Marc's hand was on her elbow as they left the restaurant, guiding her along the carpeted passage toward the lobby. Old fishing nets and decorative life preservers lined the walls and she suddenly realized how odd the decor must seem to outsiders.
Those who were familiar with Summerville never gave it a second thought, but anyone coming into town for the first time must wonder at the hotel's name and decor without a significant body of water nearby to back them up. Especially since the hotel's dining room didn't even particularly specialize in seafood dishes.
"Come upstairs with me," he murmured suddenly just above her ear.
Tearing her gaze from a large plastic swordfish caught in one of the nets, she flashed Marc a startled, disbelieving look, only to have him chuckle at her reaction.
"That isn't a proposition," he assured her, then waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated attempt at flirtation. "Although I wouldn't be opposed to a bit of after-dinner seduction."
At the lobby, he steered her to the left, away from the hotel's main entrance and in the direction of the wide, Gone with the Wind-esque stairwell that led to the guest rooms.
"I have something to show you," he continued as they slowly climbed the stairs, her heels digging into the thick carpeting, faded in places from years of wear.
"Now that sounds like a proposition. Or maybe a bad pickup line," she told him.
He slanted her a grin, digging into his pocket for the key to his room. Not a key card, but an honest to goodness key, complete with a giant plastic fob in the shape of a lighthouse.
"You know me better than that. I didn't need cheesy pickup lines with you the first time around, I don't need them now."
No, he hadn't. He'd been much too charming and suave to hit on her the way ninety percent of guys did back then. Which was only one of the things that had made him more appealing, made him stand out from the pack.
When they reached his door, he unlocked it, then stepped back to let her pass into the room ahead of him. She'd visited the Harbor Inn before, of course, but had never actually been in one of the guest rooms, so for a second she stood just inside the door, taking in her surroundings.
Even if the large brass plaque on the front of the building hadn't identified the hotel as a historical landmark, she would have known it was old simply from the interior. The elaborately carved woodworking, the barely preserved wallpaper and the antique fixtures all would have tipped her off. Certain things had been updated, of course, to keep the hotel functional and modern enough that guests would be comfortable, but a lot had been left or restored to maintain as much of the original furnishings and adornments as possible.
Marc's room was blissfully lacking in the oceanside motif. Instead, the walls boasted tiny pink roses on yellowing wallpaper, and both the single window and four-poster bed were covered in white eyelet lace. Very old-fashioned and grandmotherly.
It was almost funny to see tall, dark, modern businessman Marc standing in the middle of all the extremely formal, nineteenth century finery. He looked completely out of place, like a zebra in the dolphin enclosure at the zoo.
But looking out of place and being out of place were two different things, and Marc didn't seem to feel the least bit out of place. Closing the door behind them, he shrugged out of his charcoal suit jacket and tossed it over the back of a burgundy brocade wing chair on his way to the brass-plated desk against the far wall.
While he lifted the lid of his laptop and hit the button to boot up the computer, Vanessa stood back and enjoyed the view. Shallow of her, she was sure. Not to mention inconsistent, considering how vehemently she protested-to herself and anyone else who would listen-that the divorce had been a blessing and she was over him. Completely and totally over him. Being his ex-wife didn't keep her from being a living, breathing, red-blooded woman, however. And every one of the red-blooded cells in her body appreciated the sight of a healthy, well-built man like Marc walking away.
His broad shoulders and wide back stretched the material of his expensive white dress shirt as he moved. Dark gray slacks that probably cost more than she made at the bakery in a week hugged his hips, and more importantly, his butt. A very nice, well-rounded butt that didn't seem to have changed much since they'd been together.
Lifting a hand to her face, she covered her eyes and silently chastised herself for being so weak-willed. What was wrong with her? Was she crazy? Or catching a bug? Or were her hormones still dreadfully out of whack because of the pregnancy?
Spreading her fingers a few brief centimeters, she peeked through and knew exactly what her problem was.
Number one-she knew what lay beneath all that cotton and wool. She knew the strength of his muscles, the texture of his skin. She knew how he moved and how he smelled and how he felt pressed up against her.
Number two-her hormones probably were out of whack-and not just the pregnancy variety. The regular ones seemed to be turned all upside down, as well.
Which was no surprise. She'd always been a total pushover where Marc was concerned. One smoldering look and her bones had turned to jelly. One brush of his knuckles across her cheek or light touch of his lips on hers and she'd been putty in his hands.
Given how long it had been since they'd been together-how long it had been since she'd been anything more than a human incubator and a first-time mommy-it was no wonder, really, that her mind was wandering down all sorts of deliciously naughty garden paths.
And no doubt if Marc knew, or even suspected, he would take full advantage of her vulnerability and inner turmoil, so it would be wise of her not to do or say anything to give him the wrong idea. Or any ideas at all, for that matter.
Through her fingers, Vanessa watched him undo the top couple of buttons of his shirt and loosen his collar. Such a familiar habit. She remembered him doing the same thing almost every night when he got home from work. He would usually spend a couple of hours in his home office, but taking off his jacket and tie, loosening his collar and rolling up his sleeves were the first steps toward relaxing for the evening.
She lowered her hands from her face just before he picked up the laptop and turned back around. Crossing the room, he lowered himself to the edge of the bed, set the laptop beside him, and then patted the pristine white coverlet.
"Come sit down for a minute," he said, "I want to show you something."
Vanessa raised a brow. "That sounds like another bad pickup line," she told him.
Marc chuckled. "Since when did you become so cynical? Now, come here so I can show you some of these plans I worked up for The Sugar Shack."
That got her attention, allaying some of her suspicions and fears-and giving rise to new ones. Moving to the bed, she sat down, tucking the skirt of her dress beneath her to keep from flashing too much leg.
He clicked a couple of buttons, then turned the screen so she could see it more easily. "You said you want to expand into the store space next door, right? Use it for a possible mail-order division of the business."
"Mmm-hmm."
"Well, this is a quick prospectus I worked up before dinner for what I think it would cost to renovate the space, what your expenses and overhead would be, et cetera. Of course, there are a lot of aspects to the bakery business I'm sure I'm not familiar with, so it will need to be adjusted. But this gives us a rough estimate and an idea of where to start."
He got up for a second and stretched to reach the bureau, grabbing a large yellow legal pad before returning to the bed, sending the mattress bouncing slightly.
"And this is a rudimentary sketch of a possible layout for the expansion. Counters and shelving and such."
She pulled her attention away from the document on the computer screen to the tablet he was holding out to her. She studied the drawing for a minute, picturing everything exactly as it would look next door to The Sugar Shack.