Lighthouse Reef (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 4) Read online

  “Not yet,” Kinsey tossed back in a playful tone. “But if I find any smudges on it, I’ll know who to blame.”

  “You really are proud of that thing, huh?”

  “I certainly am. Some people told me I’d never practice law. Look at me now, I just wrote up Murphy’s will. After work, I’ll drop it off for him to sign.” Should she mention the cashier application she intended to fill out? She decided to wait. No sense upsetting the waters until it was a done deal.

  “That’s considered company time,” Aaron pointed out, feeling a little guilty at the low salary he’d given the girl because so far his new employee exhibited nothing short of a go-getter attitude. For two weeks there had been nothing she wouldn’t tackle. Plus, he had to admit her knowledge of personal law had surprised him. “You make sure you add that to your time sheet.”

  “It’s no biggie,” Kinsey acknowledged.

  Aaron nodded in approval. If the girl worked out, and he planned to see to it that she did, she’d soon own his practice. He’d already run a detailed background check on Kinsey Wyatt. Everything she’d told him in her three interviews had turned out to be the solid gold truth. Her work ethic aside, she’d had a rough go of it for years.

  If the girl worked out, if she continued on the same path, Aaron Hartley intended to make sure Kinsey Wyatt finally caught a break.

  Chapter Two

  Once Logan reached the city limit sign of Pelican Pointe, he veered off the Coast Highway and into the business district. He knew what the town looked like. But out of curiosity he reduced his speed to thirty or so and crawled along Main Street. Just as he suspected, it hadn’t changed much in two decades.

  The Community Church still sat on the corner with its red and gold stained glass depiction of Jesus with the cross in the background. Logan had spent more than a few warm Sunday mornings, especially during the summer months, sitting inside that building, counting every piece of the stained glass to pass the time. If anyone ever asked him, he’d be ready. There were three hundred and thirty-two pieces to be exact. His butt had been parked on one of those pews, sweating like everyone else without a fan and no air conditioning, while he added and subtracted whenever he lost count. Surely, long-winded Reverend Whitcomb had to be dead by now.

  Logan recognized the heart of downtown, the First Bank of Pelican Pointe, Murphy’s Market next door. Knudsen’s Pharmacy, Ferguson’s Hardware, The Snip N Curl, and The Hilltop Diner along with tidy little bungalows nestled here and there lining both sides of the road. At the four-way stop, Logan made a left onto Beach Street and drove past Wally’s Pump N Go, which if memory served, used to be Pierce’s Service Station, owned by Jimmy Pierce. Some years back after suffering a heart attack, Jimmy had turned the day-to-day operation over to his son, Wally, who also happened to be a first-rate mechanic like his father. Once again, the torch had been passed from father to son. Logan knew because he’d done his homework. He might not have kept up on every detail through the years, but since he hadn’t been able to work because of his injured hand, that didn’t mean he couldn’t research all he needed to know.

  Even though he didn’t have the keys yet to the front door, he might as well take a swing by his property, get a look at the work he had to do. He intended to remedy the key thing as soon as he got settled in at the B & B and located the lawyer handling the paperwork. His own attorney had already wired the money for closing. All Logan had to do was locate an address over on Landings Bay that belonged to the sole lawyer in town and put his John Henry on the title and deed to make it official.

  He took a right on Ocean Street, drove past the pier, a bait shop for fishermen, a T-shirt shop for tourists, and McCready’s, the closest Irish pub for a hundred miles. Logan continued north for almost a mile, the grade changing to a gradual incline. When he made a left on a twisty, narrow lane the locals affectionately called Make-Out Pointe, he knew he was close. Since the Coast Guard had abandoned the property in 1961, couples from fourteen to forty had used this spot for daytime picnics or nighttime rendezvous. As long as you brought a flashlight with you to guide the way through beach grass, low scrub and pine, you were pretty much assured a secluded spot and plenty of privacy.

