The Man She'll Marry Read online

  Smart, cool, beautiful and way out of his league

  How often had Nick reminded himself of this, and why in hell did he want to kiss Cinnamon more than ever?

  Nick studied her face openly, letting her see his interest.

  This time she didn’t look away. Her lips parted a fraction, and a rush of breath shot between them. Nick recognized those signals, knew if he moved closer, leaned down and kissed her, she wouldn’t stop him. She’d kiss him back.

  That scared him. Getting involved with Cinnamon Smith was dangerous. Crazy, even. Not an option.

  Clearing his throat, he backed away. “I’ll get my coffee now. And you ought to take that beach walk.”

  “Right. I’ll go upstairs and grab my jacket.” Cheeks flaming, she rushed toward the stairs.

  As soon as she disappeared, Nick gave his brow a mental swipe and headed for the kitchen. He’d avoided kissing her. Barely.

  Dear Reader,

  Several years ago my husband and I spent Fourth of July in Bandon, Oregon, a tiny seaside town. The bed-and-breakfast we chose delighted us, and not only for its oceanside location and cozy, comfortable rooms. Shirley Chalupa, the personality-plus proprietress, entertained us with wonderful stories and fed us generously. I swear we gained ten pounds from those mouthwatering breakfasts. The town intrigued me, and I knew I had to set a series of stories on the Oregon coast.

  Cranberry, Oregon, is a fictional seaside town, and so is the Oceanside Bed and Breakfast. But Stumpy and Stubby are real seagulls, coddled and fed by Shirley just as Fran spoils them in the book.

  The love story between Nick and Cinnamon comes straight out of my imagination. I hope you fall in love with Nick as I did. The man is a true hero with a secret that darkens his life and forces him to hold his feelings in check. Until he meets the lovely, educated Cinnamon, who…well, you’ll find out soon enough.

  I hope you enjoy the first book of this three-book series. Write and let me know what you think of Cranberry, Nick and Cinnamon. You can reach me c/o P.O. Box 25003, Seattle WA 98165-1903 or e-mail me at [email protected]. Also, please visit my Web site at www.annroth.net, where you’ll get the latest news as well as a delicious recipe of the month. And don’t forget the contest. Enter to win a free book!

  Sincerely yours, and happy reading!

  Ann Roth

  The Man She’ll Marry

  ANN ROTH

  To Shirley Chalupa, bed-and-breakfast goddess of the Oregon Coast

  Books by Ann Roth

  HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

  1031—THE LAST TIME WE KISSED

  1103—THE BABY INHERITANCE

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  Cinnamon Smith slowed her rented sedan to a crawl and peered through the windshield. The beam of her headlights cut through the darkness and the misty rain to illuminate a weathered sign. Oceanside Bed and Breakfast, it proclaimed in cheerfully scripted letters.

  After listening for five years to Fran rave about the bed and breakfast she’d inherited, Cinnamon was finally here. Sighing with relief—she’d been on the road a good four hours since flying into Portland from L.A.—she pulled into the gravel driveway.

  The past few weeks had been hellish, and she could hardly wait to relax and unwind. As she steered down the drive, floodlights blinked on, bathing the gray, shingled house in bright light. She braked to a stop in the large guest parking area beside the garage. Aside from a battered red pickup and Fran’s SUV, hers was the only car.

  Small wonder. Late January wasn’t exactly tourist season on the Oregon coast. The truck, she assumed, belonged to the man who Fran told her did odd jobs around the place.

  As the inn’s only guest, Cinnamon looked forward to cozy evenings with her closest friend and several much-needed heart-to-hearts. Fran always had been a down-to-earth, sensible person, and Cinnamon needed her calming influence. All two weeks of it. Actually, thirteen days—but close enough.

  Mist tickled her face as she exited the car and stretched for the first time in hours. Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she squinted past the bright circle of light for a glimpse of the ocean. It was too dark to see anything, but Cinnamon smelled the sea’s salty tang and heard the gentle slap of the waves. She could hardly wait to walk the beach.

