Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,8

the chance to find themselves, their purpose in life.

She’d only half listened, her thoughts on the events of the previous evening, down at the boathouse, and the creature who’d torn up all her romantic dreams and trampled them into the mud.

God, how I loathe Heath Oakes.

Allison brought her reminiscences up short. Reminiscences she couldn’t afford to harbor, not if she wanted to make a clean break from the place.

Heath braked the Jeep at the rear entrance and got out. While he was retrieving her suitcase, Allison scrambled to release her seatbelt, swing her legs out over the side, and slip to the ground, her skirt riding up her thighs. By the time he joined her, she’d managed to pull it back into place and stood waiting for him as intact as she could be, her once-fashionable suit soaking up mist like a sponge.

“Come on.” He hefted her luggage and headed up the steps. “Let’s get inside.”

Allison took a moment to look around the grounds and spotted a gleaming new Cherokee parked at the rear of the house.

“Visitors?” she asked.

“Belongs to the Lodge.” He paused to look back at her.

“Then you didn’t have to bring that thing,” she jerked a finger back at the old Jeep behind them.

“No. Just wanted to. Thought Jack would appreciate the gesture. Come on, let’s get inside.”

****

They stood in the kitchen she remembered so well. Nothing much had changed. The long room, with its lengths of spotless counters and cupboards, its built-in range tops and wall ovens, rows of gleaming pots and pans hanging above them, still had double refrigerator-freezers and a pair of dishwashers. Best of all, everything sparkled from cleaning and maintenance. Mrs. Oakes must be all her grandfather had bragged her up to be.

The kitchen, like the rest of the lodge, was paneled in knotty pine that complemented the long, wide planks of its birch flooring. A row of windows above the stoves and double sink offered an excellent view of the manicured lawns and carefully pruned forest at the back of the Lodge. Jack Adams had spared no expense to make the room convenient and pleasant. He’d always declared a contented cook was a good cook and his guests deserved no less.

While she’d been taking in her surroundings, Heath had put down her suitcase and removed his work boots. Now he straightened up.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you to your room. You should get out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower.”

The suggestion sounded like an offer of heaven. She stepped out of the boots that had shredded the feet and ankles of her pantyhose and followed him through the long dining room, trying not to hobble.

Blisters. Blisters so big I have blisters on them.

The room had remained furnished with a long, antique mahogany dining table, matching chairs, and a beautiful handcarved sideboard that served as a buffet table. A series of gleaming hot trays, now cold and empty, graced its top. China cabinets along the back wall stood filled with dishes adorned with wildlife motifs Jack and Maud had had especially made for the Lodge. Several garden doors forming most of the front wall offered an unobstructed view of the river. Everything reflected the same measure of care as the kitchen.

Heath led her down the familiar corridor at the back of the dining room. Six guest rooms with full baths opened from each side. At the end, behind a closed door, was her grandparents’ private suite.

Allison paused and stared at it until she realized Heath had opened the door of the first guest room and was waiting for her to precede him inside.

“I was thinking…”

“About Jack,” he said, putting her suitcase down at the foot of the bed.

“And Gram,” she replied gazing around the room. Little had changed. Like all the guest rooms she remembered, it exuded warmth and cozy comfort. The old-fashioned bedroom suite, with its wide dresser and mirror, quilt-covered sleigh bed, and maple rocking chair, made it homey and welcoming. She ran her hand over the rolled wood of the bed’s footboard, a faint smile on her lips. “Gram loved this house, every inch of it.”

“What about you?” Heath watched her from the doorway.

“I never stayed long enough to form an attachment.” She snapped back the lie. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get out of these wet clothes.”

“You’ll find a guest robe in the bath, miss.” He swept her a mocking bow and backed out, closing the door with catlike quiet behind