LITMIR.BIZ

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Trace said, knowing his response would only push his father’s hot button. “That’s the way the banking world is going.”

      “Well, this bank won’t, not as long as I have any say about it,” his father said stubbornly. “Chesapeake Shores Community Bank serves the people in this town in a way that one of those faceless, impersonal behemoths never could.”

      Trace couldn’t argue the point. He just didn’t want any part of running the place, family heritage or not. “Why not put Laila in charge?” he asked, referring to his younger sister. He warmed to the topic. If he could convince his father to put Laila in the job she’d always wanted, he could be on the road back to New York by morning. All he had to do was sell his father on the idea. “Think about it, Dad. She has a head for numbers. Her SAT math scores were through the roof. She aced all of her college business courses. She has a master’s degree from the Wharton School of Business. She’d be a natural.”

      “I thought of that,” his father admitted. “I even spoke to her about it, but your sister told me to take a hike.”

      That was unexpected, Trace thought. “Why?”

      His father shrugged. “She said she wasn’t going to be anybody’s second choice, even mine.”

      Trace regarded him with bewilderment. “But you asked her first.”

      “When has your sister ever paid any attention to logic? She’s convinced I only asked her because I knew you wouldn’t want the job.”

      “I don’t suppose you tried to convince her she was wrong,” Trace said.

      “How could I when she was right?”

      “Do you think you two will ever learn to communicate?” Trace grumbled. He and his dad might be at loggerheads ninety percent of the time, but Lawrence Riley and Laila were rarely on the same page about anything, from a choice as inane as breakfast cereal to a decision as critical as who ought to run the bank. It had been that way from the moment she learned to talk.

      “You mean communicate the way you and I do?” his father retorted wryly.

      “Yeah, at least that well,” Trace responded. “Look, I’ll talk to her. I’ll smooth things over between the two of you. Her pride’s been hurt because you’ve made it plain over the years that you want me back here, but she’ll come around.”

      His father hit his fist on the desk. “Dammit, you’re the one who needs to come around, Trace. What ever happened to family loyalty? A man works his whole life to build up something good for his son, and you toss it aside without a second thought.”

      “I’ve had a lifetime to think about it. You’ve never made a secret about what you expected. I’ve given it a second thought and a third, for that matter, ever since you called. Dad, come on, you know the whole nine-to-five drill would never work for me. I like a job that’s creative, a word that tends to make bankers nervous as hell.”

      The faint hint of a smile finally touched his father’s lips. “True enough,” he admitted. “How about this? We give it six months. If you still hate it, you can take off again with my blessing. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

      As a respected and in-demand artist working freelance for several of New York’s top ad agencies, Trace had the flexibility to do as his father asked. He could even keep up with a few accounts to keep himself from going totally stir-crazy in Chesapeake Shores. If it would buy him his freedom permanently, surely he could survive six months in a suit. He owed his father that much respect. And in the long run that short-term display of loyalty would be wiser than causing a family rift.

      Moreover, he could spend the time trying to convince his sister to forget about her stupid pride and being second choice. She’d wanted this job since she’d learned to count. She ought to grab it, rather than wasting her talent by keeping the books for a few local businesses. Unfortunately she’d inherited their father’s stubbornness. It would probably take Trace every single day of the allotted six months to make peace between the two of them.

      “Okay, six months,” Trace agreed. “Not one day longer.”

      His father beamed at him. “We’ll see. You might discover you have an aptitude for banking, after all.”

      “Or you’ll realize I’m incompetent when it comes to math.”

      “I have your college test scores and grades that say otherwise.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Welcome aboard, son.”

      Trace shook his hand, then studied his father intently. There was a glint in his eyes that suggested there was more to the negotiations than Trace had realized. “What are you up to?” he asked warily.

      “Up to?” Lawrence Riley had a lousy poker face. Half of his pals at the country club would testify to that. For the past thirty years, they’d lined their pockets with his losses.

      “Don’t even try to play innocent, Dad. You’re up to something, and it has nothing to do with me becoming your protégé around here.”

      “We’ve made a business deal, that’s all,” his father insisted. “Now let me show you your office. It’s fairly Spartan now, but if you decide to stick around you can decorate it however you want. Meantime, I’ll have Raymond go through some loan folders with you. We have a meeting of the loan committee first thing Tuesday morning. You’ll need to have your recommendations ready then.”

      Trace held up a hand. “Hold on a second. I don’t know enough to make recommendations on whether loan applications should be approved.”

      “Raymond will show you the ropes. He’s been my right hand for years. And they’re not all loan applications. There’s a possible foreclosure in there, too.”

      Trace’s stomach knotted. “You want me to decide whether or not someone’s home should be taken away and put up for auction?”

      “It’s a business, not a home. And you won’t be deciding on your own, of course. The board will have the final say, but we’d likely act on your recommendation.”

      “No way,” Trace said. Who was he to rip someone’s dreams to shreds? Businesses in Chesapeake Shores were small, family-owned operations. It would be like taking the food right off someone’s table, someone he knew, more than likely. He wasn’t sure he had the stomach to do that.

      “You can’t be softhearted, son. It’s strictly business, a matter of dollars and cents. You’ll see once you’ve taken a look at the paperwork.” His father patted him on the back. “You start looking over those files and I’ll send Raymond in.”

      Trace scowled at his father’s departing back, then turned to the stack of folders sitting neatly in the middle of the huge mahogany desk that took up most of the corner office. Right on top sat one with a large, ominous red sticker pasted on the front.

      He sat down in the leather chair behind the desk, his wary gaze on that folder. Curiosity finally got the better of him, and he flipped open the file and stared at the first page.

      “Oh, hell,” he murmured as he read it: Possible notice of foreclosure—The Inn at Eagle Point. Owner: Jessica O’Brien.

      He knew Jess O’Brien, but it wasn’t her image that immediately came to mind. It was that of her older sister, Abigail, the woman who’d stolen his heart years ago on a steamy summer night, then disappeared without even a goodbye. Over the years he’d told himself it was ludicrous to cling to such an elusive memory. He’d tried to chase it away with other relationships, most of them casual, but even a couple that had promised a deeper intimacy. In the end, he hadn’t been able to shake his desire for someone with auburn hair, laughing eyes and a daredevil spirit that matched his own.

      Now he was supposed to decide the fate of her sister’s inn? One thing he knew about the O’Briens, they stuck together. If he took on Jess, he’d be taking on the rest of them, Abby included. Was that what had put the gleam in his father’s eye earlier?

      He

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