“May I help you?”

“I’m Jane Selwyn. I have an interview with Mr. Remington at one o’clock.”

The receptionist, whose nameplate said she was Carol Washington, looked at Jane with sympathetic brown eyes. “Didn’t you get my message?”

Oh, no. Her cell phone had run out of juice just before lunch. Currently it was charging in her car. “I didn’t check my voice mail,” Jane stated without apology. “Is there a problem?”

“Mr. Remington had to run out-some type of printing emergency. He told me to extend his apologies.”

“Oh.” Jane almost sagged with disappointment. “Can I reschedule, then?”

“Actually, Mr. Remington has already made a decision about the artist.”

“Without even interviewing all the candidates?”

Carol hesitated. “I’m sure he would look at your work as a courtesy.”

A courtesy? Like hell. He’d caused her divorce, or at least accelerated the timeline. The least he could do was give her a shot at the position. “I’ll just wait here until he returns.”

“Why don’t I make you another appointment,” Carol said smoothly.

So he could cancel that one, too? “I’d prefer to wait.” She was going to see Max Remington today, one way or another.

Carol nodded just as a door opened behind her and Max Remington appeared. “Carol, has John Canfield-” Surprise registered on his handsome face as he spotted Jane and recognized her. “Jane? What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to interview for the artist position.”

“You’re Jane Selwyn? I thought your last name was Simone.”

Jane inhaled sharply. He was even better-looking than she remembered. After a few months in Port Clara he’d acquired a golden tan, and his unruly hair had turned more blond than brown.

He wore neatly pressed jeans riding low on his slim hips and an open-collar shirt, no tie, no jacket, and she felt ridiculously overdressed. Few people wore suits in their laid-back beach community, but she’d thought it appropriate for an interview.