Relative Strangers

RELATIVE STRANGERS

Kathy Lynn Emerson

CHAPTER ONE

“Shopping for a Christmas present, Corrie?” Rachel gave her friend a nudge and a saucy wink.

Caught staring at the good-looking stranger, Corrie Ballantyne sent Rachel a rueful glance. “Dream on.”

“He’s a dream boat, all right. Tall. Dark. Handsome.” Rachel began to hum “Some Enchanted Evening” under her breath.

In spite of her best intentions, Corrie’s gaze slid back across the room crowded with hotel guests and townspeople. She wasn’t looking for a vacation romance. On the other hand, there seemed to be no harm in fantasizing a bit.

This particular man could provoke lustful thoughts in a nearsighted octogenarian. That thick, wavy black hair was just meant to be mussed. His narrow face featured high cheekbones, a long, straight nose, and a strong jaw. In combination with height and a superb physique, those assets produced the perfect image of a handsome, mysterious, slightly dangerous heartbreaker.

The outfit he wore reinforced the image. He was in costume, decked out in all the sartorial splendor of a proper gentleman of the late 1880s. The entire staff of the Sinclair House was in nineteenth-century attire, since the evening’s entertainment at the hotel was billed as “an old-fashioned Christmas Eve,” but he alone managed to project the illusion of a Gothic hero.

The Currier & Ives setting was nice, but to Corrie’s mind this dash of Victorian melodrama added just the right touch. She continued to stare, envisioning him as an English aristocrat with some deep, dark secret sorrow. She was quite pleased with that interpretation until he bent down to speak to a man in a wheelchair.

He smiled then, a real dazzler that revealed an unexpected dimple in his formidable chin. The image of brooding misanthrope vanished. Only a gorgeous specimen of the male of the species remained.

“Glad I suggested we come here?” Rachel asked.

“Here” was an opulent hotel left over from the nineteenth century. One of the few summer resorts to survive that bygone era, in part by winterizing one section of the hotel, it was now exclusive, expensive, and unique, catering to those who were fed up with nothing but fast food and generic motels. There weren’t even any television sets in the bedrooms. Instead, guests had to leave their spacious, handsomely appointed chambers and seek out the variety of live entertainment offered in parlors, private dining halls, ballrooms, and lounges. In this aptly named Fireside Room, fragrant applewood burned in a huge granite fireplace, its pungent aroma blending with the scent of pine needles.

Corrie shifted her attention to Rachel, though she remained aware of the man across the room. “This place makes me remember the stories my grandmother used to tell my brothers and me when we were kids. All about the big hotels in the Catskills, and about my great-grandmother Daisy.”

“Was she the one who was scrubbing pots and pans in the hotel kitchen, wearing her fingers to the bone, when your great-grandfather came along, possibly on a big white horse, to rescue her?”

“That’s the one. She married him and scrubbed his pots and pans instead.” Corrie knew she sounded cynical, but the role of the woman in marriage had been a sore point with her since her own mother’s death just after Christmas the year before.

Her subsequent estrangement from her father and brothers was the reason she was here in Maine for the holidays, rather than back home in New York State. No way would she take on the traditional woman’s role with her family, not after her mother had sacrificed her health by catering to the menfolk.

Corrie Ballantyne had no intention of letting history repeat itself.

Deciding it was time to focus on something else, since there was no sense in dwelling on a past she couldn’t change, Corrie searched the crowd for Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. He would make a fine diversion.

Just as she spotted him, he looked up, staring right at her with a mixture of interest and what seemed to be irritation. After a long, breathless moment, he broke eye contact.

“Well,” Corrie murmured. “That was odd.” And strangely erotic.

She was relieved when a touch on her forearm and a pleasantly modulated female voice distracted her from her increasingly unrealistic thoughts about the stranger.

“We’re all going to sing Christmas carols soon. I hope you’ll join us.” The woman who’d checked them into the hotel earlier that day had a hostess’s smile firmly fixed on her plain, winter-pale face. “I’m Joyce Sinclair,” she added.

