Hideaway Heart

By Marilyn LeClere

“Irresistible but Dangerous” should be tattooed on Griffith McLaclan’s forehead to warn small town Indiana that the international film star was coming their way.
Young widow, Meritt Chandler, was dubious—no—downright antagonistic, when asked to keep him in her historical country mansion for a few weeks. That is...until the ridiculous money they offered turned her head.
She could purchase the derelict ferry-boat inn that was her life’s dream. Surely, she could accommodate a worldly, egotistical, arrogant “Sexiest Man on Earth” candidate while he filmed a Civil War epic in their little valley.
He was all those things she expected and more—a great storyteller, warm and congenial, helpful and fun! Meritt’s sedate life exploded.
But the intense affair came to an abrupt halt when his career took him halfway around the world. The newly acquired inn and even a perfect man from her past couldn’t begin to substitute for Griff McLaclan’s charm. But where was he?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marilyn LeClere
• Release date: Apr 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311375506

Book preview

HIDEAWAY HEART

Marilyn LeClere

A Contemporary Romance

© 2014 Marilyn LeClere.

All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter One

Please, not today! If she hid out of the way behind the backstairs, maybe Walter Gunter would think she wasn’t home. Even his buoyant walk irritated Meritt as she watched the local tour guide hustle his plump body up the lane. She dropped the dripping paint roller and tray into the sudsy water in the kitchen sink then scrambled towards the stairs.

Too late to hide! Walter stomped along the side porch. He gave the brass frog doorknocker a mighty bang. Leaning his pink forehead against the high windows in the dining nook, he peered in, waving exuberantly. Why was he always so maddeningly cheerful?

Meritt sighed, pulling down the oversized man’s shirt she wore over her shorts. One toe protruded through her worn canvas shoes. The red bandanna twisted sideways on her head. It was her painting outfit. Thank heavens, Walter was so self-engrossed he’d never notice even if she was naked under the big shirt.

Stepping gingerly over the canvas drop cloths in the dining nook and skirting the step ladder, she tried not to think how annoying Walter could be. How really annoying. She headed for the porch door. Most people didn’t know the side porch entry under the front staircase even existed. Walter knew. He had the irritating habit of ushering his Sycamore Valley Historic Farmhouse tours into the house through that supposedly secret little door.

Meritt could repeat his pompous spiel word for word, complete with his pretentious inflections. And this is Honeysuckle Cottage! Some say it was an underground railway stop, the first in southern Indiana. Fake hearty laughter. "It’s amusing they call it a cottage since as you can see, it’s a real mansion." More booming forced laughter.

Have I got a deal for you, Meritt, Walter shouted impatiently through the door before she could unlock it.

And I’m glad to see you, too, this morning, Walter, she shouted back, swiping at the perspiration running down her backbone, pooling at her waist.

She stepped back to avoid his overpowering shaving lotion as his bulk filled the doorway, his grinning face reddened by the unseasonable April heat. The fringe of sparse brown hair around his bald pate was wet and stringy, giving him the appearance of a slightly inebriated monk. Walter was no monk. He was a quick, clever and manipulative hotel owner, tour guide, and Sycamore’s Chamber of Commerce president.

Now don’t get snippy with me. He insinuated himself through the small entry and around the corner into the dining nook, ignoring the drop cloths and ladder. When he plopped into the oversized wingchair, Ophelia, the cat, screeched, hurtled off the adjacent ledge and threw herself into the back parlor sending the rag rugs flying.

Walter didn’t seem to notice, but propped one fat leg akimbo from the other. As he perched on the chair edge, his immense belly hung down in a lump. "Meritt, the movie deal for Rebel Road is all sewed up and you’ll never guess who the male lead is!" He threw one arm out theatrically waiting for her reaction.

Restraining herself from saying, Ta-Da, she lowered herself to the sofa opposite him. All I’ve heard for months is gossip about filming that Civil War story in the valley and around Sycamore. I suppose from a money standpoint it will be a great coup for...

