Natural Attraction

  Natural Attraction

  Marisa Carroll

  Chapter One

  “MR. ELLIOT, THERE’S NO WAY on earth I can pack up three teenagers, enough food and blue jeans to keep them from turning mutinous and meet you in Hampton Beach in six hours. It just isn’t possible.” Jessie Meyer flicked a straying wisp of auburn-streaked brown hair off her hot forehead and frowned at the thermometer outside the kitchen window. Eighty-three degrees in the shade. The grimace marring her smooth, high brow was a look the aforementioned three teens would have avoided like the plague. Unfortunately, the man on the other end of the phone line couldn’t see the warning signals.

  “I know you’re on vacation this week, Jessie.” The voice went on as though scanning her mind while she scurried mentally through a list of excuses. “You told me that when you dropped off the proofs from your last assignment, remember? And I’m not asking you to go to the ends of the earth.” The masculine tones overrode the beginnings of her polite but firm refusal. “Just to the ends of the continent, actually.” He chuckled, a low, vibrant sound that sent tiny flickers of energy twisting along Jessie’s nerve ends. Mark Elliot’s voice was the most attractive thing about her client and sometime boss.

  Sometime boss.

  The phrase struck her forcefully—right in the center of her common sense. One did not willfully antagonize the man who paid at least part of the bills, however indirectly. “It doesn’t make any difference,” Jessie broke in, in an even, friendly style, trying hard to keep her temper under wraps. He’d never been witness to one of her rare but legendary lapses in that respect. To top it all off, she didn’t dare forget he was a valued client of the firm of Abrahms and Mahoney, CPAs, of which Jessie was the most junior associate.

  She liked moonlighting as a photographer for Mark Elliot’s regional publication Meanderings. So there wasn’t a lot of future in giving in to her impulse to simply hang up on him. She scowled down at the phone and held her peace. Raising and educating three children alone wasn’t easy, she reminded herself unnecessarily. The free-lance photos she took for Meanderings made making ends meet a lot easier. It varied her daily routine and was more interesting by far than the usual run-of-the-mill tax problems and accounting snafus she dealt with in her alter ego as a CPA.

  To be totally honest, the well-sublimated poet and artist in Jessie’s soul thoroughly enjoyed the assignments to photograph the rugged beauty of New Hampshire: the grandeur of the snowy peaks of the White Mountains, in the north; the hustle and bustle of rejuvenating industrial towns; the softer, rolling strip of lowlands along the Atlantic Coast. Her practical side quickly reasserted control. She wouldn’t jeopardize that. She could feel herself capitulating.

  “Jessie, are you still there?”

  “Yes, Mr. Elliot.” She hated the infinitesimal bit of meekness that crept into her voice. At times like this Jessie always found herself wanting to say Colonel Elliot.

  “I need your typical family unit. Now.”

  Jessie gave in to temptation at the staccato command. “Yes, sir!” She snapped to attention, rolling her brown eyes heavenward at her mother’s frankly curious expression. Marta Young had been sitting with Jessie at the kitchen table cleaning the first raspberries of the season and bemoaning the unusually long August heat wave. Now she gave up all pretense of attention to the bowl of fruit and stared at her daughter.

  “What exactly are you asking, Colonel?” Jessie inquired, playing for time as her mind continued to sift through various overused excuses. He already knew she was free of obligations to Abrahms and Mahoney for another week, so that was out. She raised her brows at her mother’s continued scrutiny. It was best she let the man know she would not be intimidated. But her stomach was distinctly uneasy. Her stomach always reacted first when things were going wrong. And Jessie knew very well what he was about to say.

  “My nieces backed out of this trip,” Mark reported with a hint of cajolery singing along the wires that Jessie couldn’t resist. It was his way of acknowledging she’d scored a hit with her reminder that he no longer commanded a unit of military engineers. “They were going to be my ‘voluntary castaways.’ You know how important this layout is to me.”

  Of course she did. Everyone who was connected to the magazine at all knew about the wilderness experiment he’d planned.

