An Unlikely Setup Read online

  She could barely breathe

  Maddie’s heart was pounding hard…too hard. What was wrong with her? This was Quinn Murphy, the guy who’d rejected her years ago. The guy who’d humiliated her publicly.

  But when he touched one finger to the inside of her wrist, she trembled.

  “I don’t mix business with pleasure,” he said.

  “Me, either,” she managed to say.

  “I don’t sleep with the boss.”

  “I don’t sleep with employees.”

  “All good policies,” he murmured, bringing her hand up to his lips and kissing her palm, “but I’d make an exception for you.”

  She tried to slip her hand out of his, but he pulled her closer.

  “How about it, Maddie?” he said, pressing his mouth to the pulse in her wrist. “You interested in a swim?”

  “I…didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

  He brushed the tips of her fingers against his lips and whispered, “No problem.”

  Dear Reader,

  We all have parts of our lives we’d rather not revisit. Maybe it’s high school, where we felt awkward and geeky and completely uncool. Maybe it’s a job or a boss we hated. Or maybe a time when we failed at something. Whatever it is, it sits in our mind with a huge sign that reads Do Not Enter—Bad Memories Ahead.

  What if you had to go back to the place or the people you’d vowed to avoid for the rest of your life? What if you’d made a fool of yourself over a man, and now you had to do business with him? How would you handle it?

  It’s always fun to write about an ugly duckling who turns into a swan, and I loved sending Maddie back to the town where she felt like the ugliest of all the ducklings. I hope you enjoy her journey as she reconciles with the town of Otter Tail, falls in love with Quinn and discovers that, sometimes, the place we least want to be can become the place that we least want to leave—the place that feels the most like home.

  Enjoy this first of four books about Otter Tail and the people who call it home!

  I love to hear from readers. Visit my Web site at www.margaretwatson.com or e-mail me at [email protected].

  Margaret Watson

  An Unlikely Setup

  Margaret Watson

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Margaret Watson has always made up stories in her head. When she started actually writing them down, she realized she’d found exactly what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Almost twenty years after staring at that first blank page, she’s an award-winning, two-time RITA® Award finalist who has written more than twenty books for Silhouette and Harlequin Books.

  When she’s not writing or spending time with her family, she practices veterinary medicine. She loves everything about her job, other than the “Hey, Dr. Watson, where’s Sherlock?” jokes, which she’s heard way too many times. She loves pets, but writing is her passion. And that’s just elementary, my dear readers. Margaret lives near Chicago with her husband and three daughters and a menagerie of pets.

  Books by Margaret Watson

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  1205—TWO ON THE RUN

  1258—HOMETOWN GIRL

  1288—IN HER DEFENSE

  1337—FAMILY FIRST

  1371—SMALL-TOWN SECRETS

  1420—SMALL-TOWN FAMILY

  1508—A PLACE CALLED HOME*

  1531—NO PLACE LIKE HOME*

  1554—HOME AT LAST*

  For all my friends who make Quigley’s nights so much fun, but especially Pat and Jack Herr, Marcy and Steve Anderson, Helen and Stephen Baggett, Nancy Quigley and Jeff Root.

  And thanks to PBJ for providing the soundtrack to our fun.

  With appreciation to Chelsea Schafer for her expertise and invaluable help.

  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

  FATE SURE HAD A WAY of biting you in the butt.

  Of all the places she could have gone to lick her wounds and regroup, why did it have to be Otter Tail, Wisconsin? The town was the symbol of everything she’d once hated about her life. As a young teen, she’d been sent to spend the summers here with her godfather, David. In spite of her love for him, she’d felt isolated and alone. Too shy to make friends with the local teens, she’d felt like a failure. A freak. An outsider. When she was sixteen, she’d vowed never to return.

  Yet here she was, fifteen years later, the weight of failure again heavy on her shoulders, steeling herself to drive into this depressing excuse for a town.

  Fate was no doubt laughing her ass off right now.

  Maddie Johnson put on her sunglasses, tightened her grip on the steering wheel and accelerated her small SUV around the final curve. Moments later, at the bridge, she screeched to a halt.

  When she’d last seen the town, it had been a tired place, its fortunes sagging as much as the porches on its old Victorians. Now those Victorians on Main Street were all repaired and freshly painted in rainbow colors. Bright blue, green and yellow banners fluttered from the lightposts in the downtown area, touting Door County’s newest vacation paradise. Large white boats, fishing rods sticking up like bristles on a brush, bobbed in the Otter River.

  Even the old pier had been refurbished. The rusting sheet metal that used to line the concrete walls guiding the river into Lake Michigan had been replaced with a mural of leaping fish and happy fishermen. The paint glowed in the setting sun.

  There was no other traffic, so Maddie paused, staring at the sight. What had happened in Otter Tail?