  Logan slowed to fifteen miles an hour taking the hairpin turn with caution as it wove farther back toward the craggy cliffs, high above Smuggler’s Bay. The Ford-150 bumped along a slice of gravel road before coming to a stop. The view might not have been as spectacular as the Riviera or that in Monte Carlo, but the buildings and the land belonged to him.

  He stuck his head out the truck’s window, turned his attention to the building. It looked a lot more run-down in person than it ever had in the auction photographs. In fact, it dawned on him the federal government had more than likely used images from four decades back.

  Because he expected the worst—a person couldn’t buy an eighty-year-old structure and not expect a major renovation—Logan took note of the damage with a certain degree of resignation.

  He’d accepted the fact he’d be in for a lot of work. Besides, when it came to working with his hands, it wasn’t really a hardship. After all, when he’d first walked into his Greenwich Village loft it too had been in a sorry state before he’d gotten his bare hands on the inside and worked miracles with the wood and metal. Since he felt even more passionate about this renovation, Logan couldn’t wait to get started. He had no doubt that bringing the lighthouse back to its former glory—or as close to it as he could get—would provide the bump he needed to get his creativity back on track.

  The spring sun glistening on the water had his mind wandering to all the things he needed to get done today. He had supplies to order, workers to hire, and eventually to find a permanent place to live. But topping the list right this minute was getting a good look in person at the piece of real estate that was finally his.

  Logan got out of the pickup, inhaling the familiar smell of fish, craned his neck to look up at the sixty-foot octagonal concrete tower that hadn’t functioned as an actual beacon since 1960. The thousand-square-foot tower room at its base had long since given way to rust damage and rotted wood. Logan peered through the filthy windows making mental notes along the way.

  Built in 1935 as part of the WPA under Franklin Roosevelt, the official address of the little two-bedroom keeper’s cottage read 14 Lighthouse Lane. At some point the plaque had dropped off leaving behind the imprint on the masonry. Probably discarded in some trash pile right along with the sign at the front of the lighthouse, Logan decided.

  Walking around the structure, he took out his phone to take pictures of broken patches and gashes to the sandstone to study later. As soon as his cast came off, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on all that stonework. After he’d done the three-sixty once, then twice around the base, he looked out over Smuggler’s Bay. For a minute a wave of nostalgia moved through him before he could tamp it down. He remembered swimming here as a young boy. In fact, he wasn’t prepared for the memories of another time assaulting his brain.

  When tears tried to gather in his eyes, he took off his Oakleys, blinked the water back. He stood for a minute trying to get his emotions under control. At the sound of a car engine pulling in behind his truck, he brought himself out of the past and back to the present. Annoyed at the intrusion, ready for battle at what he thought might be the media showing up, Logan whirled around to see a tall, caramel-colored brunette crawl out of an ancient, silver Nissan Altima.

  Unless the paparazzi had taken to one helluva downgrade in car rentals, he assumed this was not the dreaded press. Logan had one solid moment of raw nerves jitter inside the wall of his stomach before he braced for what he considered to be an invasion to his privacy. But the woman kept heading straight for him with a smile as wide as Smuggler’s Bay all the while clutching a file folder in her hand. Her long, straight hair billowed around her shoulders in perfect layers. He sucked in a breath just watching the way she walked in her open-toed, sexy-as-hell heels. With her free hand, she waved cheerily i
n his direction as she continued to advance on him.

  Once she got within two feet he noticed her eyes first. Her Heidi Klum, brown-flecked, hazel eyes met his. He ought to recognize the similar features since he’d met the model two years earlier at a Paris fashion show inside the Carrousel du Louvre where Fiona had insisted on dragging him.

  Locking on those hazel orbs now, he had a tough time focusing on her cheery voice and what she was saying.

  “Hi! I’m Kinsey Wyatt. I work with Aaron Hartley, the attorney handling the sale for the lighthouse. If you’re Logan Donnelly, I brought the papers by for you to sign along with the keys.” The woman’s voice was as sunny as a warm day in August.

  “How the hell did you know I was out here?” Logan barked over the sound of the waves crashing up against the cliffs. “I’ve been in town for less than two damn minutes.”