Oh, for heaven’s sakes! Why are you always so laid-back? Don’t you have any curiosity? They have Caroline Sutton for the female lead. Walter rushed on with names that weren’t even vaguely familiar to her, ...and Rolfe McBain and Gordon Reed and Jason Lester. But I’m waiting to hear your guess on the male lead?

"I never go to the movies. I used to take Toby when he was a little boy, but now..."

Griffith McLaclan! Walter pounded her little antique tavern table until Meritt shuddered for its safety.

Really? she stammered. I mean—really? I guess that does get my attention. At some time in her life, every woman I know has been in love with Griff McLaclan. Does he play the Union General?

Yes, yes... Walter rubbed his hands with glee. Meritt had never seen anyone do that in her entire life.

Perspiration stood out on Walter’s forehead. Now guess the best part? I’ve been commissioned to find him a very private place to stay. He swung his arms in an expansive circle. And this is it! A secret hideaway!

A secret hideaway ? Meritt gave him what she hoped was a drop dead look and shook her head emphatically side to side. Walter, you know I don’t do bed and breakfast anymore.

I know, I know you said your slave labor days are over, but you’ve got all this room, way out here in the country. He affected his ingratiating smile. It’s perfect! And besides you’re a fantastic cook...dear.

No. I’m not interested. I’m not into groveling or pampering male egos. I really don’t want to have to deal with another self-centered, arrogant, too handsome man ever again. She paused. Not that my husband was self-centered or arrogant. I mean...

I know you didn’t mean Allen. You’re still smarting about Ben Bertrand aren’t you? Walter wiggled his eyebrows. That must be six years ago now.

Five, but who’s counting?

So, forget about that fiasco. McLaclan just wants a comfortable quiet room with a nice dinner at night to the tune of two thousand a week for eight to ten weeks. Walter sat forward grinning like a Cheshire cat, waiting for her response.

Meritt gulped audibly. She widened her eyes and stared in disbelief.

He demands utter secrecy and above all privacy. That’s what all movie stars do when they’re on location. Some people move out and let them have their house. It’s like a secret conspiracy.

No way! I’m not moving out and letting Griffith McLaclan have my house!

Of course not! I gave him my historical presentation of the house and he was really impressed.

I don’t doubt that for a minute. And what did you say about me?

I said you’re a good cook.

Meritt rolled her eyes in disgust and Walter pounced. Jessie Walcott could keep him and certainly needs the money. The Hendersons have their lake place available. But, of course, you’re the best choice. He sat back, watching her face.

Meritt averted her eyes, dabbing nervously at the perspiration on her forehead with the tail of her shirt. Did film companies actually pay that kind of money? Eight to ten weeks wasn’t very long to put up with such a conflicting lifestyle for that amount! She tried to pull the paint splattered shirt down further over her bare legs.

Twining his fingers together and leaning back in the wingchair, Walter said, My hotel is filled and some of the movie people bring their own trailers. There’s the four other bed and breakfast people, but I gather McLaclan’s not much of a social animal and has some very specific requirements... Walter squirmed impatiently. I don’t think you’re listening.

He was right. Except for the promise of two thousand dollars a week, her mind had ignored his rambling. Eight to ten weeks? She repeated in a very small voice.

Think of the money! Your porch floor is falling apart. The kitchen roof needs replacing. I’ve been telling you that for a year now. Your art projects can’t possibly bring in the money your bed and breakfast used to.

Meritt’s mind ignored house repairs and leaped to the windfall financing which would give her a down payment on her life-long dream of buying the Hannibel’s Crossing ferry boat inn. She shifted her gaze quickly back to Walter. What if he doesn’t like me?

Narrowing his small eyes, Walter made a snorting noise. What difference would that make? That’s for him to decide. I’d say you just need to be clean and pleasant, but not overly friendly. Rumor is he’s going through a really messy divorce. He’s used to lots of glamorous women so I’m sure he’ll take little notice of you personally. You won’t have to worry about being attacked if that’s what’s bothering you.

Annoyed by Walter’s tactless remark, Meritt stood up quickly and walked back to the kitchen sink. She swished the suds over the paint tray with her hand. Calming her voice, she said, Thank you, kind sir. That’s just what a forty-year-old widow needs to hear to enliven her weekend.

