
DedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveCopyright
For my friend Catherine Coulter,
because she's always good for a laugh.
Everything he needed was in the backpack slung over his shoulders. Including his .38. If things went well he would have no use for it.
Roman drew a cigarette out of the crumpled pack in his breast pocket and turned away from the wind to light it. A boy of about eight raced along the rail of the ferry, cheerfully ignoring his mother's calls. Roman felt a tug of empathy for the kid. It was cold, certainly. The biting wind off Puget Sound was anything but springlike. But it was one hell of a view. Sitting in the glass-walled lounge would be cozier, but it was bound to take something away from the experience.
The kid was snatched by a blond woman with pink cheeks and a rapidly reddening nose. Roman listened to them grumble at each other as she dragged the boy back inside. Families, he thought, rarely agreed on anything. Turning away, he leaned over the rail, lazily smoking as the ferry steamed by clumpy islands.
They had left the Seattle skyline behind, though the mountains of mainland Washington still rose up to amaze and impress the viewer. There was an aloneness here, despite the smattering of hardy passengers walking the slanting deck or bundling up in the patches of sunlight along wooden benches. He preferred the city, with its pace, its crowds, its energy. Its anonymity. He always had. For the life of him, he couldn't understand where this restless discontent he felt had come from, or why it was weighing so heavily on him.
The job. For the past year he'd been blaming it on the job. The pressure was something he'd always accepted, even courted. He'd always thought life without it would be bland and pointless. But just lately it hadn't been enough. He moved from place to place, taking little away, leaving less behind.
Time to get out, he thought as he watched a fishing boat chug by. Time to move on. And do what? he wondered in disgust, blowing out a stream of smoke. He could go into business for himself. He'd toyed with that notion a time or two. He could travel. He'd already been around the world, but it might be different to do it as a tourist.
Some brave soul came out on deck with a video camera. Roman turned, shifted, eased out of range. It was in all likelihood an unnecessary precaution; the move was instinctive. So was the watchfulness, and so was the casual stance, which hid a wiry readiness.
No one paid much attention to him, though a few of the women looked twice.
He was just over average height, with the taut, solid build of a lightweight boxer. The slouchy jacket and worn jeans hid well-tuned muscles. He wore no hat and his thick black hair flew freely away from his tanned, hollow-cheeked face. It was unshaven, tough-featured. The eyes, a pale, clear green, might have softened the go-to-hell appearance, but they were intense, direct and, at the moment, bored.
It promised to be a slow, routine assignment.
Roman heard the docking call and shifted his pack. Routine or not, the job was his. He would get it done, file his report, then take a few weeks to figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.
He disembarked with the smattering of other walking passengers. There was a wild, sweet scent of flowers now that competed with the darker scent of the water. The flowers grew in free, romantic splendor, many with blossoms as big as his fist. Some part of him appreciated their color and their charm, but he rarely took the time to stop and smell the roses.
Cars rolled off the ramp and cruised toward home or a day of sightseeing. Once the car decks were unloaded, the new passengers would board and set off for one of the other islands or for the longer, colder trip to British Columbia.
Roman pulled out another cigarette, lit it and took a casual look around---at the pretty, colorful gardens, the charming white hotel and restaurant, the signs that gave information on lorries and parking. It was all a matter of timing now. He ignored the patio café, though he would have dearly loved a cup of coffee, and wound his way to the parking area.
He spotted the van easily enough, the white-and-blue American model with Whale Watch Inn painted on the side. It was his job to talk himself onto the van and into the inn. If the details had been taken care of on this end, it would be routine. If not, he would find another way.
Stalling, he bent down to tie his shoe. The waiting cars were being loaded, and the foot passengers were already on deck. There were no more than a dozen vehicles in the parking area now, including the van. He was taking another moment to unbutton his jacket when he saw the woman.
Her hair was pulled back in a braid, not loose as it had been in the file picture. It seemed to be a deeper, richer blonde in the sunlight. She wore tinted glasses, big-framed amber lenses that obscured half of her face, but he knew he wasn't mistaken. He could see the delicate line of her jaw, the small, straight nose, the full, shapely mouth.
His information was accurate. She was five-five, a hundred and ten pounds, with a small, athletic build. Her dress was casual---jeans, a chunky cream-colored cableknit sweater over a blue shirt. The shirt would match her eyes. The jeans were tucked into suede ankle boots, and a pair of slim crystal earrings dangled at her ears.
