Naughty But Nice Read online

  She rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake. Here.” She shoved the coffee into his hands. “Stupid accent,” she muttered under her breath.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No, I believe you begged for coffee—which you now have. So, if you would be so kind”—she gestured to the door—“I have cupcakes to remake.”

  “You have a weakness for accents, do you?” He grinned, then took a very quick sip when her scowl darkened.

  “Mr. Gallagher—”

  “Taking my leave, not to worry.” He sketched a short bow, then as the flavor burst on his tongue, he lifted the cup toward her in a gesture of sincere reverence. “The innkeeper was right. Truly, a remarkable blend.”

  “Enjoy it,” she said, the unspoken ending making it clear that it would be his only chance to do so.

  “I plan to.” He couldn’t have said what made him do it, but rather then take his leave, he remained where he stood a moment longer, and quite deliberately allowed his gaze to roam down her chef ’s-coat-draped body, and back up again. Not that he could tell one whit what she was hiding behind the starched white linen, but his imagination filled in the blanks quite nicely. “Down to the last drop,” he murmured, as he met her eyes once again.

  It was simply payback for the abrupt eviction, and maybe a wee bit more for putting him so off balance. But his impulsive behavior backfired quite spectacularly when his caddish behavior didn’t earn him the expected scowl and possible swift boot straight out the door, but rather a far more delicious bloom of hot pink spreading across her delicate cheekbones.

  Bollocks. He’d have to take several turns around the town square in the frigid cold morning air if he hoped to have even the slightest chance of taking his coat off at any point during his upcoming council meeting. He could only pray the windy chill would do what his normally stalwart willpower had not.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Gallagher.”

  “Have a good day, Miss ... ?”

  “Duncastle,” she responded, polite to the end, despite her obvious dislike of him. When he didn’t respond right away, she sighed, and added, “Melody Duncastle.”

  He nodded his appreciation, though he doubted she much cared. “Miss Melody Duncastle.” Her full name suited her, he thought. From her milkmaid complexion to her courtesan mouth, which was where his gaze was lingering.

  “I’d wish you the same, Mr. Gallagher, but we both know that wouldn’t be sincere. Especially today.”

  He chuckled at that, appreciating her honesty. A shame it looked as if they were to be adversaries. He could have used someone like her on his side. If only he could stop thinking about what it would be like to have her on her back.

  He quickly tipped an imaginary hat her way. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, then,” he said, with a hearty, full-on brogue. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

  “Of that you can be certain,” he heard her mutter as he left the shop ... whistling.

  2

  As the chiming bells on the door quieted, Melody wiped her damnably sweaty palms on her apron. “Wow,” she murmured beneath her breath. “This is going to be a little harder than I thought.” She relived the moment when he’d looked her up and down. And had to wipe her hands. Again. “Okay, much harder.”

  She’d heard a great deal about Mr. Thomas Griffin Gallagher, but none of the reports she’d gotten had described his lethal good looks. Nor had she gotten the impression of him as a charmer. Quite the opposite, actually. The words she’d heard associated with Griffin, as she’d heard he liked to be called, had been more along the lines of determined, detail-oriented, driven, and hard-nosed—which she’d translated into bullying asshole.

  Of course, the only people she’d talked to who had actually met the man were other men.

  There had been talk that he looked nothing like his American-born relatives. But she still hadn’t been prepared for how startlingly different he did look. The whole town knew of his true heritage now that word had leaked out he wasn’t actually blood kin to the Gallaghers at all, but rather the direct descendant of Lionel Hamilton’s late wife, Trudy Hamilton, previously Trudy Haversham.

  Hamilton Industries was the economic backbone that solely and uniquely supported the town’s ongoing existence. Though neither Lionel nor his forebears had ever been perceived as warm, or even particularly likable types, there was no denying his stewardship of his family’s many holdings had continued to make Hamilton a viable place to live and work. As such, there had been significant concern as Lionel’s health had declined over the past several years. Trevor Hamilton, his great nephew and the only Hamilton heir, had made it clear he was not interested in taking on the family empire. What would happen to their town and their livelihoods as time marched on?

