A very intimate battleground
Amelia Sheffield arrives in the sleepy town of Millhaven, New York, to collect what was promised her for a museum exhibit: an antique bed that George Washington once slept in. The problem is one incredibly infuriatingand incredibly sexyinnkeeper who insists the bed belongs to him. Of course, Sam Blackstone has no idea how dirty Amelia is willing to play this game...
Sam is furiousand intriguedwhen he learns that Amelia plans on sleeping in the bed until its hers. But he can be just as stubborn as her. After all, that bed could keep his familys inn from closing. Which means hell sleep in the bed, too. And if she wants to play dirty, hes right there with her!
The battle for the bed starts at noon.
She held out her hand and Sam shook it.
She began to pull away but he slipped his hand around her waist and drew her against his body. His lips covered hers in a deep kiss, their tongues creating a delicious connection that he didnt want to break. When she broke away, he looked down into her wide eyes.
May the best man win, he whispered.
Her expression hardened and she wrapped her hand around the nape of his neck and pulled him into another kiss. Her mouth was soft and searching, her tongue tracing the width of his mouth, teasing him in a way that was more provocative than he expected, and his whole body reacted.
But Amelia wasnt about to let him take control. She stepped away and gave him a coy smile, her lips still damp and glistening.
Dont you mean the best woman?
Dear Reader,
As I was writing this book, my editor, Adrienne Macintosh, mentioned to me that she enjoyed my small-town books. I hadnt realized until that moment how many times I find myself setting a story in a charming, picturesque but quirky small town. I love the eccentric characters I usually find in these imaginary towns and villages.
And how to properly use a small town? Give it a historic inn with a sexy innkeeper. Toss in some colorful townsfolk. Bring on the heroine, a big-city career girl. Add a snowstorm, and were off to a fun romance!
I hope you enjoy the book as much as I enjoyed writing it.
And next up, the Quinns are back for more adventures!
Happy reading,
Compromising Positions
Kate Hoffmann
www.millsandboon.co.uk
KATE HOFFMANN lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her books, her computer and her cats, Princess Winifred and Princess Grace. In her spare time she enjoys sewing, movies, talking on the phone with her sister, and directing plays and musicals. She has written nearly ninety books for Mills & Boon.
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Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Dear Reader
Title Page
About the Author
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Extract
Copyright
1
SAMUEL JEFFERSON BLACKSTONE! Where are you?
Sam winced at the sound of his younger sisters voice as it echoed through the ground floor of the Blackstone Inn. He gave the pipe wrench one last twist, then wriggled out of the cupboard.
Im in here, he called. In the kitchen.
By the time Sarah reached the kitchen, he was washing his hands in the newly repaired sink. At least hed thought it was fixed until he heard the unmistakable drip of a leaky drainpipe. Sam cursed softly.
This was one of those moments when he was painfully reminded that the Blackstone Inn didnt come close to turning a profit from year to year. If it did, he could call a real plumber to take care of these nagging maintenance problems. But Sam couldnt recall a time in his life when the inn had provided more than a meager living to the person who owned itand right now that guy was him.
Is it fixed? Sarah asked.
Not yet, he muttered.
Did you use the goop and the strips?
He shook his head. Just the goop.
Sarah rolled her eyes and shook her head. I told you to use the strips, too. Thats how James fixed it the last time.
Sam glanced over at his sister. Maybe you could call James and invite him over to dinner? Take him to a movie and then just casually mention our leaky pipes?
Do you really want my entire dating life taken up by romancing the various craftsmen around town? Sarah asked, grabbing an apple from the wood bowl on the counter. Ive dated electricians, roofers, carpenters, masons... I draw the line at plumbers.
James seems like a nice guy, Sam commented. And it would be very helpful if you married someone handy. That would solve all our problems.
Im not going to date James. Sarah pushed away from the counter. Besides, you and I both know exactly what would solve our problems. And since you refuse to find a ridiculously wealthy wife, its going to be at least another twenty-five years of this.
A wife with deep pockets would certainly help, Sam mused. But why would a woman with money saddle herself with an old inn and a husband who was tied to it like a ship to an anchor? This was his burden. Why would he wish it on any woman, especially a woman he loved?
You dont have to stick around, Sam said. The inn isnt your problem.
She shrugged. I dont have anywhere better to be right now. And if I leave, who is going to cook the meals for our demanding guests? Sarah started out of the kitchen, then stopped. Oh, I thought you should know. I saw moving vans parked in front of Abigail Farnsworths house. It looks like theyre finally clearing her stuff out. You might want to go get the George Washington bed before they cart it away.
Jerry Harrington told me theyd call me when I could pick it up, Sam said.
Im not sure Id trust him with something so important.
Hes our cousin.
Oh, good Lord, Sarah said. Half the people in this town are related to us in some distant way. Abby Farnsworth is our third cousin twice removed.
Fourth, he corrected. Sam grabbed his keys out of his pocket and hurried to the door. Stick the bucket back under the sink to catch that leak. Ill get on it later. He sighed as he remembered all the other repairs the old building needed urgently.