  “It’s the highlight of my first spring issue. And National Geographic is interested in the idea. I canceled their photographer when the girls deserted me, but I think I can still get them to take the article with your pictures. The assignment is yours, if you agree to come along.”

  “National Geographic!” The name danced in front of Jessie’s eyes like a golden mirage. It was a twenty-four-karat carrot he was dangling on his stick. It was the one bribe—besides a substantial bonus—he could offer guaranteed to hit home.

  “An eight-page color spread—” Mark added silkily, sweetening the pot “—complete with byline. All I need is you, your camera and your charming daughters…for the next six days.”

  Six days. Sanity returned with a rush to stiffen her sagging backbone.

  “Mr. Elliot.” Jessie reverted to his civilian title to underscore the seriousness of her next words. “You don’t understand.” He’d never met her children. He’d only taken over publication of Meanderings a year ago. He had no idea what he was asking, or what he was letting himself in for, Jessie thought spitefully. “My children have never been camping in their lives.” That was the understatement of the twentieth century. Ann and Lyn, the twins, were sixteen and tied to electrical umbilical cords of various lengths: curling irons, blow dryers, makeup mirrors, tape players, you name it. It was a major operation just getting them onto the school bus every morning without overloading the circuit breakers.

  And Nell, thirteen just last week, was still a gawky, awkward tomboy who couldn’t spend fifteen minutes with her older sisters before a riot ensued.

  “And my car’s in the shop,” Jessie revealed triumphantly in a last-ditch attempt to weasel out of the tight corner. The aging Chevy station wagon was on its last legs. That only left the VW and that was a penance she wouldn’t submit to for anyone.

  “I see.” There was a moment’s hesitation as he digested the information. Jessie could hear the background noises of a busy highway. Where was he? His neices had, indeed, waited until the last moment to back out. She hardened her heart to his plight. “The company car’s at the plant.” The infuriatingly assured male voice came back at her with all the decisiveness Jessie was sure he’d applied in combat situations overseas. “Take that.”

  “But I’ve explained why it’s impossible,” Jessie sputtered in her haste. Her hand waved in unseen argument. Her mother put her elbows on the Formica table and clucked a warning at the rising pitch of Jessie’s tone.

  “All right, Jess. You drive a hard bargain,” Mark replied. There was a note that might have been amusement in his raspy voice. “I know I’m asking a lot and I’m running out of time. Here’s my final offer. I’ll give you one hundred dollars a day as a bonus for every day you stick it out. Is it a deal?”

  Jessie’s mouth popped open as the last of her scruples crumbled like so much dust before the wind. Six hundred dollars. That would get the Chevy out of hock and put the search for a more reliable means of transportation, derailed by the breakdown, back on track.

  “You have a deal, Mr. Elliot,” she said tightly with just a sliver of grimness in her soft voice. Jessie ignored her mother’s silent facial gyrations. She prided herself on being a woman of character, but sometimes principles had to take second place to practicality. “When do you want us at the dock?”

  “Good show,” Mark said approvingly. “I’ll expect you in five hours and fifty-seven minutes.”
His words were brisk, as though he were indeed staging a military campaign. “It’ll give you plenty of time to pack and leave Manchester before rush hour. And, Jessie—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I think it’s about time you started calling me Mark. Mr. Elliot is so formal for two people who are going to spend the next week together on a deserted Atlantic island.” He hung up before Jessie could form a suitable retort.

  She replaced the receiver thoughtfully, wondering what had come over her to cause this sudden loss of common sense. Was it the heat, unusual for New Hampshire? Or the restlessness of having spent half a summer with three bored and bickering teens? Or just that she was only thirty-five and already becoming senile?

  That was probably it, she decided with a self-conscious little laugh as she turned to face her mother. “The girls are going to have me committed,” she stated with conviction.

  “What’s this all about?” her mother exploded, sugaring the raspberries with a heavy hand. Marta had fallen for Mark Elliot like a ton of bricks when she met him at the magazine’s Christmas party.

  “The girls and I are going camping.” Jessie sounded as if she didn’t quite believe it herself—which was the truth. “They’re going to have a fit,” she prophesied with more conviction.