  Her hope was that the change of scenery would help put the past behind her, so she could move on and find a new job. Because the truth was, without her work as a business consultant, Cinnamon felt aimless, unimportant and scared. Her last day at Sabin and Howe had been Friday. She’d been unemployed three days now…. And with only three months’ salary in savings, the familiar panicky feeling—racing heart, nausea and knots in her shoulders and neck—threatened to overwhelm her.

  She forced a calming breath. There were plenty of companies in the world as good or better than Sabin and Howe. Hadn’t she recently sent out e-mails to friends and colleagues in big consulting firms all over the country? Any day now she would surely hear back.

  The thought filled her with hope, so much so that her stomach growled from hunger, a welcome change from weeks of no appetite. She retrieved her laptop and toiletries case from the trunk of the car, then swung those straps, too, onto her shoulder. Only the jumbo-size suitcase remained. Leaning into the trunk, she grabbed the handle and tugged. Filled with a parka, clothing, shoes and a pile of novels she meant to read, it weighed a good forty pounds, and she grunted with effort.

  “I’ll get that.”

  The large male at her side startled her. She hadn’t heard him approach.

  Gently nudging her over, he reached for the suitcase, his big, warm hand closing over her cold fist. Taken aback and not about to relinquish her bag, she tightened her grip and shot him the intimidating look that had cowed subordinates and peers alike. Until she’d been forced to resign from her job.

  “Who are you?” Her breath made a cloud in the cold, damp air.

  He pulled back and stepped aside. “Nick Mahoney. I work for Fran. I was on my way to the truck—” he gestured toward the red pickup “—to head home, and thought you could use a hand.”

  Thanks to the floodlights she noted his striking blue eyes. His straight nose, strong chin and generous mouth were at the top of the handsome scale, too.

  “Oh,” she said. “Fran talks about you all the time. Sorry I was rude.”

  His gaze flickered over her, calf-length leather coat and all. Though still half bent over the suitcase, she sucked in her stomach.

  The corner of his mouth lifted, charming her.

  “Apology accepted.”

  “I…I’m Cinnamon Smith,” she managed, suddenly wishing she’d combed her hair and freshened her makeup. She thought about shaking his hand, but decided against it and kept her fingers wrapped firmly around the handle of her suitcase.

  “I know who you are. Fran’s been yakking about your visit since last Friday.”

  “She has? Exactly what did she say?” Cinnamon trusted her friend not to reveal the details of her messy life, but the words had just tumbled out.

  “That you two met in college and shared an apartment after, and that you haven’t seen each other since she moved here and you became a hotshot executive. She’s real excited about this visit.” A roguish grin lit his face, as if he, too, looked forward to her being here
.

  Dear God, the man had a dimple in his cheek. Fran never had mentioned his looks. Was she blind?

  “You going to let go of that bag, or would you rather carry it yourself?”

  Her face felt hot and she knew she was blushing. “Um, you go ahead.” She released the handle and straightened. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure,” he drawled.

  Fran hadn’t mentioned he was a flirt, either. Cinnamon was less than skilled at the art, and anyway, she was through with men. At least for a while. When she did decide to date again, she intended to find an upwardly mobile, career-focused, marriage-minded male, this time, single. Not some handyman, no matter how attractive he was. She pretended not to notice Nick’s bold study of her.

  He extracted the heavy suitcase as if it were as light as a sea breeze, then nodded toward the bed and breakfast. “The front door’s up the steps on the ocean side of the house.”

  He strode forward. Cinnamon trailed him around the side of the building, then up the dozen wide wooden steps. Seemingly heedless of the winter chill, he wore no coat over his dark, long-sleeved T-shirt and snug, faded jeans. He was a big man with big limbs. Not heavy, but muscled and solid.

  Despite being in excellent physical condition—she jogged three days a week—Cinnamon was slightly breathless, and not from the climb. Mentally she rolled her eyes.

