody struck a memory in Jake’s heart, followed by a sharp pang.
A long time ago, this kind of place, this kind of setting, would have had him rushing in to buy a gift. Humming along with the song. Thinking—
Well, he didn’t think that anymore.
He got back to business. That was the only place heartache couldn’t take root. Jake returned his attention to the facts and figures in his head, dismissing the sentimental images around him.
He’d done his research, ran his numbers, and knew without a doubt, Harborside was the perfect location for the next Lattimore Resort. Located along the Eastern seaboard, beneath Boston and above New York, away from the already congested areas of Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard, the tiny town had been tucked away all this time, hardly noticed by tourists, just waiting for someone like him to come along and see its potential.
This was his specialty—find hidden treasures and turn them into profit machines.
This town would be no different. He’d find each shop owner’s price, and pay it. Everyone, Jake had found, had a price.
He wouldn’t let a little thing like dollars and cents get in the way of adding this resort to the Lattimore Properties empire. Not with so much on the line.
If he didn’t land this deal, and went back to New York empty-handed, he knew what would happen. The whispers would start again. People saying he’d only been promoted to CEO because he was the Lattimore heir. Not because he had the chops to handle a project of this scope.
His father had handed him a challenge, sent him to prove he could achieve the goal on his own, and Jake had no intentions of doing anything but exactly that. He’d worked side by side with Lawrence Lattimore for five years, learning the business from the ground up. In the last year or two, though, his father had begun to lose his magic touch. Lawrence’s decision making had become less sound, and the Lattimore Properties balance sheet showed the signs of his uneven hand.
The board began talking forced retirement, so his father had put Jake in charge and given him one directive:
Pull off a miracle.
When Jake returned to NewYork triumphant, with the Harborside jewel in his back pocket, no one could say the junior Lattimore wasn’t up to the task of helming the multimillion dollar corporation. Lattimore Properties would once again be on the way to being the powerful company it had once been, and the downward slide that had begun under the last two years of Lawrence’s tenure would be reversed.
“Who are you?”
He turned around and found the brunette from the art gallery standing behind him, fists propped on her hips, green eyes ablaze. She had a fiery demeanor about her, one that spoke of passion, in everything she did.
And that intrigued Jake. Very much.
“I told you. I’m an investor,” he said. “In towns like this one.”
Her lips pursed. “Let me save you some trouble. No one here is looking to sell their shops.”
He arched a brow. “And you know this because…?”
“Because I live here. And I’m the chair of the Community Development Committee. It is my job to know.”
He smirked. “And that makes you an expert on every resident?”
“It certainly gives me more insight than you.”
He loved her accent. Lilting, lyrical. Even when she argued with him, it sounded like a song.
“You think so?” he said, taking a step closer to her. When he did, he caught a whiff of the floral notes of her perfume. Sweet, light. Tantalizing. “I’ve seen hundreds of towns like Harborside. And met dozens of people like you, people who have this romanticized vision of their town.”
“How dare—”
“What they don’t realize is that underneath all that coziness,” he went on, “is a struggling seaport town that depends on one season of the year, maybe two, for all its financial needs. How much money do you think the people here make off the tourists who visit between the three months of summer and few weeks of Christmas? Enough to sustain every business and every resident for the other eight months of the year?”
She didn’t answer.
“You and I both know it isn’t.” He gestured toward the town, from one end of the boardwalk to the other. This town—and this woman—didn’t even realize what a boon a Lattimore resort would be. How it could bring twelve months of financial return. Every resident could benefit from a hotel like this, if they’d just imagine something different. “This place is quaint. Off the beaten path. And that’s half the problem. Without something to draw visitors in, and really keep them here year-round, you might as well hang up the Going Out of Business signs now.”
She glared at him. “We are doing fine.”
He arched a brow. He’d read the statistics on Harborside. Talked to several of the business owners. He knew the tax base, the annual business revenue of each of the cottage industries lining the boardwalk.
They