She walked with a sense of purpose, keys jingling in one hand, a big canvas bag slung over her other shoulder. There was nothing flirtatious about the walk, but a man would notice it. Long, limber strides, a subtle swing at the hips, head up, eyes ahead.
Yeah, a man would notice, Roman thought as he flicked the cigarette away. He figured she knew it.
He waited until she reached the van before he started toward her.
Charity stopped humming the finale of Beethoven's Ninth, looked down at her right front tire and swore. Because she didn't think anyone was watching, she kicked it, then moved around to the back of the van to get the jack.
"Got a problem?"
She jolted, nearly dropped the jack on her foot, then whirled around.
A tough customer. That was Charity's first thought as she stared at Roman. His eyes were narrowed against the sun. He had one hand hooked around the strap of his backpack and the other tucked in his pocket. She put her own hand on her heart, made certain it was still beating, then smiled.
"Yes. I have a flat. I just dropped a family of four off for the ferry, two of whom were under six and candidates for reform school. My nerves are shot, the plumbing's on the fritz in unit 6, and my handyman just won the lottery. How are you?"
The file hadn't mentioned that she had a voice like café au lait, the rich, dark kind you drank in New Orleans. He noted that, filed it away, then nodded toward the flat. "Want me to change it?"
Charity could have done it herself, but she wasn't one to refuse help when it was offered. Besides, he could probably do it faster, and he looked as though he could use the five dollars she would give him.
"Thanks." She handed him the jack, then dug a lemon drop out of her bag. The flat was bound to eat up the time she'd scheduled for lunch. "Did you just come in on the ferry?"
"Yeah." He didn't care for small talk, but he used it, and her friendliness, as handily as he used the jack. "I've been doing some traveling. Thought I'd spend some time on Orcas, see if I can spot some whales."
"You've come to the right place. I saw a pod yesterday from my window." She leaned against the van, enjoying the sunlight. As he worked, she watched his hands. Strong, competent, quick. She appreciated someone who could do a simple job well. "Are you on vacation?"
"Just traveling. I pick up odd jobs here and there. Know anyone looking for help?"
"Maybe." Lips pursed, she studied him as he pulled off the flat. He straightened, keeping one hand on the tire. "What kind of work?"
"This and that. Where's the spare?"
"Spare?" Looking into his eyes for more than ten seconds was like being hypnotized.
"Tire." The corner of his mouth quirked slightly in a reluctant smile. "You need one that isn't flat."
"Right. The spare." Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she went to get it. "It's in the back." She turned and bumped into him. "Sorry."
He put one hand on her arm to steady her. They stood for a moment in the sunlight, frowning at each other. "It's all right. I'll get it."
When he climbed into the van, Charity blew out a long, steadying breath. Her nerves were more ragged than she'd have believed possible. "Oh, watch out for the---" She grimaced as Roman sat back on his heels and peeled the remains of a cherry lollipop from his knee. Her laugh was spontaneous and as rich as her voice. "Sorry. A souvenir of Orcas Island from Jimmy 'The Destroyer' MacCarthy, a five-year-old delinquent."
"I'd rather have a T-shirt."
"Yes, well, who wouldn't?" Charity took the sticky mess from him, wrapped it in a tattered tissue and dropped it into her bag. "We're a family establishment," she explained as he climbed out with the spare. "Mostly everyone enjoys having children around, but once in a while you get a pair like Jimmy and Judy, the twin ghouls from Walla Walla, and you think about turning the place into a service station. Do you like children?"
He glanced up as he slipped the tire into place. "From a safe distance."
She laughed appreciatively at his answer. "Where are you from?"
"St. Louis." He could have chosen a dozen places. He couldn't have said why he'd chosen to tell the truth. "But I don't get back much."
"Family?"
"No."
The way he said it made her stifle her innate curiosity. She wouldn't invade anyone's privacy any more than she would drop the lint-covered lollipop on the ground. "I was born right here on Orcas. Every year I tell myself I'm going to take six months and travel. Anywhere." She shrugged as he tightened the last of the lug nuts. "I never seem to manage it. Anyway, it's beautiful here. If you don't have a deadline, you may find yourself staying longer than you planned."
