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  The crowd began to murmur, and he quickly shifted his thoughts back to the far more important matter at hand. “This presentation is a preview of the more detailed information that will be coming your way at the official town hall meeting the end of this week. At that time we will encourage your questions and do our best to answer them, as well as allay any concerns you might have as to how these changes are going to affect you and your businesses personally.” The crowd started to murmur in earnest, and he lifted a hand to stall what appeared to be the start of some questions and hand raising. “I don’t wish to put any of you off, but I won’t be taking questions this morning. I have brochures and printed information, detailing everything I’ve shown you and gone over this morning. My hope—our hope—is that you will take these materials, go over them, and think about everything you’d like to discuss, then send those questions and any concerns you have to the e-mail addresses provided. When we reconvene here at the end of the week, we can have a productive, comprehensive meeting that will launch us into the next phase of this exciting time of growth and prosperity for you and your fellow businessmen and women.”

  He smiled broadly to the audience and clicked the photo on the big screen back to the one of the huge Hamilton Industries logo. “The information packets are stacked on the tables outside the auditorium doors as you exit. Thank you all for your patience, your participation, and your enthusiasm in getting in on the ground floor of what is going to be the most exciting thing to ever happen in Hamilton village.”

  He listened to the applause, gauging whether it was enthusiastic or merely polite, and was, overall, quite happy with the tone of what he was hearing. But just as people started to rise from their seats, a strident voice rang out, freezing everyone for a moment, then returning them to their seats.

  “Mr. Gallagher, isn’t it true that rather than capitalize on the unique features of a town—I’m sorry, village—you simply remodel it into your own vision of the place? I realize that things are different in old-world countries like England, Switzerland, and Italy, where I understand you’ve had enormous success.

  “But Hamilton is not some fourteenth-century village in need of sprucing up, Mr. Gallagher. We don’t need people coming here looking for a theme park resort, fivestar hotels, and a championship golf course. We’re already a thriving community, happily capitalizing on the successes of Hamilton Industries and our own individual business acumen. If you’re merely interested in making Hamilton Industries more successful, thereby giving us greater opportunities, then we’ll all rejoice and give you our undying support. More prosperity is never a bad thing. However, it appears you’re looking to fix a part of us that isn’t broken.

  “I think I am speaking for the majority here when I say we like who and what we are, and what we’ve become, through the hard work and sweat that comes with building our own business from the bottom up. In many cases, for multiple generations. Your own family can speak to that, Mr. Gallagher. Certainly that’s something you can identify with, right? If you would focus all your growth potential energy, of which you seem to have an endless supply, on increasing the bottom line of Hamilton Industries, the rest of us will still stand to profit and prosper. But also keep what makes us unique. Otherwise, Mr. Gallagher, our ‘village’ doesn’t need your help.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, as the rest of the folks in the audience shifted their gazes between himself ... and Melody Duncastle.

  Of course it was her.

  Griffin knew the next few seconds were critical in keeping the edge he’d worked so hard to gain. But before he could open his mouth to rejoin Miss Duncastle, and jovially charm the townspeople into continuing to give him their open-minded attention, someone put their hands together and began to clap. He couldn’t make out who it was, but the sound came from the other side of the auditorium, drawing the gazes and glances of the audience as they, too, shifted to see. Then someone else started clapping, and another, and yet another.

  The throbbing in Griffin’s temples returned with a swift vengeance as he watched all of his carefully calculated work dissolve. The herd was turning against him. Or, at least, toward Melody Duncastle.

  “Miss Duncastle,” he said into his mouthpiece, loudly enough that for a moment, the clapping paused. He pounced on that single moment, knowing what came after would make his life easier ... or a bloody living hell. “Miss Duncastle,” he repeated, and the clapping stopped completely as everyone’s attention shifted from her ... back to him. You’ve got the floor, Gallagher. Better use it wisely. “I’m sorry our initial meeting this morning didn’t go well.” He paused to allow the murmuring to begin ... and build.

  “Mr. Gallagher, this has nothing to do—”

  “Please, kindly allow me to respond to your statements just now,” he interrupted, careful to keep his smile wide and his tone jovial. And if his accent deepened just a little bit, well, they’d just think it was because he was feeling the moment. “I’ve no desire—or I should say, we’ve no desire to cloak or mute any of the wonderful qualities that make Hamilton the special place it is to all of you. We’re aware and deeply respectful that this isn’t simply where you’ve started your businesses, but where you’ve chosen to live your lives, raise your children. Hamilton Industries has never done anything to thwart your growth potential, quite the opposite.

  “You’ve trusted us with your livelihoods, your families ... you have no need to doubt that your trust is still well-placed.” He turned to the audience in general. “I urge you all to read the information and to bring any and all concerns and questions to our full town meeting. Not only will there be Hamilton board members there but also your very own town councilmen, whom you’ve put into office. We’ll all answer every question you have.”