  Kinsey frowned. The man might have eyes as green as clover to go with a thick mass of flowing, chocolate brown hair that tipped his shoulders—but he was beyond rude. That pretty face with the devilish dimple on his chin didn’t make it right either.

  Okay, artists could be temperamental so she’d give him a pass—this time. Plus, he was a client. Sort of. So she put a little extra syrup in her tone, reminding herself she was good with people. “Ethan Cody said he saw you turn the corner in town and called the office, suggested I might want to head out here to catch you. He thought you might want to go ahead and sign the deed, get the keys.”

  She widened her smile, softened the lilt of her speech a bit before adding, “You might as well get used to small town ways. I know I’ve had to do the same. I’ve only been here three weeks myself.”

  Logan’s first layer of tension dropped away. There was something about the face, the smile, the all-American-girl look that came together in a cheerleader froth of bubbly. Too bad he wasn’t interested in cheery or bubbly. History told him you couldn’t trust either to run true. But curiosity got the better of him. “You’ve only been in Pelican Pointe less than a month?”

  “Originally from the Bay area. San Francisco born and raised. In fact, I’m still staying out at Promise Cove myself. Have you met the Harrises yet? You’ll love Nick and Jordan. They said they were expecting the infamous Logan Donnelly yesterday.” She tilted her head, looked up at what had to be a six-three build. “But you spent last night in Santa Cruz. Do you plan to stay at the B & B or commute from the big city?”

  Logan rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath. “If I answer that question, is there anything sacred that isn’t for public consumption around here?”

  Kinsey got the gist, not just surly, but guarded as well. Years of checking groceries, dealing with the public on a daily basis, made her an expert in studying a person’s body language and how it related to mood. This particular man seemed to have a chip on his shoulder the weight of a California redwood. She lifted a shoulder. “Probably not. But then I’m still trying to fit into small town America.” As the breeze kicked up, almost blowing the folder out of her fist, she pointed out, “It’s a little windy. Where do you want to sign these? I have the keys here to the cottage. We could get inside out of the wind. Or get it done in my car or yours?”

  “The keeper’s cottage is a mess. Might as well crawl inside my truck,” Logan muttered as he opened the passenger truck door for her. As she climbed inside, he noted the professional attire. The black pencil skirt that showed off long, tanned legs, the sleeveless white shirt revealing a pair of toned arms. He forced that pull of attraction to all but evaporate. He refused to even stick a toe in her particular direction. But he’d be a dead man with no beating heart if those huge hazel eyes didn’t lure a man into the deep part of the ocean without an oxygen tank.

  They both settled into the front seat of the Ford. “I’ll have to thank Mr. Hartley for being thoughtful enough to send his secretary all the way out here for curbside service.” At what he considered a compliment, her smile vanished, her friendly face turned to stone.

  “I’ll need to see some form of identification,” Kinsey informed him.

  A minute ago she’d called him by name, acted as though she recognized him. Now all business, he dug out the piece of paper from the California DMV he’d gotten just that morning. “I’m supposed to get the plastic version in two weeks.”

  “That’s standard,” Kinsey uttered as she went over the document, scouring it for mistakes. When she handed it back she advised, “Legally that isn’t an acceptable form of ID, as there’s no photo for me to verify. But I believe I can make allowances.”

  He watched as her long slim fingers with perfectly manicured nails finally opened the manila folder on her lap. Without saying a word, she took out a pen from her skirt’s side pocket and handed it over to him, which he gingerly took in the fingers sticking out of his cast. Awkwardly, he gripped the barrel, pointing it at the paper.

  “Will you be able to sign?” Kinsey asked.

  “I’ll manage,” Logan mumbled as he began to read line by line the legal description of the property. There were already several clear little sticky pieces with red arrows on the tips adhering to the paper indicating where exactly he should put his signature. But just in case he missed that, Kinsey curtly pointed to each one and reminded him, “Here. Here. And here.”

  It was a fairly simple transaction since Logan had paid cash for the place. With his broken hand, it took him longer than usual to sign, but as soon as he’d finished the process, he handed her back the pen.

