Her Holiday Prince Charming

“This Erik,” she said, caution competing with amazement as Cornelia joined them with a tray of tall porcelain mugs. “May I ask the terms of his agreement with you?”

Taking the chair on the opposite side of her, Cornelia passed mugs to her and Phil. “It’s nothing complicated. I just requested that he help you with the business if I buy the property for the Sullivans’ asking price.”

“But why did he agree to that?”

“Because he wants a decent price for his grandparents and I offered him one. He’s been taking care of the property for them, so I also imagine he’d like to be free of that responsibility. I don’t think he begrudges his grandparents his time. He sounds quite fond of them,” she offered, approval in the soft lines of her face. “But he’s a busy man.”

Rory remembered his strong, workingman’s hands, the calluses she’d felt brush her palm. Right behind the thought came the disquieting memory of what his touch had elicited. “He said he builds boats.”

“Oh, they’re more than boats. He and his business partner build world-class sailing sloops. Their boatworks is down past the marina, but their sales and rental office is next door. J.T., one of my stepsons,” she said, identifying Harry’s second oldest, “commissioned one from him years back. He said Erik is the only man he’d ever do business with on a handshake. If you knew my stepson, you’d know that respect for someone’s character doesn’t get any greater than that.”

Her carefully penciled eyebrows arched as she offered cream and sugar. “Did you find him disagreeable?”

Disturbing, yes. Disagreeable? She couldn’t honestly say they’d disagreed about anything. “No.”

“Are you not wanting help?”

Rory shook her head. She’d be a fool to turn it down. “I’m sure he has far more information about how the market is run than anything I can even begin to find on my own.”

The unguarded admission brought Cornelia’s smile back. “Then it’s a win-win for everyone.”

Baffled by the woman, more uncertain than she wanted to admit about her mentor, Rory touched the handle of her mug. “Please don’t think I’m not beyond grateful, Mrs. Hunt—”

“It’s Cornelia,” the woman said graciously.

“Cornelia,” Rory corrected. “But I’m having a hard time making sense of all this. I understand from Phil that you helped someone else when she needed it. But why do you want to help me like this?”

“Because I can,” she said simply. “My Harry gave me a ridiculously large amount of money for a wedding gift. Since I have the means, I decided to make it my mission to offer deserving young women a hand up when the going gets rough for them, or when they just need the right break.

“In your case,” she admitted, “I know all too well what it’s like to be financially strapped and the only parent. My first husband was a dear, but he left me in a real financial bind when he died. I had to sell my home, just as you’ve had to do. And I had to work hard to raise my girls.”

She gave Rory’s hand a pat, drew back her own. “From what we learned about you from your real estate agent—and other resources,” she admitted, making it clear she thoroughly vetted the recipients of her largesse, “I don’t doubt that you’ll do what you must to make it work. Erik has proven himself to be an excellent businessman,” she assured, as the opening door let in the back-up beep of a truck. “I’m sure you can trust him to help you succeed.

“Can’t she, Erik?” she asked the man himself as he walked in.

Seeming oblivious to the way his presence suddenly filled the space, much less to the faint tension leaking from him in waves, Cornelia raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“Can’t she what?” he replied.

“Trust your business judgment.”

“It hasn’t let me down so far.”

The disarming smile he gave Cornelia and Phil seemed to come easily. The wattage, however, lowered considerably when it settled on her. Having met her eyes long enough to make her heart jerk, Rory watched him lower his glance to the older woman’s coffee.

“Mind if I get some of that?”

“Not at all. The pot is fresh.”

His heavy footsteps muffled by the carpet, Erik headed for the coffeemaker in the alcove. Behind him he could hear the elegant matron and the bookish blonde he’d met last week explaining that the paperwork for Rory’s mortgage would be handled at a title company Monday afternoon. Since he had power of attorney for the sale for his grandparents, he and Cornelia had already agreed to take care of their business there that morning.

The Hunt name tended to eliminate delays.

He could hear the low, soft tones of Rory’s responses, but he had no idea what she said. He was too busy telling himself that the next six months wouldn’t be as bad as he’d feared.

They’d probably be worse.

He didn’t question the sincerity of the rather shell-shocked-looking young woman reading the papers in front of her. Her determination to do what she had to do for her child had been nearly tangible to him. But her impulsiveness had raised about a dozen red flags.

Women spent more time making up their mind about buying a pair of shoes than she had about taking on something that would require a nearly 24/7 commitment. Especially at first. He knew. He ate, slept and breathed his own business. And that business was something he’d wanted since he was a kid. She’d only wanted the store since she’d learned about it that morning. She’d even admitted to knowing nothing about what she’d agreed to get herself into—which meant she’d take far more time than he’d planned on devoting to the care and feeding of her education.

It was that last part that he’d explained to his business partner when he’d called a while ago to tell him he’d still be tied up for a while. Pax had said not to worry about what he’d committed himself to. He’d cover for him if he needed time during the day to work with the store’s new owner.

Though they’d never talked about the reasons for it, Pax knew how badly Erik wanted to be out from under that property. And why. They’d grown up together. Pax had been his best man. He’d also gone through the ugliness of his divorce with him by letting him take on however many projects it took to keep him too exhausted to think about anything else.

It had been seven years since the demise of his eight-year marriage, and Erik had long since recovered from what he had no intention of ever repeating again, but he already felt guilt about the time he’d be taking away from work. Especially with an April delivery date on their present work under construction, another client waiting for his final blueprints and two others hovering in the wings to get on their list.

Then there were their evening commitments with past and future clients. The holiday party season had just started—and Merrick & Sullivan Yachting never missed a business or philanthropic commitment.

With the women still talking, and feeling the tension creep up his back, he took his filled mug to the nearest window and rubbed at his neck. He’d do what he had to do where the woman behind him was concerned, and hope she wasn’t the sort who required a lot of hand-holding to come up to speed. Heaven knew he wasn’t a coddling sort of guy.

Erik took a sip of the coffee that was infinitely better than the sludge he and his partner had been brewing since their secretary had gone on maternity leave. It didn’t help the situation that Mrs. Rory Linfield had a son. He’d made it a point over the past several years to avoid women with children. They tended to want more of a commitment than he was interested in. But that deliberate lack of exposure left him feeling less than capable when it came to anyone under four feet tall.

With his pretty little project deep in conversation, he looked out over the blue-tarped sailboats yawing in their slips. He and Pax had pulled their rental fleet out of the water last month, but farther up the shoreline, he could see the point that anchored the rest of their operation: the boatyard where they stored their boats over winter and the boatworks where they built their custom sailing yachts, one sloop at a time.

“How come that boat has a Santa on it?”

The little boy had walked over from two windows down. Now, with his chin barely clearing the windowsill, the sandy-haired child pointed to a row of decorated sloops in the marina. Several had colored lights anchored fore and aft from the mainsail mast. One had a blow-up Santa at the helm.

Erik gave a shrug. “Some people just like to decorate their boats this time of year.”

“How come?”

“Because they entertain on them,” he said, thinking of the cocktail parties he and his partner had hosted on their respective sloops for their clients over the years. They had one scheduled next week. “Or maybe they’re going to be in one of the boat parades.” The floating parades were legend around the sound during the holidays.

The little boy’s brow furrowed. Digesting what he’d been told, he said nothing else. For about five seconds, anyway.

“Do you have a boat?”

“I do.”

“Do you decorate it?”

“I have.”

“Do you put a Santa on it?”

“No.”