Now don’t get touchy. You know what I mean. Walter forcibly raised himself from the chair, nearly stepping on Chuckie, her King Charles spaniel. He smoothed his shirt carefully over his protruding belly. So! Now that we’ve finished discussing the fine points I’ll go bring McLaclan in.

Bring him in! Meritt shouted across the kitchen. What do you mean bring him in? Now? Over my dead body! The paint tray crashed into the sink sending a deluge of milky-tinted water up over the lattice windows and down on the hardwood floor. My, God! How could you, Walter?

I did leave him in the car while I persuaded you. It’ll be fine. Walter smiled slyly. He said he likes it here already. He scurried through the door like a fat squirrel, letting it slam it behind him.

Meritt grabbed the dish towels and mopped at the windows. She pushed a cotton rug over to soak up the mess on the floor. Sudsy water dripped down her chin onto her neck.

A whimper rose in her throat as she ran for the side porch door, her wet shoes squeaking with every step. One foot caught in the drop cloth. Meritt screamed. The ladder swayed drunkenly and fell, pinning her nearly flat in front of the sofa. Chuckie yelped in terror.

Meritt struggled to get breath back into her lungs. She gasped, looking up at Walter standing in the doorway, plump hands on his fat hips.

Are you hurt? Griffith McLaclan pushed his dark glasses back on his head and reached to lift the step ladder. Okay now? As his warm hands pulled her up, his deep voice pierced through her panic. He smiled at her—a brilliant movie star smile.

I don’t think so. Unless you can die of embarrassment.

Amusement gleamed in his dark eyes. He had obviously noted the great length of bare legs as she lay on the floor.

He was so much bigger than she expected. Several inches over six feet, broad and muscular—-not the slightest bit widened by age. He was no longer the bronze-skinned god from his early movies. His receding hair was worn shoulder length and tied back with a leather cord. His short iron-gray beard was close and neatly clipped. He looked weary...world weary.

His hand rested lightly on her shoulder before he withdrew it. He seemed to be examining her toe protruding from her shoe. He winked at her ever so slightly. She didn’t remember his having such a merry, mischievous look in the movies she’d seen. Turning to Walter, he said with grave politeness, Mr. Gunter, somehow I sense that this is an inconvenient time for Mrs. Chandler. Perhaps we should come back Monday as we originally planned.

Walter shrugged and mopped his face. Whatever you say. I thought we could get this all out of the way today, but maybe you’d like to see the Walcott place or the Henderson place yet this afternoon? He gave Meritt a you’ll be sorry look.

We’ll be back Monday morning at ten and we’ll start over, Griff said. I’m sure we can work this out. I’m very pleased with what I’ve seen so far.

Meritt glanced quickly at him from the corner of her eyes. His face was a pleasant mask—-surely no innuendo—-as he stared directly at her. Why did he stand so close? Just raw, undeniable masculinity.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of her appearance, she whisked the bandanna off her head with a flourish. She heard a light chuckle bubble up in Griff’s throat and Walter’s aghast expression confirmed the worst. Oh, God! Her damp hair was plastered down like a tight skull cap.

Even Walter’s supreme self-confidence seemed shattered. We’ll be going now, he stammered. I’ll call you later, Meritt.

Till Monday then, Griff McLaclan said, as they left. His voice was a deep purr.

Meritt dropped back on the sofa. She was stunned. If she’d read her horoscope in the morning paper she might have been prepared for this day’s surprises.

She’d always assumed photographers made film stars look gorgeous, but Griff McLaclan didn’t need trick photography. If his warm teasing dark eyes and distinctive voice were any indication of his personal charm, how could she possibly cope with him living in her house?

Why had Walter mentioned Ben Bertrand again? He had been drop-dead handsome, too. Now five years later whenever she thought of him, she still felt gut-wrenching pain. Coming down from Chicago, he had been the construction foreman for the new Sycamore post office. He had stayed two nights at Honeysuckle Cottage waiting for a housekeeping suite to open at Walter’s hotel.

She vividly remembered his crystal blue eyes, his almost overpowering masculinity, and in retrospect, a swaggering manner she should have found offensive. Her husband, Allen, had been good-looking, intelligent and quietly charming, but Ben had been material for a romance novel cover model.

