The Black Sheep And the Princess. Donna Kauffman
whining with excitement at the sight of her. You couldn’t beat a dog for giving a great welcome home. “Did you get into something? Listen, whatever you chewed up, threw up, or peed on, today you get a pass. Come on out.”
She let everything slide from her hands onto the small wooden bench that was currently doubling as a side table by the front door. She’d worry about all that later. Right now, the only decision she had to make was red wine or the chilled white. She’d found a stash of both along with a few bottles of champagne in the wine cellar of the main lodge while doing her initial walk-through assessment and brought a couple of each to her cabin. She’d put the champagne in the fridge before leaving, thinking she’d celebrate closing the deal with a little private toast. Now the white would have to do. “Might just drink the whole damn bottle, too. So there.”
“I have some spare beer, if you’re interested.”
She let out a little scream of shock and spun around, heart lodged in her throat as she searched the far shadows at the opposite end of the wraparound porch. The light had dimmed quickly in the falling twilight. “Who’s there?” she demanded, wishing like hell she had her truck keys in her hand. Not much of a weapon, but they’d have been better than nothing. They were still in the ignition, where she always left them. Though she’d been debating changing that policy with the recent vandalism. But they’d never locked things up around camp, and old habits died hard.
She tried not to think about that dying part.
She was debating just making a run for the truck and driving straight down to Gilby’s office, when the disembodied voice stepped from the shadows…and she froze to the spot, unable to move or breathe. No. Her mind spun wildly, trying to make some sense of it all. It couldn’t be.
“Hello, Kate.”
But it was. Eighteen years melted away in a blink of an eye. Though he’d been only seventeen the last time she’d laid eyes on him, she’d know those eyes anywhere. That chin.
And that voice. That slow, lazy, sexy-as-hell voice.
“Donovan?”
There was a pause; then he said, “It’s been a long time. My condolences on your mother’s passing.”
She accepted the platitude with a jerky nod of her chin, but her mind went immediately to the graffiti that had started popping up shortly after her arrival. But that made no sense. As far as she knew, Donovan had left the day he’d turned eighteen and hadn’t even returned for his father’s funeral. Did he think with Louisa gone he had some right to the place? She knew there had been some talk in the papers about her wild deal with Shelby, but certainly he didn’t think—“Is—is that why you’re here? Because she died this past December. The funeral was a long—”
He shook his head. “I didn’t come to pay my respects, though you have them.”
“Then…why?”
He took a scant step forward, and she was suddenly painfully aware of her appearance, which was ridiculous, but true nevertheless. He’d always had that effect on her. And it had always been ridiculous. Growing up, he’d been Donovan MacLeod, son of drunken Donny Mac, the camp handyman. Hardly a member of her peer group. Most times when their paths had crossed, he’d been in little more than ragged cutoffs, with callused hands and hair in desperate need of a cut. While she’d been clad to the nines in the latest styles, her hair and makeup nothing less than perfect, as she’d intended when she’d made certain he’d see her.
Her cheeks heated now as they always had when he looked at her with those silver-gray eyes of his, somehow always managing to make her feel like the discombobulated one. This time he probably could make a case for it. She resisted the urge to push her hair behind her ears, smooth the rumpled suit jacket she’d forgotten to take off when she’d stormed out of Shelby’s attorney’s office.
“I read about you—your camp, I mean—in the paper.”
It was the slight hesitation in his voice that snagged her attention, dragging it from past to present. He’d always been laconic, with a bit of a cocky edge. Or maybe the challenging edge to his tone had been exclusively for her. Regardless, she didn’t think she’d ever heard him sound anything less than certain. Of course, though it shamed her to say that she could probably still recall every single second of every encounter they’d ever had, they hadn’t exactly shared long conversations together. Most of what she knew about him had come from obsessive observation and listening to the other girls’ comments.
He’d been the living embodiment of every one of her fevered, youthful dreams. The proverbial black sheep, the bad boy every good girl would die to have look at her, hold her, touch her…take her.
Kate had fantasized about all that and more. In fact, it was the only reason she’d bothered to come anywhere near the lake property every summer. Shelby had always been around, and he’d been just enough of a creep even then that she’d done almost anything to steer clear of him. But the lure of seeing Donovan, dark shaggy hair, rippling belly muscles, piercing gray eyes, working around camp, even if just for a weekend, had been too strong to ignore.
Now, at thirty-four, and thinking herself quite past the age of feverish sexual fantasies, it was a shock to discover just how wrong she actually was.
“You—you read about my camp? Where?” she stuttered, feeling like a complete fool for being so off balance. If he knew the direction of her thoughts, he’d likely laugh himself sick. Though why it mattered what he thought, she had no idea. Old habits, indeed.
“There was a mention in the Times.”
“Oh.” Probably another snide little column about the idiotic heiress who’d given up her fortune, she thought with an inward sigh. What did people think, that when someone died, they just gave their inheriting family member a check for their bulk net worth? “So, uh, what made you come all the way up here? You’re still in the city, right? A…detective or something?”
She knew exactly what he was because she’d been the one who’d forced her mother into tracking him down when Donny Mac had his heart attack. It was one of the last times Kate had had contact with her mother, until right before her death. But he didn’t have to know any of that. “And I’m sorry, too. About your father. I know it’s been a very long time since…since it happened. But, still, I regret my mother didn’t get word to you in time, back then. It was—”
“Water under a very old bridge.” He appeared relaxed on the surface, but when he’d stepped closer, she could feel the tension emanating from him. It was costing him, the casual nonchalance.
“Some would say the same about you being here,” she said, feeling the same tension coiling inside of her. “Why did you come back, Donovan?”
“Mac,” he said, sounding irritated all of a sudden. “Just—it’s Mac.”
“Okay. Mac. Were you in the area on some other business? Why are you camped out on my porch?”
“I read about the problems you were having. In the article.”
That caught her badly off guard. No way could he have known about what happened earlier today. Unless—but no, how on earth could he be part of that? That was all Shelby being typical Shelby.
“With the vandalism, the developers leaning on you,” he went on when she didn’t immediately respond. “I thought I might be able to help.”
She frowned. “You came back here, after all these years, because you read in some article that someone was vandalizing the old camp property? Isn’t that taking your oath to protect and defend a little far? We’re a bit out of your jurisdiction, Detective.”
“I’m no longer with the department. I’m in the private sector now.” He rocked back a little on his heels. It was only then she noticed Bagel, sitting quietly by his feet.
Traitor, she thought. So much for dependable males of any species.
Donovan—Mac—followed her gaze