  She put the car back in gear and crept across the bridge, looking for the first of the two pieces of property she now owned. At least the old bar wouldn’t have changed. David hadn’t had the time or the energy to renovate The Office.

  But when she reached the building at the edge of town, she barely recognized it. It wasn’t called The Office anymore. And it was far from run-down and shabby.

  The hand-painted sign that hung over the door said The Harp And Halo, an Irish Pub.

  It looked like…a pub in Ireland. The windows were leaded glass. The peeling, faded wooden siding had been replaced with dark, sturdy boards. The door was wood and glass, and the building looked warm and welcoming.

  And busy. The parking lot was almost full, and there were more cars parked on the street. She could see a crowd through the front window.

  What had happened to The Office? And why hadn’t David told her about it?

  Maddie parked in the last space in the lot and walked in. The bar was a long sweep of dark green marble and polished oak. Guinness posters and pictures of green fields and misty mountains hung on the oak-paneled walls. It was hard to see the decor through the people filling the tables and standing two deep at the bar. And there were just as many women here as men—that wouldn’t have happened at the old Office. That dark, dreary place had been strictly male territory.

  The bartender straightened and Maddie figured out one reason there were so many women in the pub. He was tall, broad-shouldered and solid, and his wavy black hair was just a little too long. His black polo shirt, stretched across a taut, muscular chest, showed off his ropy biceps.
When he glanced her way, she saw his eyes were bright blue.

  Maddie froze. She knew those eyes.

  “What can I get you?” he asked, his voice low and intimate despite the crowded room.

  Caught. Now she’d have to spend a few of her closely hoarded dollars for the privilege of checking out the business she owned.

  And the man who worked behind the bar. “Guinness,” she answered, annoyed to find her voice breathless.

  His gaze narrowed and he studied her for a moment too long. Then he nodded. “Coming right up.”

  A few minutes later he set a perfectly built glass of the dark stout in front of her, a shamrock drawn in the foam. “You want to run a tab?”

  Who would have thought Quinn Murphy capable of such whimsy as shamrocks in Guinness? “I won’t be here that long,” she said, uneasy being the focus of his attention. Quinn wouldn’t remember her, she assured herself.

  Would he?

  “Five bucks,” he said.

  She counted out six singles and slid them across the bar as she eyed him covertly. Mad Dog Murphy. That’s who eighteen-year-old Quinn had been. With no mother at home and a father who drank, he’d run wild, revving his motorcycle as he roared down Main Street, raising havoc in the sleepy fishing town.

  Shy, pudgy Maddie, known as Linnie back then, had secretly yearned to ride on the back of that motorcycle of his. He’d been a couple of years older and, other than that one disastrous night, he’d never noticed the awkward kid she’d been. But even at sixteen, the sound of his motorcycle rumbling down the street had made her quiver in all the right places.

  Every other girl in Otter Tail had noticed Quinn, too.

  And he’d noticed them right back.

  Maddie leaned against the wall as Quinn worked the bar. He was in constant motion, pouring drinks and chatting with his customers, never lingering too long with any one of them. When he turned toward her end, nerves twisted in her stomach. Would he remember her?

  One woman leaned farther over the bar than necessary when she gave Quinn her order, allowing a prime view of her cleavage. He ignored it.

  Lots of things had apparently changed in Otter Tail.

  Maybe he was married. Or involved.

  The thought of a domesticated Quinn made Maddie take a quick drink of her beer. What kind of woman could tame him?

  Stupid thought. She wasn’t here to do any taming. Of Quinn or anyone else.

  Quinn reached for a rag and wiped down the marble surface. An older man with bushy gray hair, wearing suspenders over his less-than-flat belly, pushed a glass toward him, signaling for a refill. When he took the glass, the man said, “A condo developer contacted me today, Quinn. He was looking for property here.”

  “Is that so?” Quinn yanked the beer tapper forward.

  “He’s not interested in the land the Harp is on,” the older man assured him. “It’s not close enough to the water.”

  “Good thing, isn’t it, Gordon?” Quinn answered. “Because as far as I know, it’s not for sale.”

  “You haven’t heard from the new owner?” Gordon set his elbows on the bar and watched him carefully.

  “Not yet.”

  Maddie’s hand tightened on her glass. If she was smart, she’d set her beer down and walk out the door. But she wanted to hear the rest of the conversation.

  “Maybe she’s already sold the place.” Gordon glanced around, as if assessing the pub’s value. “This is a prime piece of property. Could be real commercial.”

  Quinn froze, then shoved the tap back in place as he set the beer on the counter. “Last time I checked, this place was commercial, Mayor Crawford.”

  “You know what I mean,” the other man said impatiently. “Piece of property this size, we could get a big national retailer in here. Really put Otter Tail on the map. If the new owner is smart, she’ll sell the place. She’d make a bucket of money.”