She sighed heavily and pushed herself up from the depths of the old sofa. As she stepped carefully across the kitchen floor in her soggy shoes, she wiped at her damp face and hair with the long tails of her painting shirt. What a mess! The diluted paint was starting to dry on the window glass. She’d probably need a razor blade to scrape it off.

Enough of Ben Bertrand. She consciously jerked herself out of her reverie, picked up the dripping rug and threw the soggy mess onto the back porch.

Chapter Two

Saturday morning Meritt faced cleaning the upstairs. The five bedrooms and baths hadn’t been used since she quit her bed and breakfast business over a year ago. She had been tired of trying to charm ill-mannered people. Surely Griff McLaclan wouldn’t be ill-mannered. She cringed inside remembering the impression she must have made. His eyes had held a soft teasing look, so perhaps he just thought she was amusing.

She’d only do a quick spruce-up. Wash the bed linens if Griff decided on the room—if he decided to stay. The big room over the front parlor should be the obvious choice. It was the most remote from the noise of the kitchen and had her grandfather’s burled walnut secretary desk. Meritt fingered the Belgian lace curtains, rubbing them between her fingers. She should have known. They were dusty. She could wash them right away and they’d line dry in the bright April sun.

Trying to view the house as a stranger might was always a useful trick, but resulted in backbreaking work. Keeping this in mind, she scooted step by step down the carved walnut staircase, twitching her nose at the overpowering furniture polish as she dusted each part of the banister. At the bottom, the giant oval pier-mirror reflected her every move.

As Meritt stared into the mirror, she saw a woman a shade plump, badly in need of makeup to enliven her faded coloring. Her honey blonde hair had grown much paler over the years. Her once soft bangs were so outgrown, she mostly tied her hair straight back. She was beginning to look like her mother! When Walter had talked of glamorous women, he was right not to include her. She needn’t worry about attracting Griff McLaclan.

A loud pounding on the kitchen door disrupted her personal inventory. Mr. Purvis! She’d forgotten she’d phoned him. She dashed down the front hall, through the dining nook and into the kitchen. Elwin Purvis stood politely on the back stoop, fingering his cap and rolling tobacco around in his cheek. When he saw Meritt his disappointed bloodhound look lit up with a lopsided grin.

Oh, Mr. Purvis, I’m so sorry. She breathed deep to calm her heartbeat and stepped out on the stoop. I forgot I called you. I need your help. I want to get the old tractor out of the granary. I thought you could try to start it, but if you can’t—try to find a way to pull it on through the back door and out behind the building...

Elwin looked perplexed and shrugged his sagging shoulders, opening his mouth as if to speak.

Meritt certainly wasn’t going to tell Elwin she might need to hide Griff McLaclan’s car. She spoke quickly. Toby has talked about bringing a car for storage and I’ll need the room.

Elwin shuffled his feet and spoke like a raspy crow. Yer mean, Toby he’s two cahs now?

Meritt heaved a loud sigh, rubbing her temples. Oh, it’s all very complicated. Do you think you can do that for me?

Well, Toby had her started las’ fall. I’ll give her a try. Oh, heahs that sweet doggie. He bent over to stroke the buff and white spaniel as Chuckie wiggled against him. Did yer give ’im a bath, Missus?

Yes, I did, early this morning. She was obviously going mad. Washing the dog, polishing the staircase and an appointment to get her hair cut later in the afternoon.

The gruff man tenderly stroked Chuckie’s fuzzy ears. Yeh, yer a sweet doggie. He stood up slowly. I’ll see ’bout the tractor, Missus.

He stepped down to the brick walk. Yer could take tha’ old tractor to Zakey’s Machinery sale on Labor Day. Some o’ tha’ ole stuff brings a purty penny from people who collects.

I may be forced to do that, Mr. Purvis. I know you keep telling me I need to convert that old machinery to ready cash. I really do appreciate you coming right over—and Chuckie loves to see you.

Mr. Purvis smiled a sad little smile and crunched out onto the gravel driveway.