The Blackstone Inn was the third oldest inn in the state of New York and the only one of the three in continuous operation since the time of the Revolutionary War. It sat on a beautiful bluff above the Hudson River on the outskirts of the town of Millhaven.
It had been built by Sams seventh great-grandfather, added to by his sixth and fifth great-grandfathers, and been passed down for nine generations to the eldest son of the eldest son in the family.
During the Revolutionary War, the inn was an important military landmark on the road between New York City and Albany, and north to Quebec City. After the war, it was a waypoint for settlers moving into the northern reaches of the state. And then, in 1797, when Albany was named the capital of the state, it became a favorite spot for traveling politicians and businessmen.
Sam steered the truck into the quaint environs of the town. He had grown up in Millhaven and from a young age hed known that his future was predetermined. He was the eldest son of an eldest son and, as such, the Blackstone Inn was his birthright.
There were moments when he felt the burden of his familys history, much like a royal might chafe against a life of duty. For a long time hed tried to find a way out, but his father and grandfather had both put in their years at the helm. It was his turn now. And there was no out.
If Sam walked away, his father, Joseph, would be forced out of retirement to run the inn, and when he died, a family committee would choose an heirmost likely Sarah. His sister had so much talent, Sam didnt want her to be tied to an old inn in a small town. So Sam accepted his legacy with gritted teeth and a tight smile. Hed do his duty for as long as he could.
When he pulled the pickup to a stop in front of Abigails house, he paused before getting out. The George Washington bed had become a symbol of the ups and downs of the Blackstone Inn. Over the years it had been sold and reacquired three times, often to relatives. Sams grandfather had been the last to sell it. Faced with a financial crisis, hed finally accepted Abigail Farnsworths offer, but only because Abigail had promised to return the bed completely free of charge once shed gotten her moneys worth out of it. Which was now, Sam hoped.
He hopped out of the truck and wove his way through the crowd of onlookers bundled against the February chill. As the tangle of moving men removed each beautiful antique, the crowd had a chance to see the lifes work of one the states most respected collectors. After a recent hip injury, Abigail Farnsworth had decided to join her sister, Emily, and retire to the warmer climate of Phoenix, Arizona. And today many of her precious antiques were headed for the auction block.
Sam spotted one of the workmen with the headboard from his bed and he hurried over, only to be brushed aside by a woman dressed entirely in black.
You can put that in the back of the trailer, she said. Make sure to wrap it with the moving quilts. Do you have the side rails?
Hey! Sam shouted. Hold up there. The workman looked up at him as Sam approached. Where are you going with that bed?
The guy shrugged. Im just following orders, he said.
Thats my bed, Sam said.
The woman turned to face him and the moment their eyes met Sam felt his breath slowly leave his body. She was one of those women you wanted to meet only on your best day, when youd bothered to shave that morning and put on something other than faded jeans and a T-shirt. And when you had something terribly interesting to say if the conversation laggedas it just had.
She shifted her sunglasses down on the bridge of her nose and studied him with eyes the color of expensive cognac. Everything about her seemed to ooze elegance, from her dark hair pulled into a loose knot at her nape to her perfect profile, clear testament to generations of careful breeding. A shiver coursed through his body and Sam shifted uneasily.
Shes way out of your league, buddy.
There must be some mistake, she murmured, her eyebrow arched.
Sam reached up and ran his fingers through his tousled hair, then forced a smile. Thats my bed, he repeated.
This bed? she asked. No, no. This is my bed.
Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter that Abigail had written, gifting him what theyd affectionately called The GW.
I have a letter here from the current owner, Abigail Farnsworth.
She frowned, then pulled out a paper of her own. I also have a letter from Miss Farnsworth. But mine states that she wishes the bed to go to the Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts in Boston. Im here to collect it and take it back to Boston.
Over my dead body, Sam said.
She glanced at the workman. Put it in the trailer, she ordered.
If you know whats good for you, youll leave it right there, Sam warned the man. He glanced around and caught sight of the town lawyer, Jerry Wright, standing on the front porch. Stay here, he said to the mover. Im going to get someone to sort this all out.
As he walked away, Sam glanced over his shoulder at the woman in black. Shed removed her sunglasses and their eyes met again, and she quickly looked away. Sam smiled to himself. It was the first sign of weakness that shed shown. The attraction wasnt just one-sided. What was going through her pretty head? he wondered.
Jerry! Get over here.
Sam, I was just about to call you.
Sam cursed. Sure you were. Come here and fix this. Some woman from Boston is trying to take my bed. The bed Abigail promised to return to the Blackstone.
Jerry hurried down the porch steps and walked across the lawn to Sams side. It seems that Miss Abigail made a lot of promises she didnt tell me about, Sam. Half the stuff in that house is promised to more than one party and now Im left to untangle this can of worms.
I dont care about any of that. All I want is the bed.
The other man sighed. All right, come on.
When they reached the bed, the footboard was already inside the womans trailer and the mover was just about to load the side rails. Take that out of there, Jerry ordered. That bed isnt going anywhere. At least not today.