  “Camping?” Marta stared at her only daughter as if she’d taken leave of her senses. And she probably had, Jessie admitted with private candor. “With those three? The man’s deranged.”

  “You can’t say I didn’t warn him,” Jessie said, grinning with some satisfaction. “Repeatedly. But he offered me a hundred-dollar-a-day bonus and a chance to have my work in National Geographic. A little judicious bribery worked on me,” she confessed with a pang for her bent ethics. “It’ll work on the girls. No more arguing. We have to get packed. And so do you.”

  “Me?” Sugar and berries ricocheted out of the crockery bowl onto the tabletop and floor.

  “Yes, you,” Jessie affirmed, laughing at Marta’s plump, careworn face. “You’re going to your class reunion. Call Aunt Lettie and have her get your room ready.” Her mother had been a rock, a safe harbor, in a world suddenly gone mad seven years ago when Jessie’s husband was killed in a senseless and tragic sawmill accident. She’d left her own home in Pennsylvania and come to Manchester. She’d stayed on, making Jessie’s bewildering transition from wife and homemaker to widow and sole breadwinner as easy as she could. Marta had given up a lot for the four of them in those years. Now Jessie was determined to give her something back.

  “Go back to Red Lion? I can’t. Driving that VW would be like putting a loaded gun in my hands. I hate stick shifts.”

  “You don’t have to drive the bug,” Jessie soothed. She doubted if the little import could make the trip anyway. She only drove it around town herself.

  “I get sick on the bus,” Marta pointed out inarguably.

  “You’re not taking the bus. Let’s call the airlines. I’m sure a no-frills-flight can’t be that much more expensive. It’ll be my treat. Please, Mom. Somebody should benefit from this fiasco. It might as well be you.” Jessie jumped up to swipe at the melting white granules of sugar with a damp dish towel.

  “I don’t know…”

  “No more buts, Mom,” Jessie ordered, her voice muffled as she bent to clean the spilled sugar off the floor before a horde of ants found the sweet offering. “You’re going and that’s it.” She straightened with a little grunt, wishing she’d taken the time to work off the extra ten pounds that gave her figure its lush, full curves. Maybe she’d find the time to diet when the girls got back to school. “It’s not every year you have a forty-fifth high-school class reunion.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Marta replied tartly, double chin quivering. Jessie got her figure from her mother. Marta was what Jessie’s father had always termed a “fine figure of a woman.” Her blue eyes danced with excitement. “I really would like to go.”

  “Of course. And you will. We don’t have time to go through it again. Help me round up the girls, and I’ll tell you all the details while we pack.”

  But Jessie did end up explaining it—more than once. In fact, it was the main topic of conversation for the next five hours and fifty minutes.

  Marta led off, insisting she could pack herself in a twinkling when they were safe on their way to the small private coastal island somewhere just south of the New Hampshire-Massachusetts state line.

  “My daughter’s work in National Geographic.” Marta intoned the publication’s name with blatantly mock reverence but there was a sparkle of pride in her eyes as she stuffed a bright red turtleneck sweater into Nell’s tote with little regard for what it would look like coming out.

  “Nothing’s definite,” Jessie reminded, not wanting to let anyone know how exciting the possibility really was for her.

  “Nonsense. Have faith in your own abilities,” Marta lectured in precisely the same tone of voice she’d used since Jessie was twelve. Nell’s swimsuit followed the sweater. Jessie nodded automatically, her thoughts already skipping ahead to the twins sulking in their room.

  “I wonder what Ann and Lyn are packing? I think I’ll throw in all our heavy jackets just to be on the safe side. It’s bound to be cool on the water.”

  “Good idea. How much do they pay? National Geographic, I mean?” Marta interrupted Jessie unceremoniously.

  “Is that all you can think of? Money? Mom, I just agreed to spend a week on a deserted island with a virtual stranger. Doesn’t it bother you that your only daughter and your grandchildren might be going off with a Granite State Jack the Ripper?”

  “Don’t be silly, Jess. Mark Elliot is no such thing. He’s a Rotarian and a veteran.” That was enough for Marta. “Look on this as an advernture, an opportunity to explore strange new worlds.” The italics in Marta’s words were almost visible. She and Nell were hopeless “Star Trek” fans. They watched the ancient reruns six days a week.

