Christmas At Cupid's Hideaway. Connie Lane

in the wind and the sun, and for the nano-second Meg needed to take it all in, she wondered if he might be a sailor. If the expensive luggage he held in each hand hadn’t set her straight on that notion, the Porsche she saw through the front window did. Most sailors, even the wealthy ones who vacationed on the island, left their expensive sports cars at home.

      Good-looking or not, there was no mistaking that Gabe Morrison was worn to a frazzle. His shoulders were slumped inside a green golf shirt with some expensive designer logo over the heart. There were dark shadows almost the same color as his faded jeans under his eyes, and a crease in the middle of his forehead that told her he frowned far too hard and too often. In spite of his expensive haircut, the left side of his hair stood up on end, as if he’d been tugging at it. His jaw was square and covered with a shadow of dark stubble. As he stared at her, it went a little slack.

      For the second time in just a few minutes, Meg found herself on the defensive. It was a feeling she didn’t like, one she’d never been prone to feeling back in the days before her life had been whipped out from under her like the tablecloth in the old magician-pulls-the-cloth-away-and-leaves-the-dishes-on-the-table trick. Feeling it only made her more defensive. So did the barely controlled animosity on Gabe’s face.

      “What?” Eyes narrowed, Meg closed the gap between them. “Something wrong with my singing?”

      She knew the answer to her own question. Fact of the matter was, Meg Burton had a terrible singing voice. She’s been banned from the high-school choir and asked (politely) not to participate in the caroling either at the island’s real Christmas bash or at all the parties planned for this week. But though she might’ve been ready to hear a critique of her dubious talents from the people she’d known all her life, she’d be damned if she was going to put up with it from a perfect stranger. Even if perfect was the operative word.

      She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “So, you’re going to tell me my singing stinks, right? And then you’re going to ask me for a room. And I’m going to remind you that you’re only here because, from what I’ve heard, this is the last room left on the island. So if you want a place to stay tonight—one that isn’t that sweet little car of yours parked in the no-parking zone in front of the inn—you may want to reconsider. Now, let’s try again. What?” She paused just long enough to make sure he got the message. “Something wrong with my singing?”

      “Your singing is fine.” With a sigh that seemed to be torn from somewhere deep inside him, Gabe set down his luggage and stretched, working a kink out of his neck. Big points for him. Even though he was clearly trifling with the truth, he said it with nearly enough conviction to make Meg believe he was sincere. Nearly.

      “It’s not your voice,” he said and he didn’t even try to hide a shudder of revulsion. “It’s that song. That commercial.”

      “Love Me Tenders! What a hoot!” Meg hurried around to the far side of the desk. When she’d been on the mainland the day before, she’d stopped for a quick bite to eat and had sweet-talked the teenager at the drive-through window into one of the Duke the Dogs usually reserved for their kid customers. She grabbed it now from where she’d tossed it under the front desk and flashed it at Gabe. “Isn’t he adorable?”

      It was the wrong thing to say. Gabe’s face paled a little. A muscle at the base of his jaw jumped. He took one look at cute little Duke and his top lip curled.

      “Duke the Dog is spoiled, temperamental and addicted to sugar in any form,” he said from between clenched teeth. “Besides that, Duke isn’t a duke at all. That’s just a stage name. Duke’s real name is Diana, and she’s a bitch.”

      “Imagine that!” Meg leaned her elbows against the counter and propped her head in her hands. Okay, so the guy was gorgeous. He was also a stick-in-the-mud and she couldn’t help herself. She just had to tease him. She held up her little stuffed Duke and turned him so the light of the pink bulbs on the Christmas tree sparkled against his gaudy jumpsuit. “He looks great in sequins.”

      “You think?”

      “And he sings like an angel. No! Wait! Are you going to tell me—” She gave Gabe a wide-eyed look and wondered if he knew she was kidding. “Are you going to tell me that’s not really Duke singing?”

      He managed what was almost a smile. “It’s not Duke…er, Diana…singing,” he said. “Diana can’t carry a tune.”

      “Then Diana and I, we have something in common.”

      “You’re lots better-looking.”

      The compliment was so matter-of-fact and so unexpected, it almost made Meg blush. Rather than let him know it—and rather than let him know how easily he’d turned the head of a woman who, at least up until a few minutes before, had been pretty good at keeping her head on straight—she reached for the guest register and slid it across the desk toward him. He took the hint, or if he didn’t, he didn’t press the issue. At least not until he was done signing his name.

      When he was, he pushed the book back over to Meg. Was it an accident that he held on to the register? That he didn’t flinch when his hand stopped so close to hers?

      Meg wasn’t about to even consider it. Just because a good-looking guy happened to be (maybe) coming on to her didn’t mean she had to melt like a pat of butter in a hot skillet. Just because he was (maybe) unattached didn’t mean she was anything close to interested. Just because she (suddenly) couldn’t catch her breath didn’t mean anything. Not anything except that it was going to be a warm day and that the Ohio humidity was headed from sticky all the way to downright sultry.

      Just because Gabe (definitely) let his gaze slip from her hair to her face and from her face to her neck and from her neck to her breasts and then back up again, didn’t mean she had to feel self-conscious about the smear of flour on her cheek, or the freckles sprinkled across her nose like cinnamon, or her electric-blue, sleeveless sundress, the one cut just low enough to show a little more skin than any guest had a right to see.

      When he got around to looking her in the eye again, she was ready for him. “Are you done now—” Although she’d watched him sign his name, she glanced down at the guest register anyway. It seemed like a better option than drowning in those brandy-colored eyes. “—Mr. Morrison?”

      “You can call me Gabe.” One corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. “And I can call you—”

      “Meg.” It was a better answer than anytime. Which, for some unaccountable reason, was what she was tempted to say. In fact, she was tempted to say a lot of things. Like how tired he looked and how stiff his muscles seemed and how—once long ago and far, far away—she’d been known as the best sore-muscle massager on the east coast.

      Like it or not, thinking about Baltimore and massaging sore muscles made Meg think of Ben. Sore muscles, sore egos. And that brought up a whole lot of memories that had been and still were a sore point.

      Rather than risk even the remote chance of adding more painful experiences to her history, she decided it was smarter to keep the conversation on safer subjects. “How do you know all that stuff, anyway?” she asked Gabe. “About Duke and Diana. Was it in the latest issue of People or something?”

      “Actually…” For just a second, she saw the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. As if he was used to receiving compliments and the rewards that went along with them, he stood tall and flashed her a smile so devastating, she found herself catching her breath. Just as quickly, the expression dissolved and he was back to looking tired and worried. “People? Yeah, something like that.”

      Meg could take a hint as well as anyone. Some matters were best left alone. Especially when there was a chance that bringing them up might offend one of Maisie’s guests.

      “I’ll show you up to your room. I’m Maisie’s granddaughter and the chef around here. Greeting the guests isn’t usually my job, but Maisie’s a little busy.” The lie came out as smoothly as peanut butter. It stuck in her throat just the way peanut butter always did. But then, she figured a little lie was better than