  He saw Melody raise her hand, knew she was going to take back the floor, so he preempted her next strike. “And Miss Duncastle,” he went on, turning on every bit of charm he had. “I’d like a private meeting with you, directly, if possible. It’s important to me, especially after this morning, that you feel comfortable and confident about the plans for Hamilton.” He flashed a wider smile. “I promise I’m no’the bad guy here, Melody.”

  The crowd’s attention shifted from him to the baker. There was a collective holding of breath. The use of her first name had created an almost palpable intimacy, despite their location. The power was firmly back in his hands.

  As his gaze locked on hers, he knew he’d have felt a lot better about his chances if that same palpable intimacy hadn’t affected him as much as it did the crowd. He’d have thought her outburst would have cured him of any kind of attraction toward her. But while his mind saw her as an adversary, and a more worthy opponent than he might have thought, his body had completely different ideas about the best way to handle Melody Duncastle. With the handling part playing a prominent role.

  “Everyone, thank you for coming,” he said, breaking the silence. “Miss Duncastle, we’ll talk.” And with that, he removed his mouthpiece and left the stage. Some might have viewed the move as a cowardly retreat. He viewed it as a preemptive strike. Concluding the meeting while he was still in control gave him time to regroup before they reconvened. Of course, he had no doubt at all that she’d be regrouping as well.

  That thought shouldn’t have made him grin.

  But it did.

  He was still smiling that evening when he approached the door to her shop just as she was flipping the sign to CLOSED. That hadn’t happened by coincidence.

  She paused in mid-flip, her distracted expression changing swiftly when she spied him. Her expression was smooth, polite even, but there was a distinct chill in her magnificent deep blue eyes.

  He could live with that.

  She pulled the door open, but blocked his entry with her body planted directly in the doorway. “I believe we discussed your patronage here.”

  “I’m merely here to set up a convenient time for us to meet.”

  “I don’t believe I agreed to a
ny such thing.”

  “Melody—”

  “Miss Duncastle to you.”

  He chuckled at that, and could have sworn he saw the slightest lift at the corner of her mouth. So perhaps he had more of an opening than he’d thought. She’d given him his edge with her comment about his accent. He’d used it quite shamelessly at the meeting. Oddly, he found himself less willing to press the advantage. An illogical reaction, to be certain. He didn’t need to impress her, just gain her trust. What better way than to turn on the charm?

  “I was sincere in my offer, and my intent,” he said truthfully.

  “If your intent was to charm me into believing your snake-oil-salesman pitch earlier today, I’m afraid you’ll be wasting your time.”

  All right. Perhaps not so much of an opening after all.

  She smiled.

  “Be open-minded enough to hear me out,” he pressed. “You weren’t there for the entire presentation.”

  “I’m pretty sure I got the bullet points.”

  Perhaps he should have gone with the brogue offense.

  “I appreciate your stopping by, but, as you know, I’m a bit behind in production today and have a long night ahead of me.”

  “Perhaps I can be of some assistance—since my meeting was at least partly responsible for your work stoppage.”

  She lifted one perfectly arched brow. It didn’t explain at all why his gaze dropped to her lips.

  “What do you know about baking?”

  “You forget, I grew up in a family-owned restaurant. Several of them, in fact.”

  “I was given to understand you were something of a renegade where your family business was concerned. You have nothing to do with those restaurants, am I correct? And haven’t in some time.”

  He tilted his head, wondered just how severely he’d underestimated her. “You’ve taken a personal interest in me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I don’t believe I was. You’ve done your research.”

  “You also grew up in a small town. Village,” she corrected, rather dryly. “So you must know there’s no need to do much research, merely listen to the village grapevine.”

  “You’ve been riding me about the village thing. It’s merely a cultural distinction. What is a town to you, a burg, is a village where I’m from.”

  She snorted. “Come now, Mr. Gallagher, you know quite well your use of that term was intended to make us feel oh-so-cozy.”

  “Griffin. I’m no’ so averse to such familiarity.” He rubbed his arms, though he honestly wasn’t feeling the chill in the air one bit. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation inside?”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Because?” He employed the twinkle, although, in his defense, he wasn’t thinking tactically at that particular moment.

  She rolled her eyes. “Because I don’t need any distractions.”

  “Am I, then?”

  “You know you are. You’re a threat to everything I hold dear.”

  “Ah. I thought we were speaking personally.”

  “We weren’t speaking at all. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  “Melody.”

  She paused.

  “Let me in. Please. I’ll trade work for talk. I’m a hard worker.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.” She made him sweat another long moment, then finally, with great resignation, stepped back and opened the door wide enough for him to step inside. “You’re not the type to give up, and I don’t have time for this, so let’s get it over with. But, fair warning, if I’m not getting my work done,” she informed him as he took off his overcoat, “I’ll be asking you to leave. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Aye. I’m well acquainted with your abilities in that area.”

  She nodded. “Good. Follow me.”