  “Well, Mark Elliot, Lt. Col., USA, Ret., is ‘bravely going where no man has gone before,’ that’s for sure,” Jessie agreed spitefully. “Especially if the twins decide to be really difficult. Have you considered what that will be like?” Marta didn’t have a retort for that remark. If Ann and Lyn were miserable they were perfectly capable, in their adolescent selfishness, of making life a penance for everyone else.

  “Do you think he can handle it? Is he used to children being around?” Marta plopped down on Nell’s unmade bed, her round face serious, as she considered the matter at hand.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. I barely know the man. He’s never been married. His nieces backed out on him at the last minute…. Neither of those circumstances lead me to believe this expedition has a snowball’s chance.” Catching her mother’s eye Jessie shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re all back here by tomorrow evening,” she concluded fatalistically. She’d learned the hard way that three children could send even strong men running for cover.

  “It’s entirely possible, of course,” Marta agreed. “But you’ll think of something to keep them in line for the whole week. You always do.” Marta changed the subject after that vote of maternal confidence, sending Nell off to find a temporary home for the hamsters while Jessie forced the twins out of their self-imposed exile.

  Lyn marched off grudgingly to the Petersens’ next door with the raspberries and a request to feed the cats. Ann was prodded to the phone to notify the paperboy and the post office to hold the mail. Marta arranged a ride to the airport with one of her friends from the senior center at the Congregational church before setting off with Jessie to pick up Mark Elliot’s car.

  “AND THAT’S ABSOLUTELY THE last grousing I’ll listen to on the subject.” Jessie directed the ultimatum mechanically to the pouting twins in the back seat of the late-model sedan as she searched for a place to park along the busy streets of the happy little resort town of Hampton Beach. She checked her watch. Seven minutes ahead of schedule. Jessie hated being late for any reason.

  Omi
nous silence greeted her words. “You made a deal,” she reminded. “Six days of living off the land in return for the use of the VW when you get your driver’s licences. No reneging.”

  “Yes, ma’am” came the reluctant response.

  Jessie had made her offer flat out. There hadn’t been time to do otherwise. She’d have the VW overhauled and pay the insurance until the twins graduated. No bargaining. There wasn’t time. The girls had put up a brief but spirited debate, more for show than anything. But they, too, had finally succumbed, their adamant refusal to leave the civilized world as they knew it bowing to the lure of their own “set of wheels.”

  “I didn’t ask for anything special, did I, Mom?” Nell chirped righteously from the passenger seat where she had her nose buried in a dog-eared survival primer she’d borrowed from Mrs. Petersen, the retired librarian next door. She gave Jessie a broad, innocent, silver-capped grin. Jessie cast her mind back hurriedly to the Savings and Loan calendar on the refrigerator. Had she neglected to cancel an orthodontist’s appointment during their mad rush to meet Mr. Elliot’s arbitrary deadline?

  Giving her youngest daughter a severe look, Jessie wheeled the car into a lot near the docks where they were to meet Mark Elliot. She was exhausted from the midsummer heat wave, the long drive in bumper-to-bumper “summer complaint” traffic and the entire lunacy of the present situation. Maybe she ought to save the girls the bother and commit herself.

  “This is gross, Mom,” Ann wailed as Jessie heartlessly yanked a cosmetic mirror and blow dryer from an overstuffed tote in the trunk. “How can we dry our hair?” She looked as if her mother had drowned a favorite kitten before her eyes.

  “It will dry nicely in the sun.” Mark Elliot materialized beside his car before Jess could reply with what was obviously a more short-tempered suggestion.

  Jessie Meyer’s daughters were going to be beauties someday, too, Mark decided, letting his regard linger on each girl for a few appraising seconds. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the racy-sleek, haute couture model type that was in fashion now, but womanly beauty—the kind their mother possessed so abundantly. Jessie’s lush, rounded curves were already becoming apparent in the twins’ slender forms. Then there was the youngest. What was her name?