  She was here to pull herself together and, with the help of her laptop and the Internet, search out a new employer in a big city. She didn’t need or want the distraction of any man.

  Her gaze dropped to his rear end. My, oh, my…

  Stop that, she silently scolded, frowning. It was no surprise that she lusted after the gorgeous male specimen before her. She hadn’t had sex in over a month, since Dwight had dropped her because he’d reconciled with his wife—after repeatedly assuring Cinnamon that divorce was imminent and he wanted to marry her. The rat. His change of heart had left her with no option but to resign.

  The familiar tension tightened her stomach. She willed it away. It was all in the past. Starting this very minute, she would forge ahead toward a new and better life.

  With her chin raised in determination, Cinnamon followed Nick to the top of the steps.

  CINNAMON GLANCED AT THE tiny white lights that lit up the Oceanside’s wraparound, covered veranda. “This is charming.”

  “Wait till morning when you see that ocean view,” Nick replied with a nod toward the darkness beyond.

  The door was painted a warm, deep purple. The whimsical pelican-shaped metal knocker and the decorative heart wreath woven of sticks were so like Fran that Cinnamon smiled.

  Nick wiped his feet on the thick, oval mat, also purple, and opened the door. “Cinnamon’s here,” he called out, gesturing her inside.

  The aromas of roast beef and baking bread filled the air, making her mouth water. Fran bustled into the room, thick braid swishing over her shoulder just as it had five years ago. Shoeless, she wore a beige I Heart Cranberry, Oregon, bib apron over a fuchsia-colored jumper and yellow turtleneck with matching yellow tights. Her love of vivid colors hadn’t changed, either.

  Even without shoes she stood a few inches taller than Cinnamon, who was exactly five-six—five-eight in the heeled boots she now wore.

  “Hey, you,” Fran said.

  Wearing the grin Cinnamon knew and loved, eyes sparkling, Fran wiped her hands on the apron, then held out her arms.

  It seemed ages since anyone had welcomed, let alone hugged, Cinnamon. Her eyes filled and she returned the embrace with equal warmth.

  No crying, she sternly commanded herself. Crying was for pity parties, and hers was over. “It’s so good to see you,” she said, the words muffled in the hug. “Thanks for inviting me. I know you must be busy getting ready for the I Love the Oregon Coast Valentine Weekend and the tourist season after that.”

  Fran pulled back, smiling, to study her. “I am busy, but we’ll have our evenings together. You’ve always been independent and resourceful, and I know you’ll find plenty to occupy your time. I’m just so glad you’re here, because talking on the phone several times a week isn’t enough.” She sobered. “How’re you doing, hon?”

  Cinnamon glanced at Nick. She knew he hadn’t missed the concern in Fran’s voice or her troubled expression. No doubt he was curious. She had plenty to discuss with her friend, but not now. “I’m managing,” she said.

  Fran nodded, then angled her head at Nick. “Thanks for carrying in that bag. You two introduced yourselves, I assume?”

  “We sure did.” His voice was teasing and ripe with innuendo.

  He showered Cinnamon with a long, slow look that made her forget about her troubles. Her gaze flitted from his unnerving bedroom eyes to his chin, where a long, pale scar ran along his jaw, only noticeable in the bright light of the entry. Somehow that added to his attractiveness. Not that she was attracted. She was merely observing.

  Liar.

  She untied the belt of her leather coat and shrugged out of it. Or started to.

  Nick set down her suitcase and helped, the perfect gentleman except for the warmer-than-warm gleam in his eyes and that seductive grin.

  She felt herself blush. Again. Which only widened his smile. Clearly he knew his effect on women. Not so different from Dwight.

  She frowned at him, but he had already turned away to hang up her coat.

  “I’ll take your bags to the room and then I’m off,” he announced, grabbing the suitcase, laptop and cosmetic bag. He glanced at Fran. “The Orca suite?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s on the third floor,” Cinnamon recalled. A veteran planner, before arriving she’d studied the layout of the Oceanside, using pictures from the Web site and the brochure Fran had mailed her. “The Oceanside’s only suite. Luxurious, the brochure said.”