  He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of her coffee.

  “Don’t even think about asking,” she said, walking straight to the back of the shop.

  He smiled to himself ... and followed her.

  4

  She’d let the lion straight into her den. What was she thinking?

  She could feel him behind her, almost like a physical caress. It was that ridiculously sexy brogue of his, she understood that. And the twinkle. Okay, and his mouth. Something about those hard lips, suddenly becoming very sensual and appealing when he smiled—which made no sense, set as they were in his otherwise rugged face. His jaw and cheekbones looked as if they’d been chiseled from a block of smooth granite. He had a beautifully shaped head, but with his hair clipped so very short, the whole aura should have been menacing rather than sexy.

  So, why was she feeling all tingly, and warm, and, well ... needy?

  “I’ve got one hundred cupcakes to decorate,” she announced, as if by putting the workload out there, she’d create a wall of some kind. Whether it was a wall between her and Griffin, or her and her libido, she wasn’t entirely sure. Nor did she care, as long as one of them worked. “I also have several other cakes to be baked and decorated, but I’ll come down early to do the detailing on those.”

  “Come down?” Griffin glanced upward just as she turned back to look at him, then lowered his gaze to hers. “You live above your shop?”

  It was a good thing she’d studied tax law. She’d have made a lousy defense attorney. “I do, Mr. Gallagher. Now—”

  “Can we at the very least lower our shields enough to consider a first-name basis? I assure you, I won’t mistake the familiarity with the idea that you’ve gone soft on me, or my plans.”

  She looked at him and desperately wished there were no soft parts in her. Starting with the ones that were eagerly responding to his every request. She scooped up two heavy oven mitts and thrust them at him. “You can be on oven duty,” she said, in lieu of a response.

  He didn’t reach out for the mitts, but rather raised one eyebrow. On anyone else, the resulting expression would have looked malevolent at best. On him . . . well, let’s just say her soft, tingly parts were getting a lot warmer.

  “Griffin,” she finally relented, rolling her eyes when he grinned and took the mitts from her.

  “Wasn’t so ’ard now, was it?” he asked, as he removed his coat.

  “You’re insufferable,” she said, turning her back to him as she rolled the tall, aluminum racks toward the ovens in the back of the kitchen.

  “Aye,” he said, quite affably. “It’s a large part of my charm.”

  Luckily he couldn’t see her responding smile. Damn the man.

  “And my success,” he added, his voice coming from just behind her.

  “I can understand the latter part.” She carefully smoothed her expression before turning to face him. “The pans on the top three trays go in this one,” she said, gesturing to the oven behind her. “The bottom two go in that one. Center the pans, front and rear, leaving several inches between them. They’re already preset, just hit the timer button after you shut the door.”

  She was normally very compulsive about things like pan placement and rack spacing. Both were vital to a perfectly baked cake. At the moment, however, she couldn’t afford to be picky. As it was, she was putting more pans in one oven than she’d like, but time was of the essence. She’d already set up the cupcakes that needed to be decorated on one of the worktables, so she headed over to it, leaving Griffin to do as directed. She would double back and check on them once she got the base frosting on the first tray.

  “How long have you been a baker?” he asked, over the clatter of the pans sliding onto the oven racks. “Does it run in the family?”

  “No,” she said, knowing small talk probably wasn’t a bad idea, but finding it a challenge. His presence was unnerving. Perhaps if she kept things casual and civil, she could gain a bit more knowledge about his plans for Hamilton. The more information she had, direct from the source, the better chance she’d have of getting her starryeyed, fellow business owners to listen to her conce
rns.

  She could hardly believe the pied-piper spell he’d cast over them. She’d known going in that the sentiment had not been running high in favor of the rumored new plans. So she’d been more than a little stunned to walk into the auditorium and feel a very distinct vibe of excitement, rather than frustration, or even outright anger.

  She’d looked over the brochures she’d grabbed as she’d stomped out of the auditorium and quickly away from the inquiring eyes of her neighbors. Not that it had mattered. Every one of them had found one reason or another to drop by the shop later that afternoon. Some had been circumspect in expressing their curiosity about her apparent earlier run-in with Griffin. Others had been downright blatant. She shuddered to think what the rumor mill would be saying if they knew he was with her after shop hours. It led her to belatedly wonder if anyone had seen him enter as she was flipping the CLOSED sign.

  Dammit.

  “So, then”—came his voice from directly behind her left shoulder, giving her another little jolt—“what did get you into baking? I understand you’ve only been back in Hamilton for a few years.”

  She tried to turn around, then realized how small the space was between the worktable and ... him. She seemed to be making a habit of that whenever he was around. Of course, like the gentleman he wasn’t, he didn’t shift to give her more space.

  “I’ve been back almost four years now. I’m surprised, if you’ve been doing homework on me, that you don’t already know why I came back.”

  “I know your best friend was quite ill.”

  “Yes. I came back to help with her business, and ... be here for her.”