The Men of Thorne Island. Cynthia Thomason

      “If you’ve come to kill me, you’ll have to use a gun.”

      When the full impact of the man’s statement registered, Sara didn’t know whether to laugh or run from the room. “What a horrible thing to say,” she commented.

      His ancient office chair squeaked as he slowly turned to face her. “Not to someone creeping around my house, it isn’t.”

      “I wasn’t creeping,” Sara responded. “What would be the point of creeping after riding in that boat with the earsplitting motor? Don’t tell me you didn’t hear us arrive?”

      “Of course I heard Winkelman’s boat. I just figured Winkie had forgotten the toilet paper or something and was dropping it off. I sure never thought he was leaving behind a snooping female.”

      Her eyebrows shot up. “So now I’m creeping and snooping?”

      He raised his hands as if he was stating the obvious. “Look,” he said. “You came into my place without so much as a hoot or a holler and tiptoed up to my room like a typical nosy woman.”

      “Let’s get one thing straight. This is my place and I’ll walk around in it any way I please!”

      That seemed to get him. His eyes registered the shock of bad news, then narrowed with irritation.

      Sara couldn’t help noticing that those eyes were a startling shade of gray.

      Dear Reader,

      I’ve spent most of my life fixing things. As a teacher, I strove to improve young minds. When I became a licensed auctioneer, and my husband and I bought an auction house, my penchant for mending and refreshing became more tangible. I polished silver until it gleamed, and viewed every old piece of furniture and flea-market find as a potential heirloom.

      It was only natural that the heroine of my first contemporary novel would be a fixer, too. But when Sara Crawford inherits a run-down inn and a neglected vineyard on a Lake Erie island and resolves to renovate, she doesn’t know she’ll have to fix the island’s four inhabitants, as well.

      I hope you enjoy sharing Sara’s determined and sometimes humorous efforts to bring joy and purpose back to the lives of the men of Thorne Island. And when her persistence clashes with one sexy, stubborn man with a secret, she learns that her own priorities could use a little revamping themselves.

      I’d love to hear from you. E-mail me at [email protected]. Visit my Web site at www.cynthiathomason.com, or write me at P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, Florida 33355.

      Cynthia Thomason

      The Men of Thorne Island

      Cynthia Thomason

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To my son, John, whose strong opinions matter, and whose artistry with the English language has always made me proud.

      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 SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER ONE

      SARA CRAWFORD entered her office at precisely eight-thirty on Monday morning, walked halfway across the plum-colored carpet and stopped dead. “Whatever that is, it can’t be good,” she muttered. “Especially this close to tax deadline.” The red-and-white Federal Express envelope on top of her desk had all the appeal of a hurricane warning flag on a Fort Lauderdale beach.

      Tossing her purse and briefcase on a chair, she headed for the chrome credenza lining one wall. Before she could even think about tackling the contents of the package, she needed to deal with the coffee machine.

      A crusty brown stain in the bottom of the glass pot did more to irritate her than her assistant being late again. Sara carried the pot into her bathroom, dribbled a few drops of detergent over the burned-on mess and filled the pot with steaming hot water.

      Then she sat at her desk and picked up the cardboard envelope addressed to Sara Crawford, CPA. It wasn’t particularly thick, so maybe it didn’t contain a late-filing client’s tax records. Nor was the return address familiar: Herbert Adams, Attorney, Cleveland, Ohio. Puzzled but relieved, she reached for her letter opener.

      “Oh, hell! Look at the time.”

      Candy Applebaum’s oath came from the reception room just before the administrative assistant stuck her head in Sara’s office. Her red hair was piled on top of her head, secured by a bright orange elastic band that did nothing to prevent over-moussed strands from sticking out in all directions. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Sara,” Candy said. “I almost made it on time, except I had one catastrophe after another this morning. My cat climbed on the table and swatted at the birdcage. The feed tray fell out of the rungs and all the bird seed went everywhere, and I had to…”

      Sara smiled. “It’s all right, Candy. I just got here myself.”

      Candy glanced at the credenza and grimaced. “I did it again, didn’t I? Forgot to turn off the coffeepot. Was it really gross?”

      “Well, it—”

      “No problem. I’ll take care of it.” Candy headed for the bathroom, but stopped at Sara’s desk and dropped a crumpled sack onto the cluttered surface. “Before I forget, this just came for you. Mr. Papalardo delivered it personally.” She sighed as she went into the bathroom. “He’s the sweetest man.”

      Sara set down the FedEx envelope and stared in horror at the brown paper bag. He’d done it again. After she’d warned him repeatedly, he pulled the same trick every year. She could just picture the world’s “sweetest man” waiting on the sidewalk until she’d entered the building and then slinking inside. The security guard would greet him cheerfully. The janitor would wave hello. After all, everyone loved Tony Papalardo.

      A dull ache centered itself behind Sara’s eyes. She picked up the bag and turned it over, foolishly hoping it would be different this year. It wasn’t. Bundles of paper loosely bound with rubber bands and paper clips scattered onto her desktop. Some scraps were actually identified with official Pappy’s Pizzeria stationery. Most of them were barely legible receipts smudged with tomato sauce or memos scratched on chianti-stained napkins. Sara put her head between her hands.

      “Something wrong, Sara?”

      A rhetorical question. “Candy, do you think Mr. Papalardo has any idea that he’s not my only client and today is April twelfth? Only three days to the deadline.”

      Glancing over her shoulder at the mess on Sara’s desk, Candy said, “Oh, not again. Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

      “Thanks.” Sara glanced toward a pewter mirror across the room. She could almost visualize herself tugging every pin from her French twist and pulling out each strand of blond hair by the root. But