"Maybe." He stood up to replace the jack. "If I can find some work, and a place to stay."
Charity didn't consider it an impulse. She had studied, measured and considered him for nearly fifteen minutes. Most job interviews took little more. He had a strong back and intelligent---if disconcerting---eyes, and if the state of his pack and his shoes was any indication he was down on his luck. As her name implied, she had been taught to offer people a helping hand. And if she could solve one of her more immediate and pressing problems at the same time ...
"You any good with your hands?" she asked him.
He looked at her unable to prevent his mind from taking a slight detour. "Yeah. Pretty good."
Her brow---and her blood pressure---rose a little when she saw his quick survey. "I mean with tools. Hammer, saw, screwdriver. Can you do any carpentry, household repairs?"
"Sure." It was going to be easy, almost too easy. He wondered why he felt the small, unaccustomed tug of guilt.
"Like I said, my handyman won the lottery, a big one. He's gone to Hawaii to study bikinis and eat poi. I'd wish him well, except we were in the middle of renovating the west wing. Of the inn," she added, pointing to the logo on the van. "If you know your way around two-by-fours and drywall I can give you room and board and five an hour."
"Sounds like we've solved both our problems."
"Great." She offered a hand. "I'm Charity Ford."
"DeWinter." He clasped her hand. "Roman DeWinter."
"Okay, Roman." She swung her door open. "Climb aboard."
She didn't look gullible, Roman thought as he settled into the seat beside her. But then, he knew---better than most---that looks were deceiving. He was exactly where he wanted to be, and he hadn't had to resort to a song and dance. He lit a cigarette as she pulled out of the parking lot.
"My grandfather built the inn in 1938," she said, rolling down her window. "He added on to it a couple of times over the years, but it's still really an inn. We can't bring ourselves to call it a resort, even in the brochures. I hope you're looking for remote."
"That suits me."
"Me too. Most of the time." Talkative guy, she mused with a half smile. But that was all right. She could talk enough for both of them. "It's early in the season yet, so we're a long way from full." She cocked her elbow on the opened window and cheerfully took over the bulk of the conversation. The sunlight played on her earrings and refracted into brilliant colors. "You should have plenty of free time to knock around. The view from Mount Constitution's really spectacular. Or, if you're into it, the hiking trails are great."
"I thought I might spend some time in B.C."
"That's easy enough. Take the ferry to Sidney. We do pretty well with tour groups going back and forth."
"We?"
"The inn. Pop---my grandfather---built a half-dozen cabins in the sixties. We give a special package rate to tour groups. They can rent the cabins and have breakfast and dinner included. They're a little rustic, but the tourists really go for them. We get a group about once a week. During the season we can triple that."
She turned onto a narrow, winding road and kept the speed at fifty.
Roman already knew the answers, but he knew it might seem odd if he didn't ask the questions. "Do you run the inn?"
"Yeah. I've worked there on and off for as long as I can remember. When my grandfather died a couple of years ago I took over." She paused a moment. It still hurt; she supposed it always would. "He loved it. Not just the place, but the whole idea of meeting new people every day, making them comfortable, finding out about them."
"I guess it does pretty well."
She shrugged. "We get by." They rounded a bend where the forest gave way to a wide expanse of blue water. The curve of the island was clear, jutting out and tucking back in contrasting shades of deep green and brown. A few houses were tucked high in the cliffs beyond. A boat with billowing white sails ran with the wind, rippling the glassy water. "There are views like this all around the island. Even when you live here they dazzle you."
"And scenery's good for business."
She frowned a little. "It doesn't hurt," she said, and glanced back at him. "Are you really interested in seeing whales?"
"It seemed like a good idea since I was here."
She stopped the van and pointed to the cliffs. "If you've got patience and a good set of binoculars, up there's a good bet. We've spotted them from the inn, as I said. Still, if you want a close look, your best bet's out on a boat." When he didn't comment, she started the van again. He was making her jittery, she realized. He seemed to be looking not at the water or the forest but at her.
Roman glanced at her hands. Strong, competent, no-nonsense hands, he decided, though the fingers were beginning to tap a bit nervously on the wheel. She continued to drive fast, steering the van easily through the switchbacks. Another car approached. Without slackening speed, Charity lifted a hand in a salute.
