LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For the baristas at Gold Rush, who help keep me

      going with smiles and Cold Snap Mochas.

       CHAPTER ONE

      TESS ROUSSEL sidled through her Main Street office doorway a quarter of an hour past the posted opening time. She maneuvered a stylish leather briefcase, two rolled elevation plans, an oversize clutch purse, a custard-filled maple bar and her triple-butterscotch latte past the jamb, but coffee slopped through the cup lid and splattered over her gray suede heels.

      “Not again.” She inhaled April air smelling of last night’s special at the trattoria across the street and this morning’s catch on the docks two blocks over. And then she blew it out with a disgusted sigh. “Damn parking meters.”

      Shoving the door closed with her hip, she flipped a row of light switches with an elbow. It wasn’t that she was too cheap to spend her work breaks feeding coins into one of the meters stationed along Main Street, although the daily expense competed with the cost of her favorite caffeinated beverages. And it wasn’t that she was too forgetful to deal with the meters’ payment schedule, especially after four parking tickets had forced her to devise an alarm system that could penetrate her deepest levels of concentration and summon her from her design work.

      It was the principle of the thing. Potential customers shouldn’t have to pay for the privilege of popping into the Victorian-era storefronts crowding Carnelian Cove’s marina district. And the merchants shouldn’t have to pay for the convenience of parking near their own places of business. And she shouldn’t have to make the hike from the stingy public lot three long blocks down the street. And definitely not twice on such a drizzly morning, just because she had too much stuff to tote safely in one load. And not in these heels.

      Although the shoes attached to the heels were simply fabulous.

      Her stylish heels clicked across the scarred plank floor, echoing in the high-ceilinged space. Usually she enjoyed the ambience of her one-of-a-kind office—the subtle industrial spotlights punctuating the softer illumination of period fanlights, the brick side walls separating her office from the used bookstore on one side and the gardening boutique on the other, the touches of sharp black lines and bright red paint and delicate greenery. But this morning, in the fog-dimmed daylight trickling through the street-front bay windows, everything looked a little worn-out and washed-up.

      Kind of like the way she’d be feeling if she let herself dwell too long on her problems. She dumped the briefcase, purse and elevations on her drafting table and scowled at today’s project: a contractor’s rough sketch for a bowling alley renovation she’d agreed to transform into a permit-ready plan. Not exactly the glamorous career she’d envisioned while slaving through her university design classes. And nothing like the exciting projects she’d worked on during her seven years with one of San Francisco’s most prestigious architectural firms.

      Her father, a dashing, aristocratic Frenchman whose work had dazzled the city’s art connoisseurs before his untimely death, would have shuddered at the bourgeois assignment. Her mother, owner of the Bay area’s finest art gallery, would probably cringe at the dull practicality of the finish details.

      But drawing restroom updates and adding more diner space to Cove Lanes was the only kind of work available in this compact northern California town on the Pacific coast. She knew she should be grateful for the crumbs the local contractors had tossed her way since she’d arrived a year ago, though she understood why they were so quick to give her this particular share of their business: builders wanted to build, not fuss over paperwork.

      Yes, she understood—more than any of them realized. As much as she enjoyed the process of design, of crafting neat, two-dimensional schemes that would be transformed into three-dimensional works of art, it was nothing compared to the thrill of helping to shape her creation on the job site. The buzz and clang of equipment, the smell of sawdust and solvents, the skeleton and organs and nerves and skin of studs and plumbing and wiring and siding—every step was fascinating and exciting and hers. Every detail and decision was hers to choose and make, and the sense of power and control was addictive. Every line and corner and arc sprang from her imagination, and watching it all rise from the ground was a rush beyond compare.

      She switched on her music system and selected her favorite Miles Davis album—something cool to match the day, a bluesy tune to match her mood. No one in Carnelian Cove considered hiring an architect when there were plenty of contractors willing to secure a building permit with the inexpensive—and unimaginative—basics. That’s how things had always been done, and most people couldn’t see a reason to do things differently. She’d known it might take a while to change their minds, and she’d been prepared to watch her savings dwindle during the adjustment period. But she hadn’t realized there might never be any genuine design business for her architecture firm.

      Her very own firm, her long-time dream: Roussel Designs. She sighed and carried her maple bar and her cooling latte across her office to study the model occupying the prime real estate in the windows fronting Main Street: the model for Tidewaters. Retail spaces for six smart boutiques and offices, a midsize restaurant at dock level and five spacious multilevel condominiums above. A wonderful boardwalk fronting the bay and an open, parklike space surrounding the parking area—ample, meter-free parking.

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