Lake Effect (2 page)

Without looking at him she muttered a quick thank you and flew out. Wyeth watched from the open door as she re-traced her path across the yard, then headed toward the side with the steps. He smiled, listening to her ranting as she went: “Shelby Aylesworth, you are an idiot. Norman, I may call the pound after this one.”

He stood in the doorway for a few more minutes, looking once again at the reflecting pool. Suddenly the thought of filling it in lost all appeal.

Standing under the shower for the second time that morning, Wyeth found himself reviewing the events of the day. His decision to live on the island had been made on the spur of the moment. He'd decided it was the best way to prove to the other property owners that he was serious about resurrecting the winery — a good faith gesture to dispel any rumors of development. Though, if he were being honest with himself, he would also admit that it had presented an opportunity for escape.

Being known as one of New York City's most eligible bachelors was a blessing and a curse. While there was never a shortage of available beautiful women to choose from, he couldn't take a woman — friend or otherwise — anywhere without having their picture end up in the paper or on the Internet. This inevitably caused drama among the women in his life. Drama, he mused, seemed synonymous with women. Especially with Abby Newkirk — she only needed to walk into a room to create drama. He'd met her at one of the endless functions he attended. At the time she'd seemed a nice diversion, the answer to his dilemma. A woman already confident in her self esteem, Abby could hold her own against Wyeth.

Their relationship, for lack of a better term, had been based on needs. He needed someone he could take to the endless dinners and benefits he was expected to attend — someone who knew she was there as an adornment; an accessory, if you will. Abby had grown up in the society circle and was used to these things, used to her picture appearing in the gossip columns.

Likewise, Abby needed someone to take her to all the fashionable parties and night spots. Someone who could keep pace with her lifestyle and spending habits. Someone who could keep her in the spotlight and in the gossip columns. They were both using each other — that much was understood, or at least in the beginning it had been. They'd brokered a deal like two business partners. She knew what their relationship was about and it suited both of them — or so he'd thought. Somewhere along the line, Abby had begun to think in terms of a
real
relationship, becoming possessive with his time. An occasional kiss here or there for the cameras had started the rumor mill flowing, and Abby, much to his irritation, wasn't doing anything to discourage it. He should've known better. He should've sensed that Abby wanted more. For a short time, that may have worked for him too, until her possessive nature kicked in. The opportunity to open the winery had come at just the right time. She'd been royally pissed when he bought the manor house. Angrier still when he announced he'd be moving up to the island for a year or two until the winery was going well. They'd had quite the row about it. That had been a month and a half ago. He'd left and had not heard from her since.

Women were nothing but trouble. So why was it he couldn't shake the image of a certain short, red-haired, green-eyed girl?

She was a contradiction to every woman he'd ever dated. He didn't date short women, and he didn't think he'd ever dated a redhead. Her shyness was attractive — that was certainly not what he was used to. The women he dated often pretended shyness at first. You could spot it a mile away and it didn't take long to figure them out. This shyness had been genuine. This woman was genuine. No makeup, no pretense. From the moment she'd reached down to help him out he'd felt it. He was fairly certain when she'd landed in his lap she'd felt it too. Of course, who wouldn't rise to the occasion, so to speak, if a beautiful girl landed face first in his lap?

It was more than that though. The energy between the two of them when he'd hoisted her up on the counter had been real enough. It had moved between them — a physical burst, ignited and alive. The color that flushed her fair skin when he'd pointed out that there were steps, or when she was angry at him, which seemed to be often, was most appealing. She'd also had no idea who he was, and that in itself was a nice change of pace.

Once again he straightened his tie and slipped into his suit coat, this time with a lighter heart and a smile on his face — both of which he attributed to his redheaded stranger and her dog, Norman.

At least now he knew her name.
Shelby Aylesworth.

• • •

Shelby winced as the antiseptic sunk into the scratches on her legs for the second time that morning. She'd spent almost an hour in the shower scrubbing, first her hair and then the rest of her. What a morning it had turned out to be.