  “And so would you,” Quinn said. “It’s killing you that you can’t get in touch with her, isn’t it? I bet you’re dying to sign her up with your real estate office.”

  “I just want to do what’s best for the town,” Gordon protested.

  Another man, thin and wiry, with dark blond hair brushing his collar, turned and scowled at Gordon. “Give me a break, you old windbag. You want to make a bucket of money on a commission.”

  On her property. Maddie took another drink as Gordon shrugged, apparently not offended. “I’m trying to take care of my town, Paul,” he said. “If I can earn a living at the same time, so much the better.”

  Quinn slid a beer to another customer. “Give it up, Gordon. No one wants to hear your campaign speech. We know all we need to.”

  “And we know all we need to know about you,” Gordon retorted, all the joviality gone from his expression. “Temple didn’t think enough of you to keep his word about selling you this place.”

  Quinn’s knuckles whitened as he busied himself refilling the bowls of pretzels on the bar. “Careful, Gordon,” he said quietly. “People might realize you’re not Mr. Nice Guy. And then where would you be?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he moved away, talking to customers and refilling drinks. The conversation with the mayor was clearly over.

  Maddie leaned against the bar, suddenly dizzy. David had promised to sell the pub to Quinn? She’d be negotiating with him? The knot in her stomach tightened.

  It didn’t matter who she negotiated with. She had to sell this place, and fast. Her friend Hollis couldn’t afford to lose the money she’d given Maddie, and the contractors were waiting to be paid. If she didn’t give them all some money soon, there would be liens on the houses she was trying to sell.

  Making them that much harder to market.

  As Quinn poured drinks, Gordon stared at him for a moment, then moved away. The man they’d called Paul watched him go as he sipped his beer.

  Quinn said something to one of the customers, then turned away, smiling. Maddie needed to talk to him. But this wasn’t the time or place, she realized with a coward’s relief. She’d wait until they could speak privately.

  Before she could set her pint down and leave, a rough voice said into her ear, “Hey there, beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?”

  Maddie jumped, sloshing some of her Guinness onto the floor, and turned to find a tall, beefy man standing too close. He had a blond buzz cut and his thick neck topped a body that had once been athletic but was now running to fat. She stepped back. She remembered J. D. Stroger, too.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  “Then how about a dance?” He leaned closer and his beery breath washed over her.

  “Not interested.” She moved away.

  “I can make you interested,” he said as he followed her, slurring his words. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be alone on a Thursday night. It’s Thirsty Thursday, you know.” He swayed a little as he loomed over her.

  Great. Not only did she have to deal with J.D., but he was drunk. She glanced over her shoulder. “I like being alone. I don’t want a beer, I don’t want to dance with you, and I don’t want to get to know you.”

  J.D.’s smile twisted into an ugly sneer. “Now that’s downright unfriendly, city girl. Why don’t I show you how things are done in the country?”

  “Go away.” Maddie tried to evade him, but he clamped a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m not done talking to you,” he said. The people standing close froze to look at them.

  “Too bad. I’m done talking to you.” Maddie shoved his hand off her shoulder. “Don’t touch me again.”

  The crowd went silent. A man called, “Back off, J.D. Don’t give her the wrong idea about Otter Tail.”

  J.D.’s face got red and he grabbed her wrist. “You’re gonna dance with me.”

  Maddie twisted her arm and jerked it upward, breaking his hold on her. She dodged out of his reach as he stumbled backward. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Murphy hurrying toward them. Two men behind J.D. tried to
grab his arms, but he shook them off as he lunged at her with a roar of anger.

  She sidestepped him easily. “Now that’s just plain pitiful,” she said as he lurched into the wall. “Go home and sleep it off, J.D. No one likes a man who can’t hold his liquor.”

  As she set the glass on the bar, Murphy grabbed J.D. from behind. The bartender glanced over his shoulder and said, “Rusty? Willis? Get him out of here.”

  Without waiting to see what happened, Maddie left. She’d almost made it to her car when she heard footsteps behind her. “Hold on,” Quinn Murphy said.

  She turned around slowly, trying to gather her composure. “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” Some of the tension drained out of her shoulders. “But thanks for stepping in.”

  “Sorry I had to.” He watched as two men half carried J.D. from the bar. “You want to press charges?”

  “For what?”

  “He grabbed you. More than once.” J.D.’s friends helped him stagger toward a pickup. “Want me to call the sheriff?” One side of Quinn’s mouth turned up and Maddie’s pulse jumped. “It wouldn’t be the first time J.D. spent the night as a guest of the county.”

  “No, thanks.” The two men stuffed J.D. into the passenger seat of the truck, and he sprawled on the bench seat, his eyes closed, listing toward the window. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  “Your call,” Quinn said, frowning. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

  She wasn’t about to remind him. “I’m from Chicago,” she said. “I doubt it.”