A Suite Deal (Suite Love Series Book 1) Read online

  Sue Gibson

  Spending childhood Sunday afternoons listening to you reading Laura Ingalls Wilder, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Louisa May Alcott sowed a seed that blossomed into a lifelong love of words. Thank you.

  Heartfelt thanks to my great friends and thoughtful critique partners, Kait Rainey-Strathy and Marie von Rosen, and also to my sister, Bev Gibson, an eagle-eyed proofreader who accepts chocolate for payment.

  A big thank you goes out to the Ottawa Romance Writers Association, a diverse group of amazing writers who provide one-stop shopping for motivation, workshops, and camaraderie.

  I'm grateful to my editor, Faith Black, for sharing her credible expertise and helpful advice.

  Finally, I thank Tim, Maggie, and Luke for their unconditional and unfaltering support.

  Lily Greensly's canoe sliced through the cattails, their slight stalks easily giving way to the cedar strip's slim bow. Tilting her face up to the endless blue, Lily drew her paddle from the water and rested it, dripping, on her knees. Cotton-ball clouds scuttled across an azure sky, and a smile crinkled the corners of her eyes.

  "I'm back, and I'll never leave you again," she declared to the open expanse, her arms stretching wide to include the stands of Ontario's famous spruce trees that lined the shoreline.

  The spontaneous declaration wasn't entirely doable, she knew. After all, an occasional trip to Toronto was an inevitable, necessary nuisance, but the sentiment, seeded deep in her heart, was genuine.

  A shift in the breeze bowed the sea of heavyheaded stems and filled her nostrils with the lake's familiar marine tang. I could stay here all day, she mused, leaning back against a stack of life jackets to watch a pair of blackbirds flit and feed in the cattails. But she knew it would be months before the Hideaway closed its cabins for the winter, leaving her time to wile away an afternoon. She sighed and thrust her paddle to its hilt, shooting the canoe out of Cattail Bay and into the open water.

  Time to earn my other paycheck now anyway, she told herself, a familiar uneasiness creeping into the pit of her stomach. She understood the danger of earning a salary tied to a dwindling research grant all too well.

  She stretched forward to tap the depth-finder's toggle switch and let out a long breath as tiny black images began tracking across the screen. The finicky depth-finder did double duty-transferred daily from the canoe to her fishing boatand was easily her most essential tool. One she couldn't afford to replace.

  A high-pitched beeping began to pulsate across the water. "Oops" Her hand shot toward the black box and the volume button. Last evening Merv from-Cabin-One cranked the unit's volume, claiming his hearing wasn't what it used to be.

  Deep in the marsh, a blue heron flapped its wings and began an undignified ascent from the bay.

  "Sorry, Sam," Lily whispered, her eyes following the bird's ungainly flight up and beyond a ridge of jack pine.

  She bent to the monitor and eyed a school of perch circling at the three-foot mark. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she slipped off the clipboard's protective cover and added the data to a sheet already crowded with figures.

  Now, that ought to do it, she decided, running her thumb across the edge of a thick sheaf of papers, before squinting toward the dropping sun.

  Tackle boxes in hand, Merv and Ed were probably already pacing the Hideaway's dock, scanning the lake for a sign of their fishing guide's return. She smiled at the comic image and stuffed the clipboard into her pack. Grabbing the paddle again, she headed for home. Time to switch hats.

  Soon the stark profile of Osprey Island's lone spruce poked into the horizon, and she shifted forward on the hard seat. Not more than a rough slab of granite fringed with juniper, her inheritance from Grandpa Greensly wasn't even home to the osprey any longer.

  She scanned the shoreline. No sign of yesterday's bread crusts, she noted with satisfaction. Predictably, the scavenging crows had bussed her picnic spot clean again.

  Lately, she'd come ashore often. She'd munch through her sandwiches in glorious silence, far from the Hideaway's good-intentioned folk. If one more person tut-tutted their sympathy, patted her shoulder or recited an uplifting platitude, she'd scream. The fact that they all thought her ex-fiance, Doug, was a jerk-that she could tolerate.