“All because of you, mister.”

She sent the dog an accusing look. He returned her stare as if to say, “Who, me?”

Shelby laughed, propped her other leg on the side of the tub, and began dabbing again.

Wyeth
. She rolled the name around in her head. It was different; an old name, perhaps a family name. It suited him — tall, dark and demanding. She'd felt the electricity hover in the air of that mudroom. Here was a man used to demanding and getting his own way. His brown eyes were almost black and they'd burned through her one minute but then softened and showed great concern the next. His dark hair with bits of grey speckled throughout was sexy as hell. How could anyone fall in a slime-filled pond and walk out still looking that good was beyond her. She blushed again, thinking about her own landing in the pond. She'd been mortified — not only by the action, but by his reaction.

It had been five long and lonely years since Jack's death, seven since they'd lost their daughter, and in that time, despite her friends' best efforts, she'd not had a single date, preferring instead quiet nights at home with Norman. She knew it was time to start living again. At thirty-three years old she wasn't exactly ready to live a celibate life. She thought again of the dark and brooding Wyeth Packard and just as quickly dismissed him.

Girl, he's totally out of your league,
she reminded herself.

Shelby did feel bad about the suit and would've felt worse if he hadn't been such an ass about it. How could she compensate him for that? What if she couldn't? What if he decided to sue her? No, she knew he wasn't that kind of man. It was an accident, no harm done.

She stopped for a moment and then realized she could do what she did best. Heading to her kitchen she slapped her iPod into its dock. While the melodic voice of Dean Martin crooned to her in Italian, Shelby began dragging out bowls, her stand mixer, sheet pans, and ingredients.

Hours later she looked at the basket she'd made up and knew this would be a great way to say “sorry for what my dog did.” She cleaned up the kitchen and headed for bed feeling …
happy
? It was a new feeling for her. Although why she felt this way was harder to pin down. Replaying the morning's events in her mind, she crawled into bed exhausted and with a smile on her face.

• • •

Wyeth had, by some miracle, managed to be on time for his meeting. It lasted forever but he finally gained the permits and permission he needed. With the help of his realtor, Cheri Beauchamp, the last pieces to the puzzle were in place and now he could focus his attentions on making the winery productive as well as profitable.

He found for the most part that the islanders involved were more concerned with what he
wouldn't
do — namely, plow under the grape vines and build. Following the meeting, Cheri Beauchamp invited him to join her and a few others to the only open restaurant for happy hour. The Island House served not only as the biggest hotel on the island, but also the nicest restaurant. Although the hotel wouldn't open for another month, the restaurant only closed for a few weeks in January. They'd received many accolades from travel magazines for their dining and accommodations, and Wyeth could see why. The atmosphere and food were on par with many of his favorite New York restaurants. It was a very pleasant surprise.

“Wyeth, have you met any of the local residents yet?” Cheri sat across the table from him, her easygoing mannerisms a decoy to her ruthless business sense. Cheri had been the top-selling realtor on this island for years. Her knowledge of its history was superior, her effervescent smile infectious. She'd gotten him a great deal on the property too. With her silver hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, wire-rimmed glasses, and long, flowered skirt, Wyeth had no problem picturing her as a young, beautiful woman. He guessed her to be in her late sixties.

She knew someone at every table. She and her husband Len, a character right out of a book with his Louisiana drawl, snow-white hair and beard, ran the island's only grocery store. They'd made Wyeth feel at home from the first day he'd arrived. He'd quickly discerned that if you wanted to know about anyone or anything, the Beauchamps were your go-to couple.

“Actually, I had the pleasure of meeting a dog named Norman this morning.”

He watched, amused, as Cheri tried to fight off a grin. “Oh my, how'd that go for you? The dog really is sweet, you know. He just has a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one can ever stay mad at him because he's part of Shelby. Did you get to meet her too?”