“Sinclair, you say?” Rachel pounced on the surname. “Does that mean you own this place?”

“The family does.” Joyce absently patted one of the elaborate twists into which her brown hair, liberally streaked with white strands, had been styled.

She was, Corrie speculated, one of those women who always looked years younger than they really were. Not a bit of makeup aided that youthful appearance, either. The lack of any lent a certain authenticity to her turn-of-the-century costume, an elaborate gown of deep wine-red with flounces and furbelows galore.

“Eggnog and song are our Christmas traditions here at the Sinclair House,” Joyce continued, proffering songbooks. “We’d be pleased if you’d join in the singing.”

“You wouldn’t be pleased if you ever heard me sing,” Corrie warned her, but she accepted the brightly covered booklet.

“She might be persuaded,” Rachel said,
“if
you were to introduce her to that good-looking devil over there.”

“Rachel!” Corrie tried to sound disapproving but had to fight back a laugh.

Some things never changed, she thought. Rachel had reveled in being outrageous in high school. More than a dozen years later, she was just as flamboyant, just as likely to say whatever popped into her mind, and just as unconcerned about what others might think.

“That’s my son, Lucas,” Joyce said.

“Is he married?” Rachel asked.

‘‘Not at the moment.”

A speculative gleam lit Rachel’s eyes as she glanced, rather pointedly, at Corrie. Joyce caught the look and responded with a conspiratorial smile.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Corrie said.

She’d have had more luck stopping a wrecking ball in midswing. Joyce bulldozed a path through the crowd, towing both Corrie and Rachel along in her wake, and neatly intercepted her son on his way to the window alcove that housed a grand piano.

“Lucas, dear,” she trilled. “I want you to meet Rachel Diamond.” Then, with what amounted to a flourish, she added, “And this is Corrie Ballantyne.”

“Good evening, ladies.”

His deep voice was compatible with the brooding hero of Corrie’s imagination. She expected to find herself meeting dark, fathomless eyes to match, but instead they were hazel, a particularly appealing shade highlighted with flecks of green.

Joyce’s painfully obvious attempt to play matchmaker was followed by her hasty retreat. “Time to dispense good cheer and songbooks to the other guests,” she declared.

A moment of awkward silence followed her departure. Corrie said nothing, disconcerted by a whiff of bay rum. He’d really gotten into this turn-of-the-century thing.

Curious about him, her earlier interest deepening now that she was in his presence, she held herself stiffly so as not to betray any hint of what she was feeling. A mature woman approaching her thirtieth birthday should not have the urge to swoon when presented to a handsome stranger. Not in this day and age.

“Great costume,” Rachel said, daring to run one fingertip over the velvet trim on Lucas Sinclair’s lapels.

His professional innkeeper’s expression never wavered.
“You
make quite a splash yourself, Ms. Diamond.” His tone of voice was suave, and as rich and warm as a chocolate soufflé

To Corrie, he said nothing. She felt a twinge of disappointment, forgetting for a moment that she did not want to attract his attention, but she wasn’t surprised by the snub. Next to Rachel she often became invisible.

Bright colors had been Rachel’s trademark even when she and Corrie were teenagers. Tonight Rachel’s dinner dress was brilliant orange with a matching ribbon worked into her dark brown hair. Corrie was in dove-gray, a full-length cocktail dress chosen precisely because it conveyed a low-key anonymity. She could just imagine what the dashing Mr. Sinclair saw when he looked at her, if he noticed her at all—a woman of average weight, average height, average build, and average coloring with plain brown hair and ordinary blue eyes.

Perhaps it was time for a change, Corrie thought. After all, she was there on vacation. The problem with that plan was that her entire wardrobe had been chosen to fit her professional image. As a publicist, her job was to make sure her clients were in the spotlight. She stayed behind the scenes, going to great lengths to blend into the background rather than stand out. The only outrageous garment she owned was the hot-pink ski parka Rachel had just given her as an early Christmas present.