  A familiar melancholy seeped into her heart, stealing the good of the moment. No. I refuse to let him ruin another perfectly good day.

  Doug had shown his true colors when he'd produced his humiliating prenuptial agreement and then bolted when she'd refused to sign it.

  In hindsight, signs of their incompatibility had been there all along. Last summer, he'd balked at coming out from the city for their annual fish fry. As usual, he'd laughed off the Greensly traditions as old-fashioned and corny. But back then, she was still clinging to the notion of true love overcoming all. "Humph."

  She dug the paddle deeply to the left and the canoe surged ahead. The lake's newest landmark, its absurd profile jutting from the rocky shoreline, caught her attention. The locals, inspired by the hotel's alabaster walls, had dubbed it "the Wedding Cake." A flapping banner proclaimed the Nirvana Hotel part of the Weatherall chain.

  She frowned as visions of tourists, more-dollarsthan-sense types, tossing pop cans from speeding boats flashed through her mind.

  Her hands tightened on the oak paddle, and she could almost hear her grandpa's voice admonishing her anxious thoughts, "Worrying never got anything done, girl. If something is wrong-fix it."

  And he was right, she mused, chewing on her bottom lip. But first she needed to determine if the fancy Nirvana was putting Loon Lake in jeopardy.

  Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough as far as she was concerned. As soon as the sun yellowed the eastern sky, she'd be on the lake, guiding the CEO of the new hotel to a walleye hot spot and hopefully getting answers to her questions. Like why did he book a fishing appointment before dropping in at the Hideaway for a visit? And did this big-city hotshot have an agenda that could harm the lake? She straightened her shoulders.

  Nobody messed with Loon Lake. At least not on her watch.

  Ethan Weatherall struggled to raise his wrist closer to his eyes. His stiff canvas sleeve gave way, cracking conveniently at the elbow, and he peered at his Rolex.

  7:05 A.M. Right on schedule, he observed, and went on to do the math of his day's schedule. Yes ... Barring complications, he'd see Emma tonight.

  He repeated his glance at his watch. His muchheralded guide was four minutes late. Pacing the length of the concrete dock, he looked down to the jingling zipper tabs and flashing fishing lures dangling from his pants.

  Callie, his shopaholic assistant, had ordered his pants and fishing gear from the glossy pages of an Outback Outfitters catalogue with her usual enthusiasm. But to be fair, he'd never even opened the canvas camouflage-colored bag Callie had handed him as he was heading out of the office.

  He eyed his gadget-laden khakis doubtfully and turned to eyeball the distance back to his temporary office and his regular pants.

  No way. Not enough time, he decided, and instead turned to study the magnificent building he'd commissioned. A glance around the construction site confirmed he was alone, and his burgeoning smile widened. There's not a hotel anywhere that compares with this baby.

  Just a month to the grand opening and only a single, albeit critical, detail remained: the purchase of the scraggly little island out front of his hotel-inthe-wilds project.

  He sucked in a breath of bracing air. He'd developed the Nirvana project from beginning to end, except for his father's last-minute interference-the proposed helipad on Osprey Island. Predictably, the older members of the board, R.W.'s cronies, preferred to call his father's me
ddling an inspiration. They'd overrode Ethan's original idea of cutting a deal with the small local airport and alternatively using the funds to purchase the scrub land behind the hotel for development of a nine-hole golf course.

  Roland Weatherall had insisted that a helipad built on Osprey Island was essential to the success of an outback hotel. Outback? He shoved his clenched fists into his pants pockets, remembering the dismissive tone of his father's voice.

  By plane, the Nirvana was only an hour from downtown Toronto. But short by only one vote and needing the final release of funds, Ethan conceded. History had proved it futile to face off against his father.

  Shortly after arrival, he'd learned from the locals that it would be impossible to convince the Hideaway's renowned fishing guide to sell her island. He shot another look at his watch. He didn't understand impossible. Even Ms. Greensly's treasured slab of granite had a price.

  The buzz of an outboard drew his attention to a small boat beelining for his dock and he focused on the lone female occupant.