  It had been during last year’s holiday season that Holly Gallagher—then Holly Bennett—had taken over her mother’s Christmas shop in neighboring Willow Creek, which was also where Sean Gallagher ran his popular family restaurant. The two of them, now married, had unearthed a diary written by a young, pregnant Trudy in one of the dusty antique desks buried in the shop’s attic.

  Apparently Trudy had been sent by her wealthy family in Richmond to a dotty old aunt in neighboring Willow Creek, to give birth to her out-of-wedlock baby in secret. The dotty aunt would see to the child’s eventual adoption, but teenager Trudy and her newfound friend, Sean’s own grandmother, had spirited the babe to the local parish, where he was placed with one of the many Gallagher families.

  Melody hadn’t heard the specifics on how or when Griffin’s grandparents had returned to Ireland to raise the baby—who grew up to become Griffin’s father—but she knew Griffin had been born and raised there, apparently never knowing of his real ancestry. Melody found that odd, given just how different he looked from the other Gallaghers. Surely there had been some speculation.

  The joke around Randolph County was that there must be a Gallagher baby factory somewhere that popped them out on a conveyer belt, each meeting the same specific Gallagher baby criteria. The resemblance amongst them all, down to the last cousin—and there were endless numbers of them—was uncanny. Dark hair, flashing blue eyes, charming grin, above average height and build, all of which held true whether they were male or female.

  While Griffin was certainly impressive enough in the latter two departments, he was neither dark-haired nor blue-eyed. In fact, it was his close-cropped sandy blond hair, slightly darker brows, and thickly lashed, pale-toalmost translucent green eyes that had caught her off guard when she’d come bustling out of the back.

  He looked lean and rugged, even in a perfectly cut suit and overcoat that had likely set him back more than she cleared in a month. His face was hard and angular, giving him the almost brutish air of someone who could hold his own in a brawl. The slight bump on the bridge of his nose indicated he probably had. Then he’d smiled, and there had been a surprising twinkle in his eyes, an unexpected sensual curve to those chiseled, hard lips, all combining to transform him from street tough to fallen angel. One with a very tarnished halo, who would no doubt try to tempt her into any number of unwise adventures.

  After losing an entire morning’s work when her cooling racks had collapsed, she’d already been thrown for a loop, more concerned about replacing the crushed cupcakes for the Hamilton Senior Center centennial birthday celebration than rushing to see to the immediate needs of whoever was in the front of her shop.

  To discover him behind the counter, and worse, finding herself hopelessly caught up in those ethereal eyes of his, and the naughty promises his smile was making ... not to mention that absurdly sexy accent hanging in the air between them . . . well, it was no surprise she’d taken refuge in the anger and frustration she’d already built up toward him, even though their paths had never crossed. It seemed a lot safer than allowing herself to think, even for one tiny second, that she might be attracted to the man whose very presence in her little town was a threat to everything she held dear.

  Ever since the disco
very of the diary, the town of Hamilton couldn’t stop buzzing about whether Lionel would recognize Trudy’s descendant as a true heir to the massive Hamilton empire. Trevor had come back long enough to help Sean and Holly verify the story in the diary, eventually connecting Griffin with Lionel and reiterating his desire to live his life on his own terms. Last Melody had heard, he was doing quite well with that plan. He lived in North Carolina with his wife of several years, Emma. In fact, Trevor and Emma had just added to their menagerie of rescue animals with a bouncing baby boy.

  Melody smiled at the thought as she brushed flour off the front of her jacket, thinking it nice that people followed their dreams and found happiness in their successes. She’d thought she’d done that very thing when she’d left Hamilton as a high-minded seventeen-year-old, intent on earning a law degree and living her life in the fast-paced, oh-so-current world of the nation’s capital. By the time she’d entered law school, the grandmother who’d raised her was gone, and Hamilton was merely a fond memory of a childhood left behind for bigger and better things.

