“Thanks. If you're free tonight maybe you could help me sample some of the local seafood. We could discuss my carburetor.”

Flustered and flattered, she reached out to accept the credit card he offered. She was on the point of agreeing when she read the name imprinted there. “Trenton St. James HI.”

“Trent,” he said easily, and smiled again.

It figured, C.C. thought Oh, it absolutely figured. Fancy car, fancy suit, fancy manners. She should have spotted it right off. She should have smelled it. Seething, she imprinted the card on the credit card form. “Sign here.”

Trent took out a slim gold pen and signed while she rose and stalked over to a pegboard to retrieve his keys. He glanced over just as she tossed them to him. At him was more accurate. He managed to snag them before they hit his face. He jingled them lightly in his hand as she stood, hands on hips, face dark with fury.

“A simple no would have done the job.”

“Men like you don't understand a simple no.” C.C. turned to the glass wall, then whirled back. “If I'd known who you were, I'd have drilled holes in your muffler.”

Slowly Trent slipped the keys into his pocket. His temper was renowned. It wasn't hot—that would have been easier to dodge. It was ice. As he stood it slid through him, frosting his eyes, tightening his mouth, coating his voice. “Would you like to explain?”

She strode toward him until they were toe to toe and eye to eye. “I'm Catherine Colleen Calhoun. And I want you to keep your greedy hands off my house.”

Trent said nothing for a moment as he adjusted his thoughts. Catherine Calhoun, one of the four sisters who owned The Towers—and one who apparently had strong feelings regarding the sale. Since he was going to have to maneuver around all four of them, he might as well start here. And now.

“A pleasure, Miss Calhoun.”

“Not mine.” She reached down and ripped off his copy of the credit card receipt. “Get your butt back in your big, bad BMW and head back to Boston.”

“A fascinating alliteration.” Still watching her, Trent folded the paper and put it into his pocket. “You, however, are not the only party involved.”

“You're not going to turn my house into one of your glossy hotels for bored debutantes and phony Italian counts.”

He nearly smiled at that “You've stayed in one of the St. James hotels?”

“I don't have to, I know what they're like. Marble lobbies, glass elevators, twenty-foot chandeliers and fountains spurting everywhere.”

“You have something against fountains?”

“I don't want one in my living room. Why don't you go foreclose on some widows and orphans and leave us alone?”