Here was his opportunity.

“Yes, we ran into each other this morning.” That was one way of putting it, but telling Cheri the truth of that meeting seemed too much like kiss and tell. “I'm afraid it didn't go too well.”

“Really? That's not like her at all. I hope everything is all right.”

The concern in her voice had Wyeth's attention. “Her dog did create a bit of an upset over at the manor house this morning — perhaps that's what put her in a bad mood?”

Cheri laughed. “Well, where Norman is concerned there is just no telling what he'll get into. Perhaps you're right.”

“Is Ms. Aylesworth a full time resident?”

Wyeth had about a dozen more questions to ask but didn't want to tip his hand to Cheri. The woman was very astute and would catch on to him in no time.

“Not always. She and Jack bought a place up here about five and a half years ago. In fact, I'm the one that sold it to them.” She beamed at him across the table and in that moment he knew this woman could sell ice to the Eskimos.

“Anyway,” she waved her hand for effect, “they'd been coming up here prior to that just for occasional weekends and the like.”

Wyeth felt his stomach drop in disappointment. So there was a Mr. Aylesworth; he should've figured that. Still, something in Shelby's mannerisms hadn't exactly exuded
married woman.

“I don't think they'd even spent a full night or weekend in the place before Jack was killed,” Cheri continued, the word shocking Wyeth.

“Killed? That's horrible.”

“Yes. It was an accident at work. I don't need to tell you that it's been a rough few years for her.”

Cheri had Wyeth's full attention. His heart constricted as he thought of Shelby, and her beautiful eyes that seemed to show her emotions like a mirror.

“Anyway, it wasn't until this past fall that she decided she'd had enough of life on the mainland. She left her job — doesn't really need the money, since Jack was very good with their funds and left her well taken care of. Last I heard she's still trying to sell their house down in Bennett's Corners. Of course, housing prices sure aren't what they used to be.” Cheri let the conversation end there. She looked at her watch.

“Lord, will you look at the time, six-thirty already, poor Len will be wondering where I'm at or more likely where his dinner's at.”

She laughed her full hearty laugh and was gone; leaving Wyeth with more unanswered questions than when he'd arrived.

He took the long way back to the manor house, taking the outer road that led past all the beautiful little cottages on the far end of the island. There at the farthest end, just before the road curved back inland, stood a lovely two-story home, white with dark green shutters. A sign hung out front:
Jack & Shelby Aylesworth.
Flower beds waited on the other side of a white picket fence. They outlined the yard and the brick walkway that led to the front door. The only light was coming from the back of the house — the kitchen, he guessed. A green Kia Soul sat in the driveway.

The house looked like an enchanted cottage, something right out of the storybooks he used to read to his younger sister. Janele would love this house, and she'd love Shelby.
Where the hell did that come from?
He frowned and drove home a little faster than was necessary. His mood darkened further when he arrived home and found Abby Newkirk waiting for him on his front step.

• • •

Shelby carefully pulled the pale-colored cellophane up around the basket, securing it with beautiful satin ribbon. It was huge, bigger then she'd intended, certainly more than one man could want or need, but there it was. She'd really outdone herself and hoped that this would atone for yesterday's fiasco. Shelby blushed deeply each time she thought of falling into that damned pool. She'd forgotten what a man felt like, and Wyeth Packard certainly felt like a man yesterday. She felt the color rise to her cheeks again. It had been a very long time since she'd been touched by a man. She felt her heart quicken as she thought of Wyeth's strong hands effortlessly putting her up on the counter yesterday and the feel of his commanding yet gentle touch as he so delicately cleaned her scraped legs.

He'd also been a first class jerk about it, she reminded herself. Well, hopefully a basket full of goodies would be just the ticket to clear the air between them. She looked at the clock; nine o'clock, surely he'd be up and moving by now. Carefully cradling the basket in both hands, Shelby made her way out the door and to the car. Norman would be staying home this morning, just for safety's sake.