Then she sensed Lucas Sinclair’s intense gaze settling on her. She had to fight an urge to fidget, and she felt a sudden empathy with animals in a zoo. When he spoke to her, his words were innocuous, a question about which of the costumes worn by the staff she liked best, but she avoided meeting his eyes when she answered.

“My favorite is the brown-and-cream number.” She gestured vaguely toward the fireplace, where she’d last seen the woman wearing that particularly elaborate dress.

When Lucas turned to look, Corrie did the same. There was no sign now of the wearer of the gown. Her gaze was drawn back to his patrician profile. For a moment he seemed puzzled, then he responded with a deep, rumbling chuckle.

“You must have spotted Adrienne,” he said. “Would you like to be introduced to her?”

* * * *

Still smiling, Lucas navigated a path through the milling crowd, until he and Corrie stood before the fireplace. There he indicated the enormous gilt-framed oil painting hanging over the mantel, a full-length portrait of a woman. Her gown was pale brown and trimmed with bows, its cream-colored panels embroidered in figures of red, yellow, and green.

“Ms. Ballantyne,” he said, careful to keep the mixed emotions he was feeling out of his voice, “may I present Adrienne Sinclair.”

He watched Corrie Ballantyne as she studied the portrait, trying to figure out what it was that drew him to her in such a disconcertingly powerful way. There was chemistry between them. No mistake about that. He’d known it from the moment he looked up and found this elegant woman staring at him from the opposite side of the Fireside Room. He’d quickly averted his gaze, but it had already been too late.

The intensity of that jolt of instant attraction had both surprised and dismayed him, for unpleasant memories had rushed in behind it, rapidly transforming his reaction to profound annoyance, most of it directed at himself. His aversion to what he’d experienced wasn’t Corrie’s fault. She didn’t know that there had been another time in his life when he’d felt this same kind of immediate, powerful sexual pull toward a complete stranger. She didn’t know that in the first instance, he had made the disastrous mistake of marrying the object of his desire.

As he’d worked the holiday crowd, studiously avoiding Corrie, he’d been unable to resist sending swift, seemingly casual glances her way. What he’d seen had reassured him. She looked nothing like Dina, his ex-wife. Corrie had shiny medium-length hair, light brown in color. Though her conservative gown concealed her figure, he had the impression of a slender build and shapely legs. It remained to be seen if Corrie resembled Dina in other, less obvious ways.

No, it didn’t, he told himself firmly. He was only standing this close to her now because his mother, up to her old matchmaking tricks, had pushed them together.

There was no reason he had to get to know Corrie Ballantyne better. In fact, if he had any sense, he’d avoid her completely during the rest of her stay at the Sinclair House.

Her friend, he noticed, had stopped to chat with another guest but was still managing to keep an eye on them. Another matchmaker. Resentment simmered just under the surface. Lucas did not like being manipulated, especially by women. That he’d already been attracted to Corrie before these two busybodies got into the act only made him more determined to resist her. He would treat Corrie the same way he would any other patron of the hotel.

Aware he’d been silent too long and that Corrie was slanting him a quizzical look, he launched into the patter he usually gave to people viewing this portrait. “Adrienne Sinclair was my great-great-grandmother, married to the first Lucas Sinclair. She and her husband expanded what until then had been only a small country inn. Within ten years, with the help of over three hundred employees, the place was a completely self-contained grand hotel with rooms for four hundred and fifty guests. Together Lucas and Adrienne made the Sinclair House a world-renowned resort. A hundred years ago you couldn’t have walked through our lobby without spotting some famous person or other. Financiers, lumber barons, politicians, princes—they all came to the Sinclair House to be pampered. And to drink the healing waters of Sinclair Spring. The only thing that really compares nowadays is the luxury you find on a cruise ship.”