  Is that ... girl ... with the blond hair whipping back from her face Lily Greensly? He'd assumed she'd be of the hearty, robust variety. Suddenly he wished he was up against a man, someone ... bigger, a player.

  She cut the sporty runabout's motor just inches from his feet, a flourish of spray peppering his new "Mach III" deck shoes, and tossed a tie-line across the short distance.

  She stretched to clear the seat of life jackets, and he envied the casual comfort of her faded Levi's and beat-up sneakers. A waterproof jacket, lacking any recognizable logo, was tied around her waist.

  "Do you mind?" she asked politely, nodding to the small steel hoop cemented to the dock and the tie-line she'd tossed across.

  I knew choosing Junior Entrepreneurs over the Scouts would come back and haunt me someday, he thought, hating that he'd momentarily slipped from the power position.

  "Sure," he feigned smoothly, "no problem." A couple of quick wraps and a tug on his loop should do it, he decided, kneeling to block her view as he attached the rope to the ring.

  He rose to one knee and thrust out a hand. "Good morning, Ms. Greensly. Your reputation precedes you."

  "You obviously booked this session through my father. He tends to exaggerate my abilities, Mr. Weatherall"

  He warmed to her honest evaluation. "Call me Ethan."

  "It's Lily, then."

  She was pretty. Bits of fair hair blew around her heart-shaped face. Clear skin, surprisingly pale for the outdoorsy sort, presented an Ivory soap endorsement for clean living. There was a quiet assurance about her. Not a girl after all, but a no-nonsense woman, comfortable in her own skin.

  Her chin tipped upward and he found himself looking into a pair of eyes as blue as the lake itself. Dark lashes, free of the kind of stuff most of his dates layered on, swooped up and down as she inventoried his outfit. A tiny smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

  I knew it. I look like a fool.

  "Hop in," she said without a trace of ridicule, "the sun's rising fast. We'll head for a spot where the fish are deep and hopefully hungry"

  He clamored aboard and folded his legs into the space between the seats and wondered, is this little boat designed for two passengers? A pair of life jackets stowed between them suggested it was, and he settled on the hard bench seat.

  One quick tug and the boat drifted from the dock.

  Thumping and cresting back through its own waves, they crossed Greensly Bay in a surprisingly short three minutes. And they were headed straight for the island-a bonus he hadn't expected. Perfect.

  She cut the motor near the craggy shoreline. "It's called Osprey Island," she informed him like a tour guide at a theme park. "Pickerel generally hold near the shoal in front this time of day"

  "Excellent," he said, avoiding her eyes and accepting her offer of a fishing rod she'd plucked from a narrow rack attached to the side of the boat. Nothing to feel guilty about, he reminded himself as he wiped his palms on his crisp khakis.

  Now all he needed to do was watch and wait for an opportunity. He was good at pitching ideas and settled in to enjoy the buildup.

  "Give me a sec," she said, and began pushing buttons on a small blinking box.

  Long before high-tech gadgets were the norm, he and his dad had fished on this lake. In a spot a lot like this, he swiveled and searched for familiar landmarks, Father showed me to how to thread worms on a hook.

  He could almost taste the grape soda on his tongue, as the blurred memory sharpened. His father had laughed-right out loud-when his sixyear-old son had stuck out his purple-coated tongue at a circling bird. Their family holiday at a rented cottage was supposed to have lasted a week, but business had pulled Roland Weatherall away after two short days.

  "Ethan?" Lily's voice was, soft, as if she understood she was bringing him back from somewhere distant. "Choose a lure please."

  He shook his head, and like a drawing dissolving into an Etch A Sketch, the memory faded, and he returned his attention to the job at hand.

  Her tackle box flashed its wares as the five-level case expanded the width of the boat. The woman owned more lures than Outdoor Outfitters. He observed her pick and plucked a lookalike from the selection.

  "Good choice," she noted. "A Mister Twister."

  Ridiculously, his confidence grew with her offhand remark.

  Lily's lure hissed softly as it arced high above a patch of lily pads. "See. Now you try. Remember, flick, release, rewind." She spoke slowly, as if to a child.