  Melody snorted at that. Bigger maybe, but better, not so much. She’d lasted four years post graduation in the toxic hell that was life as a DC tax law litigator. Staring at her thirtieth birthday, worried about having the soul sucked directly out of her, she’d realized she needed a new dream.

  She’d initially been lured back to Hamilton by her best childhood friend, Bernadette, the only one she’d remained in contact with over the years. Bernie had begged her to come and lend her tax and legal expertise in setting up Bernie’s new bakery business. So Melody had taken her first vacation since ... ever, deciding she could use the two weeks away from the merry-go-round her life had become to do some serious soul-searching and rethink her goals.

  Instead, she’d found herself baking. A lot of baking, in fact. She hadn’t reached any conclusions, but the baking had calmed her, centered her, given her something to do with her hands, and freed her mind from the endless loop it seemed to be on of late. When she returned to her life in DC, still unsettled and unhappy, she’d enrolled in a pastry chef course. Then another one. Followed by an entire semester, crammed in with her regular workload, at a local culinary school. She still hated her life as a tax attorney, but baking things helped level out the stress. In the absence of any other great life plan, it was better than nothing.

  Then Bernadette had broken down and told Melody what had really led her to ditch her job as a senior advertising accountant with Hamilton Industries and follow her private dream to launch her own bakery ... she had cancer. Starting a bakery was something she’d wanted to do before she died. With stage four Hodgkin’s lymphoma, that eventuality was going to happen sooner than she’d thought.

  Melody’s path had become crystal clear then, all her priorities painfully and abruptly defined. Without a single pang of regret, at the age of thirty-one, she’d handed in her resignation, packed up her essentials, and walked away from the law degree she’d spent many years and a ton of money obtaining, along with a career that was the envy of many. Heading south to be with her friend for whatever time they had left, she’d learned how to run a bakery . . . and how to watch a best friend die. Ten months later, she was alone in Hamilton again ... and the new owner of Cups & Cakes. Bernadette’s dying wish became Melody’s new lease on life.

  A new life Melody had grabbed with everything she had. In the town she’d thought a part of her past, she’d found her future and more happiness and fulfillment than she’d ever thought possible.

  “I’ll be damned if some spooky-eyed Irish devil is going to screw things up now.”

  With that thought bolstering her, she squared her shoulders and headed back to the kitchen area to face the first disaster of the morning. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do about the second one.

  She’d had every intention of being at the town council meeting, along with a number of the town square business owners. The news of Lionel’s bold new plans for the town—which had turned out to be Griffin’s brainchild—had leaked out about a month ago and spread like wildfire. The speculation was that Lionel had known the truth about Trudy’s bastard child all along, and had, in fact, gone to great lengths to keep it quiet. For decades. When he announced he was naming Griffin the heir who would be stepping forward to assist in guiding the future of Hamilton Industries, it had been the biggest scandal to hit the town in as long as anyone could remember.

  Thomas Griffin Gallagher—and, rightfully, also a Haversham—was reputedly a mini-Lionel in his own right, already well on his way to establishing a burgeoning empire of his own in the U.K. His specialty, so the nosy hens of Hamilton had ferreted out almost before he’d set foot on American soil, was finding new ways to market and brand old concepts, old businesses, even entire old towns, and revitalize them into something prosperous, thriving. All for a percentage, of course.

  He’d spun himself to be the pied piper of revitalization, a veritable Extreme Town Makeover magician. Until you dug a little deeper and discovered that not one of those little businesses, brands, or towns remotely resembled what it had been, once the reincarnation was complete. More prosperous? Sure. But lost in the reconstructed and homogenized shuffle was what had made the businesses, brands, and towns special in the first place. Melody understood in some of those cases, without change, there would have been no corporation, brand, or village left to save. It wasn’t the case here. Hamilton wasn’t failing.

  There was a difference between saving a sinking ship ... and changing things purely for greed and the desire of more-more-more.