Meritt thought he looked like a character Charles Dickens had conjured up. What would Griff McLaclan think of neighbors like Elwin Purvis?

The phone was ringing. As she dashed inside, she cursed silently when the screen door slapped against her heel. Grasping the phone, she threw the polishing cloth on a stack of newspapers on the kitchen island.

Meritt—it’s me, Johanna. Have you heard the news?

Do you think I don’t know your voice after all these years? Her best friend was sometimes too excitable. So, what news is that?

The movie! The cast is coming in this weekend. Can you believe Griffith McLaclan will be in Sycamore? Their P.R. man has been in the newspaper office and told me I can do some interviews. Not McLaclan, I guess. He doesn’t do down-home, folksy stuff, but I can do Caroline Sutton and some of the secondary characters.

No—he wouldn’t do down-home folksy. Meritt could have guaranteed that. Well, that is news. I guess I’ll have to come into town and get in on the excitement. I wish I had more interest in the movie world, but I’ve always felt most of those people are too flamboyant, garish, I don’t know...

How could Griff McLaclan be garish? Gorgeous—you meant to say gorgeous didn’t you? Johanna laughed merrily at her own joke. "I’ve got to run. Hank and I are going out to Rebel Grove to shoot some photos of their Confederate campsite for the News. Tell me when you’ll be in town and we’ll do lunch."

I just don’t know. I’m painting the dining nook. I’ll let you know later.

Meritt’s phone rang three more times in the next hour. The manager of the artist’s co-op where Meritt sold her watercolors and handmade greeting cards: Did you know the movie crew is all coming in this weekend? I’ve sold two of your watercolors already this morning. This is going to be a bonanza for Sycamore!

The president of the Historical Society: Do you know Griff McLaclan’s in town? I just bought one of those tabloids and he’s involved in this ghastly divorce thing. His wife has run off with her younger assistant. Who would dream of leaving Griff?

Walter Gunter: I just want to remind you to shape up for our visit Monday morning. Be sure and have coffee. And bake something. Something that makes the house smell good. I don’t think he was too put off by your performance yesterday, but how can you tell with an actor?

You know that was all your fault, don’t you, Walter? Meritt said evenly.

Humph! And I was trying to do you the favor of your life.

On Sunday, Meritt decided to forego church and wax the hardwood floor in the kitchen. The immense room did not have the ten-foot ceilings which the rest of the house boasted. The kitchen had been great-great grandfather Phillips’s first addition to the tiny one-room cabin. The present dining nook was framed over the original cabin foundation.

Although Meritt loved working in the huge sunny kitchen, she was wearing herself out preparing for a situation she didn’t even want. Snapping the can of wax shut, she dropped into the wing chair in the dining nook. Griff McLaclan seemed charming but he was an actor. He might turn out to be arrogant, ultra sophisticated—even condescending or snide. But two thousand dollars a week!

Even if running a bed and breakfast had made her a slave to the house, there were days she missed the excitement of guests. Now all she had were her art projects and her decorative made-to-order china business. The quiet ancestral house comforted her, but it was a solitary life.

She was lonesome. Eight to ten weeks of having someone else in the house would solve that. Eight to ten weeks of having Griff around would solve more than loneliness. It would be exciting. She laughed to herself. A delightful secret she couldn’t even tell her friends.

Walter was probably right. She’d better concentrate on making a good impression tomorrow. She’d run into town and get fresh blueberries and sour cream for muffins. It couldn’t hurt.

Successfully sidestepping two of the local gossips at the front of the market, Meritt came upon three young men blocking the aisle at the dairy case.

Well, our filming this week is going to be hell.

McLaclan’s so damn insistent. Why does he always think he’s right?

Reaching for the sour cream, Meritt hesitated.

Because he’s an old man, that’s why! The dark, unshaven man spoke vehemently. "He’s always had things his way and he can’t realize the movie business changes. This instant feud with Caroline Sutton will blow things sky high—and he calls her uncooperative!"

"Did you hear she put the make on him when they first met yesterday, and he said he didn’t want any?"

"Aw, come on... And you believe that bull? What’s his name—the one that plays McLaclan’s aide, Jason Lester, told me it was