  His brow furrowed and he inched forward on his seat. Flick, release, rewind. The shiny lure zinged toward its target in a smooth line and sunk precisely where he'd intended, and he wondered, had she'd been watching?

  Suddenly, he was ten again, poised at home plate, his hands glued to the bat, hoping his father was in the stands. Too proud to check the crowd, he'd run the bases, only scanning the home team's crowd after he'd touched home plate.

  "Good cast, Ethan," Lily commented, bringing his thoughts back to the job at hand. "You've been holding out on me."

  Again, he warmed to her compliment, knowing full well she probably said that to all her clients.

  He smiled and turned to scan the lake for signs of civilized life. A tin sign tacked to a boathouse advertised gas and BBQ chips. Farther down, the Hideaway's graying docks poked quietly into the bay.

  He watched as Lily alternately flicked, and then tightened her line, wondering, Is this really what she does? Every day?

  "So what do you do out here? Besides guiding."

  She looked up quickly and he wondered at the defiant flash in her eyes before she returned her gaze to the water. She sighed, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, as if unwilling to put out the effort. "Not much," she finally offered up.

  "Oh, come on," he needled.

  "I'm a marine biologist."

  A what? He studied her face again, searching for something he'd missed. Apparently she was much more than a capable, blue-jeaned fishing guide. Generally, it took far more than a pretty face to throw him off track.

  Although Reg, the well driller, had slipped under his radar too. Turns out Reg had a master's degree in engineering and was an ordained minister. There should be a manual, he decided, The Dummies' Guide to Rural Folk.

  "Fascinating field of work-marine biology," he said.

  "Right now I'm working for the University of Toronto," she continued. "Mostly I collect data from the active spawning sites of indigenous coldwater fishes"-she paused to check the depth finder-"for my research."

  "I see. Sounds er ... rewarding." He dragged his gaze from her face and struggled to digest the new information. His pitch for the island definitely required fine-tuning.

  They sat knee to knee, casting to the shoal and slowly rewinding their lures. The depth-finder beeped, drawing Lily's attention, and he was reminded of the second reason he booked Lily Greensly's services. Fastening his gaze to the tip of his fishing rod, he concentrated on catching a fish.
r />   This is the stuff, he observed: bracing breezes, clean air, nature's best at the doorstep, the smell of juniper filling the air. Great copy for the front cover of the brochure, he decided as an unwelcome sensation filled his lungs.

  He coughed quietly, casting a quick glance to the back of the boat and Lily. Not now. He patted down his cargos in a hunt for his inhaler.

  "Are you okay?" Lily looked up, concern flickering in her eyes.

  "I'm ... great." He tightened his grip on his fishing rod. He'd pass out before sucking on his inhaler in front of her. He flicked the end of his fishing rod again and smiled away her concerned expression.

  Life on the lake had etched fine lines at the corners of her eyes and he wondered if she even bothered with lotions and creams. A scattering of freckles tracked haphazardly across her cheeks and nose. Wisps of her blond hair lifted in the breeze and danced around her face.

  The outboard sputtered, punctuating the silence with a fuelly hiccup before returning to its smooth purr.

  He tipped his rod toward the motor. "So is that a two-stroke or four?" he questioned, and knew that all his nights spent reading the Ministry's environmental reports had just paid off.

  "We switched to four-strokes three years ago," she answered quickly, her tone intense and interested. "You know, I participated in a study where it was proved, conclusively, the four-stroke outboard reduced emission by-"

  Lily's rod tip suddenly dove. In a fluid movement she adjusted a dial and began rewinding her shrieking reel.

  "Quick, grab the net" Her eyes directed him toward the back of the boat.

  He grabbed for the Lunker Limo secured to the side of the boat and waved it like a flag. "Got it!"

  Craning over the side, he spotted a brownish blur, at least a yard long, slicing through the weed bed. "There it is!"

  Lily's sneakered foot pressed against his as she braced for a fight, and he quickly debated his options. Should I help? Or is that against some unwritten fishing code?

  She clung to the bending rod, a smile lighting her face, and he settled back to watch. Suddenly the taut line was limp, coiling loosely in the water.