  Melody didn’t care if Griffin took on the expansion of Hamilton Industries’ global prospects, but as far as she was concerned, he could leave the town of Hamilton itself right the hell alone. “I just want the town I already have,” Melody grumbled, as she started clearing the mess in the back room. She had enough cupcakes in reserve to cover the centennial birthday, but it would leave her shop empty of its namesake treats ... and none of the reserve cupcakes had been decorated as yet.

  After Melody had scraped the last of the dumped cupcakes and bigger cakes that had been on the bottom rack into the trash and shoved all the trays into the industrialsize sink, she got the mop to start on the floors. “Fondant on floors is so much fun to clean.”

  She blew her hair out of her face—again—indulged in another short swearing session as she looked at the green and pink slime coating her floors, then got over it and got down to work. As she started scrubbing she supposed she should be thankful the town meeting was keeping her shop thin of customers.

  She needed to be at that town council meeting, to hear, firsthand from the man himself, exactly what the proposed changes were going to be for Hamilton, and to join ranks with the other shopkeepers to make sure their voices were heard, and heard loudly, in dissent.

  It wasn’t that she was opposed to finding ways to improve the financial bottom line of Hamilton. Lionel Hamilton and his predecessors had created the economic center that was still, literally, Hamilton town square. What had grown into Hamilton Hardware, Hamilton Automotive, Hamilton Gas, and even Hamilton Herefords over the past century had become Hamilton Industries, an everexpanding conglomerate of business, both local and countywide, with Lionel’s personal investments reaching across the country, and beyond, as far as the Pacific Rim.

  Though its ever-growing business center was parked right outside the town limits, the town itself had never lost its old-time quaint charm. It was, to her mind, the absolute best of both worlds. Unique, diverse, yet traditional and close-knit.

  Then Lionel had to go and introduce a land shark into their otherwise peaceful and nonthreatening waters. A man who was going to take their unique big-industry/ small-town dynamic and turn it into some kind of global, international theme park. She might make cupcakes for a living, but that didn’t mean she wanted to live in a cookiecutter world.

  Muttering under her breath again as she got the last of the fondant off the floor, she emptied the rolling
bucket and filled it with a disinfectant cleanser. “Lovely scent to greet my customers, first thing in the morning.” She glanced up at the wall clock, then mentally juggled her commitments for the next forty-eight hours. The shop hadn’t had a single customer this morning—if she didn’t count the visit from the devil.

  She glanced back at the clock again, then finished cleaning up, before scrubbing her own hands and finally taking off her chef’s coat. She’d close the shop for three hours, hit the town meeting, then double back and reopen to catch the after-school/end-of-workday crowd. It wouldn’t leave her any time to bake or decorate, but she could put in an all-nighter and get caught up. Eventually, things would even out. They always did.

  3

  Griffin stood to the side of the wide screen that filled most of the high school auditorium stage and narrated as pictures of his planned future for Hamilton scrolled across the screen. “By diversifying, and creating a unified theme for your village and the independent shops that line your charming town square, we can create a unique environment that will draw in not only your average American tourists, but travelers from far beyond your county lines, state lines, and even the shores of your country.”

  He was careful not to lay it on too thick, knowing better than most never to talk down to or underestimate an audience. The herd mentality was a good thing when it worked in his favor, but could quite easily shift against him. Then all his carefully laid plans would blow up in his face. “We don’t want to change what makes your shops, your village, special. We want to focus on that, figure out what it is that makes the charming atmosphere you’ve created, then capitalize on it, smooth away the rough edges, and make what you’ve worked so hard to build a bright and shiny showpiece. You’re sitting on a veritable gold mine here.”

  He scanned the audience, trying to gauge his relative success. Folks were nodding, sitting comfortably in their seats, seemingly willing to hear him out, even eager in some cases. More smiles than frowns, which was very good indeed, but he’d be happy with simply knowing their minds were open to change. He noted the door opening in the back of the auditorium, and stuttered over his next sentence as he spied the lovely cupcake baker slipping in and taking a seat on the aisle. He lost another critical moment wondering what she’d done to overcome her early morning crisis, or if she’d simply locked the door and decided to deal with it later.