  She immediately dumped two brass keys onto the loose fingers sticking out of his cast. She patted the manila folder. “I’ll give you copies for your files tonight when I get to the B & B, how’s that?”

  Before he could say anything, Logan heard another vehicle pull up, this time a faded red Nissan pickup almost orange in color. It screeched to a halt in the gravel as if the driver had trouble braking and parked next to the woman’s beat-up ride.

  Logan watched from his rearview mirror as a young kid, who looked to be about eighteen, got out and waved to the woman who was already sliding out of his truck.

  “Who is that?” Logan asked.

  “No need to keep snarling at everyone, Mr. Donnelly. That’s Troy Dayton, a highly skilled local carpenter. He’s probably come out here to see you about a job.”

  Logan noticed her face soften, considerably, when she greeted the young teen.

  “Hi Troy,” Kinsey said to the lanky man when he walked up. “How’ve you been? Did you have any luck over in San Sebastian at that construction site I told you about?”

  Troy shook his head as the wind blew back his curly white-blond hair. “I appreciate the lead, Kinsey. But it didn’t pan out. They already had a full crew hired by the time I got there.” He stuck out his hand in Logan’s direction and spotted the cast. “Looks like you need a right-hand man,” Troy noted. “That’s why I stopped by. Thought maybe you could use a good carpenter. I wanted to be the first one here, Mr. Donnelly. I’m the best around. I’ve got my own tools, my own transportation.” He threw a thumb in the direction of his little truck. “She don’t look like much but she runs. And I do good work.”

  “How old are you?” Logan wanted to know.

  “Twenty. I know I look young, but I’m not kidding when I tell you I know my way around carpentry work. Ask anyone in town, they’ll tell you the same thing. And besides, I’ve been working during the summers since I was fourteen on all kinds of construction sites from here to Santa Cruz my uncle, Derek Stovall. Plus, you hire me, you’ll get him, too. He does wiring, hangs sheet rock, and installs plumbing. Take your pick. Work’s hard to come by around here. He’s been looking for a job, same as me, since the first of the year. We both could use the work.”

  “Well, I’ve got to head back to the office,” Kinsey said interrupting Troy’s pitch. “We secretaries have such a busy life we hardly have time out to socialize or eat lunch. You know how it is, I’m sure. Anyway, back to my workstation,” she muttered with a little salute. “Good l
uck Mr. Donnelly, Troy.”

  And with that, Kinsey Wyatt stormed back to her Nissan.

  Logan’s brow creased as he watched the woman clomp away on those heels. So did Troy. “Wonder what that was all about?” Logan groused, truly perplexed at the woman’s change in disposition.

  “Huh,” Troy said flatly. “That is strange. Kinsey’s usually sunny as a tulip. Wonder why she referred to herself as a secretary?”

  “Doesn’t she work for Hartley?”

  “Sure, but Kinsey’s an attorney like Hartley,” Troy replied, scratching his chin. “In fact, rumor has it old Hartley’s thinking of calling it quits, retiring his practice. Got Kinsey down here from the Bay to take care of the town’s legal stuff once he closes his doors.”

  “Ah,” was all Logan said, realizing that probably explained the huff. Couldn’t say he blamed her. He supposed he’d have to apologize at some point.

  Since Troy wasn’t privy to the byplay between the two before he happened on the scene, the young man pressed Logan, “What about that job? I’m dependable and know my way around a remodel.”

  “If you’ve got references, let’s talk.”

  While Troy listed a few previous employers off the top of his head, Logan pointed out, “You know I’ll have to check those, right?”

  Troy nodded. “Sure. I know that. They’ll check out, you’ll see.”

  “Good. I could really use someone in a couple of days to help me start setting up all my equipment out here.”

  Troy grinned. “I’m good at setting up equipment.”

  Logan liked the kid’s enthusiasm. “I hope so because there’s a lot of it.” Logan threw out an hourly wage to test the waters. “Does that sound like something you’d be—”