To A Macallister Born. Joan Elliott Pickart

goodness, she’d figured it out. She felt so much better. It was amazing what a little inner dialogue could do to get a person squared away.

      With a decisive nod, Jennifer picked up the book, found her place on the marked page and began to read.

      Just before four o’clock the next afternoon, Jennifer entered Hamilton House, the hotel where she was manager of the dining room.

      The beautiful building had been completely restored by her childhood friend Brandon Hamilton, after he’d dropped out of the fast lane in New York and returned to his roots in Prescott.

      The large lobby was exquisite, transporting a person back to the turn of the 19th century. The Victorian furnishings, the original cabbage-rose carpeting, the gleaming piano by the front windows—everything was perfect.

      Along the far wall was a simulated old-fashioned, cobblestone street, complete with lampposts to light the way. Open-fronted specialty shops beckoned to be explored.

      One of the shops, Sleeping Beauty, offered feminine apparel and luscious bath accessories. The store was a smaller version of the one in Phoenix that was owned by Taylor Sinclair’s wife, Janice.

      Jennifer waved at Ryan, who was on duty behind the reception desk, then headed down the hallway that led to the dining room.

      For the next hour, Jennifer was busy as she checked the reservation book for the evening ahead, spoke with the dinner and pastry chefs, reviewed and approved an order the wine steward wished to place, and conferred with the manager of housekeeping regarding the condition of the high-quality, linen tablecloths and napkins that were used in the dining room.

      At five o’clock she was at her post behind the podium by the doors, ready to welcome the first guests arriving for dinner.

      The flow of patrons moving in and out kept her bustling back and forth as she sat the guests at their tables and presented them with oversize menus.

      A little after seven o’clock, Jennifer returned to the podium yet again, then smiled automatically as the doors to the dining room opened.

      And then she stopped breathing.

      Her smile disappeared, her eyes widened and her heart began to beat in a wild tattoo.

      It was him, she thought frantically. The man. He was now beyond magnificent, in a dark blue sport coat over a white shirt and blue tie, and gray slacks. But it was most definitely him.

      The stranger who had stood on the sidewalk in front of her house and might very well have decided on the best method to break in.

      The man who had smiled at her, causing a desire to swirl within her, and who had haunted her thoughts ever since.

      Dear heaven, what was he doing here? Had he followed her? Was she the reason he had studied her house? Was she being stalked by a raving lunatic?

      Jennifer looked quickly around the room. What should she do? Scream at the top of her lungs? Grab the receiver to the telephone on the podium and call Sheriff Montana?

      No, no, she had to calm down. She was surrounded by people, was safe…for the moment, at least. She’d just bluff her way through this until she could formulate a sensible plan.

      “Good evening,” she said to the man, unable to produce even the smallest smile. “May I help you?”

      Jack MacAllister walked slowly toward the podium, his gaze riveted on the woman who had spoken to him.

      It was her, he thought incredulously. The beautiful lady in the window of the intriguing Victorian house.

      The woman who had not been far from his mental vision ever since he’d seen her yesterday morning as he’d stood on the sidewalk in front of her home.

      She was even more lovely up close. Her eyes were green—incredibly green, and her hair was a silken tumble of strawberry-blond waves to just above her shoulders. Her features were delicate, her lips made for kissing. What he could see of the pale green dress she was wearing gave hint of lush breasts beneath the soft material.

      And for some unknown reason, she was staring at him as though she expected him to leap over the podium and strangle her with his bare hands.

      All he had done was walk into the dining room of the hotel, but, heaven only knew why, he was scaring this breathtaking feminine creature to death.

      He’d never caused that kind of reaction in a woman before.

      “Good evening,” he said, stopping in front of the podium and producing his best, hundred-watt smile. “I apologize if I startled you when I opened the doors.”

      “Startled me?” she said, more in the form of a squeak.

      “Well, yes—I mean, you look rather…fright-ened.”

      “Frightened?” She splayed one hand on her breasts. “Me?”

      “Look,” Jack said, frowning as he extended one hand toward her, “I don’t know what I did to—”

      She took a step backward. “Don’t come any closer. I might appear frightened, but I’m not. No, sir, not one little bit. I’m wise to you, mister. I have a great many friends in this town, including the sheriff, and you’ll never get away with it—not in a million years.”

      “Huh?”

      She glanced quickly around the room. “Just—just…” She flapped one hand at him. “Shuffle off to Buffalo. Get out of Dodge. Give up on whatever your diabolical scheme is before you end up in the clink.”

      “Huh?” Jack said again, totally confused.

      “Hey, there you are,” a deep voice said.

      “Brandon—” Jack and the woman said in unison.

      Brandon Hamilton strode to the podium. “Jennifer, I’d like you to meet Jack MacAllister, a good buddy of mine. Jack, this lovely lady and I have been friends since before we could walk and talk. This is Jennifer Mackane.”

      “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mackane,” Jack said, grinning.

      Chapter Two

      Before Jennifer was forced to respond to Jack MacAllister’s greeting, the dining room doors once again opened.

      When she saw Brandon’s wife, Andrea, and his great-aunts, twin sisters Prudence and Charity, enter the room, she nearly flung herself at them for a group hug.

      “Hi,” she said weakly, then snatched up a pile of menus. “Your table is ready. Let’s go.” She shook her head slightly. “I mean, would you follow me, please?”

      Rushing from behind the podium, she bumped smack-dab into Jack, and the menus went flying in all directions.

      “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Mr. MacAllister,” Jennifer said, not looking directly at him. “My, my, clumsy me. I’ll just pick these up and—Brandon, you have the corner table by the windows. I’ll be with you in just a second.”

      Jennifer squatted to collect the scattered menus, only to have Jack hunker down next to her and retrieve two of them.

      “I’ll give you a hand,” he said.

      Jennifer’s head snapped up, and she found herself only inches from Jack. He was looking directly at her, a small smile on his lips.

      Chocolate fudge sauce, she thought. That was the color of Jack MacAllister’s eyes. Delicious, chocolate fudge sauce. Good grief, he was handsome—so ruggedly male, as though his features had been chiseled from rough stone.

      There were tiny lines by his eyes, and she guessed he was maybe thirty-five or thirty-six. His hair was thick, an auburn shade reminding her of a glossy Irish setter.

      His nose was straight, his jaw square, his lips masculine but soft, as though waiting for a kiss….

      Jennifer,