Compromising Positions Read Free Page A

that the inn would still be in existence. Could Sam Blackstone be connected to the Blackstone Inn? She smiled to herself. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
    The road followed the river and she found the inn about a half mile from the edge of town, set high on a bluff overlooking the Hudson. As Amelia drove up to the front door, she marveled at the view. It was an idyllic spot and more than romantic.
    â€œâ€˜Established 1769,’” she read on the sign. Her gaze dropped to a scroll along the bottom of the sign with the words George Washington slept here .
    â€œNo wonder he wants the bed back,” she murmured.
    The central structure was made of a type of red brick common throughout the area. The inn was three stories high, the façade featuring three Federal columns flanking each side of the front door and supporting a third-story gallery. It looked as though the two wings on either side of the central structure had been added at a later date, as the bricks were a slightly different color. Black shutters adorned the first-story windows, while window boxes filled with winter greenery marked each second-story window.
    Amelia loved it on sight. She quickly got out of the SUV, anxious to see if the interior was as meticulously preserved as the exterior. She admired people who worked so hard to protect historical buildings. Their work was as important as the work she and the rest of the staff did at the Mapother.
    Amelia stepped through the front door into a wide Colonial keeping room. On one side a hearth dominated the entire wall, with period chairs and sofas arranged neatly in front of the fire. On the other side a wood-paneled bar ran the depth of the room, the bottles and glassware sparkling beneath the flickering light of four kerosene lamps.
    She walked to the front desk and rang the bell that sat on the scarred wooden counter. A few seconds later a young woman emerged from behind a door. There was something very familiar about her pale blue eyes and dark hair. She smiled and Amelia had the uneasy feeling that they’d met before.
    â€œGood afternoon,” the other woman said with a warm smile. “May I help—”
    â€œYou will not believe what is going on down at Abigail’s place.” A familiar voice filled the room and Amelia’s spine stiffened. “That crazy old lady promised the bed to someone else. Some uptight, snooty museum lady from Boston. Amelia Sheffield. La-di-da. Man, what a piece of work.”
    Amelia slowly turned and faced him. “Hello again.”
    The woman behind the desk cleared her throat. “This is my brother, Sam Blackstone.” She laughed softly. “And I’d bet you’re Amelia Sheffield.”
    Amelia held out her hand to Sam. “Hello. Piece. Piece of Work. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blackstone.”
    He at least had the grace to show some embarrassment. His face flushed beneath his deep tan and scruffy beard. He really wasn’t the type she was usually attracted to but there was something about him that piqued her curiosity.
    Maybe it was the fact that he seemed so intent on obtaining a historical piece of furniture that he’d be rude to a complete stranger to get it. It was exactly the way she felt about important furniture: obsessed.
    â€œSo, you own this place?” she asked.
    â€œMy sister and I do,” he said, nodding to the woman standing at the desk. “My sister, Sarah Blackstone.”
    Amelia turned and offered Sarah her hand. “Amelia Sheffield. Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts. Boston.”
    Sarah shook her hand, then stepped out from behind the counter. “I’m just going to leave your check-in to Sam. He’ll get you a room. Dinner is at six. There’s a menu in your room. Just call down with your choices before five.”
    â€œSarah is a great cook,” Sam said.
    Amelia regarded Sam suspiciously. “You don’t get anywhere near the food, do