  “You’d better believe it,” Nick commented. “Private bath with a whirlpool tub big enough for two.” He raised his brows suggestively. “Sitting room, fireplace and a balcony overlooking the ocean. Takes up the whole floor.” He winked. “You really rate.” Whistling softly he headed up the carpeted staircase.

  When he was out of sight, Fran leaned toward her. “Isn’t he adorable?” she whispered.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of hot and sexy.” Cinnamon shot her friend a reproachful smirk. “You never mentioned his looks.”

  “Oops. Guess I forgot.”

  “Well, he’s not my type. Right now, no man is.” Bruised feelings, dangerously close to the surface, threatened to spill out in a hot rush of tears. Not now, not now.

  Cinnamon glanced around the brightly lit foyer and beyond to the blazing fire in the other room. “That’s the great room you rent out for weddings and parties. As I recall from the brochure, ‘The main level’s open floor plan allows guests easy access between the great room, dining room and kitchen.’ I can’t wait to see everything.”

  Amusement twinkled in Fran’s eyes. “You memorized that?”

  “Not really.” Cinnamon shrugged. “I read the brochure carefully, several times. That’s known as attention to detail.”

  “Attention to detail, eh?” Her friend outright laughed. “That is so like you. And the reason you’re such a good consultant.”

  “Used to be good, you mean.”

  The humor faded from Fran’s expression. “You’re still the best, hon. We all make mistakes.” There was no judgment or condemnation in the words or in her face, only compassion and love. “Ease up on yourself.”

  Fresh tears filled Cinnamon’s eyes. Jeez, she was sensitive tonight. She blinked furiously. “Can we please talk about something else?”

  “Sure.” Fran patted her arm, offering reassurance. “How about a quick tour after Nick leaves?”

  They both heard the thud of his footsteps on the carpeted stairs and his tuneless whistle.

  “Speak of the devil,” Fran quipped.

  Grinning, Nick glanced from one woman to the other. “You two talking about me?”
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br />   His confident stance and lowered eyelids showed Cinnamon he assumed he was the topic of conversation. “You wish,” she said, letting her irritation show.

  “Ouch.” Laying his hand over his heart he gave her a mock-wounded frown that lightened her mood a fraction.

  “I’m sure you’ll live,” Fran said. “Thanks for taking the bags up, and thanks for your hard work today. See you tomorrow?”

  “You bet.” He saluted, fingers flirting with his overlong hair. “Right after I drop Abby at school.”

  So he had a daughter. Probably a wife, too, though Fran hadn’t mentioned that. Yet here he was, flirting and looking at Cinnamon with I-want-you lust. Men! She shot him a you-cad frown, but he was focused on Fran.

  “I have a dentist appointment first thing in the morning, and a long city council meeting after that, so I may not be around,” Fran said. “Cinnamon will let you in.”

  One eyebrow quirked up. “I’ll look for-ward to that. You ladies have fun tonight. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but if you do,” he aimed yet another suggestive look at Cinnamon, “think of me.”

  He was cocky and trite and married. She could hardly stand him, yet at the same time, the attention felt wonderful. How pathetic was that?

  Moisture gathered behind her eyes. Don’t cry. Don’t! Her tears were too near the surface to risk speaking. She swallowed them back.

  In a blink Nick’s expression turned solemn and wary, as if he understood she was an emotional wreck. Well, she never had been good at hiding her feelings.

  “What’d I do?” he asked, his soft, contrite tone totally devoid of flirtation.

  “It’s not you,” she said in a voice clogged with emotion.

  The sympathy and kindness in his eyes snapped her shaky control. She burst into tears.

  FEELING HELPLESS AND UNCOMFORTABLE, Nick shifted from one foot to the other. He thought Cinnamon was cute in an uptight, corporate sort of way, and he’d enjoyed teasing her and making her cheeks flame. She was way out of his league, but not immune to his attention. But then, flirting was one thing he knew he was good at.