"That was Lori, one of our waitresses. She works an early shift so she can be home when her kids get back from school. We usually run with a staff of ten, then add on five or six part-time during the summer."
They rounded the next curve, and the inn came into view. It was exactly what he'd expected, and yet it was more charming than the pictures he'd been shown. It was white clapboard, with weathered blue trim around arched and oval windows. There were fanciful turrets, narrow walkways and a wide skirting porch. A sweep of lawn led directly to the water, where a narrow, rickety dock jutted out. Tied to it was a small motorboat that swung lazily in the current.
A mill wheel turned in a shallow pond at the side of the inn, slapping the water musically. To the west, where the trees began to thicken, he could make out one of the cabins she had spoken of. Flowers were everywhere.
"There's a bigger pond out back." Charity drove around the side and pulled into a small graveled lot that was already half full. "We keep the trout there. The trail takes you to cabins 1, 2 and 3. Then it forks off to 4, 5 and 6." She stepped out and waited for him to join her. "Most everyone uses the back entrance. I can show you around the grounds later, if you like, but we'll get you settled in first."
"It's a nice place." He said it almost without thinking, and he meant it. There were two rockers on the square back porch, and an adirondack chair that needed its white paint freshened. Roman turned to study the view a guest would overlook from the empty seat. Part forest, part water, and very appealing. Restful. Welcoming. He thought of the pistol in his backpack. Appearances, he thought again, were deceiving.
With a slight frown, Charity watched him. He didn't seem to be looking so much as absorbing. It was an odd thought, but she would have sworn if anyone were to ask him to describe the inn six months later he would be able to, right down to the last pinecone.
Then he turned to her, and the feeling remained, more personal now, more intense. The breeze picked up, jingling the wind chimes that hung from the eaves.
"Are you an artist?" she asked abruptly.
"No." He smiled, and the change in his face was quick and charming. "Why?"
"Just wondering." You'd have to be careful of that smile, Charity decided. It made you relax, and she doubted he was a man it was wise to relax around.
The double glass doors opened up into a large, airy room that smelled of lavender and woodsmoke. There were two long, cushiony sofas and a pair of overstuffed chairs near a huge stone fireplace where logs crackled. Antiques were scattered throughout the room---a desk and chair with a trio of old inkwells, an oak hatrack, a buffet with glossy carved doors. Tucked into a corner was a spinet with yellowing keys and the pair of wide arched windows that dominated the far wall made the water seem part of the room's decor. At a table near them, two women were playing a leisurely game of Scrabble.
"Who's winning today?" Charity asked.
Both looked up. And beamed. "It's neck and neck." The woman on the right fluffed her hair when she spotted Roman. She was old enough to be his grandmother, but she slipped her glasses off and straightened her thin shoulders. "I didn't realize you were bringing back another guest, dear."
"Neither did I." Charity moved over to add another log to the fire. "Roman DeWinter, Miss Lucy and Miss Millie."
His smile came again, smoothly. "Ladies."
"DeWinter." Miss Lucy put on her glasses to get a better look. "Didn't we know a DeWinter once, Millie?"
"Not that I recall." Millie, always ready to flirt, continued to beam at Roman, though he was hardly more than a myopic blur. "Have you been to the inn before, Mr. DeWinter?"
"No, ma'am. This is my first time in the San Juans."
"You're in for a treat." Millie let out a little sigh. It was really too bad what the years did. It seemed only yesterday that handsome young men had kissed her hand and asked her to go for a walk. Today they called her ma'am. She went wistfully back to her game.
"The ladies have been coming to the inn longer than I can remember," Charity told Roman as she led the way down a hall. "They're lovely, but I should warn you about Miss Millie. I'm told she had quite a reputation in her day, and she still has an eye for an attractive man."
"I'll watch my step."
"I get the impression you usually do." She took out a set of keys and unlocked the door. "This leads to the west wing." She started down another hall, brisk, businesslike. "As you can see, renovations were well under way before George hit the jackpot. The trim's been stripped." She gestured to the neat piles of wood along the freshly painted wall. "The doors need to be refinished yet, and the original hardware's in that box."
After taking off her sunglasses, she dropped them into her bag. He'd been right. The collar of her shirt matched her eyes almost exactly. He looked into them as she examined George's handiwork.
"How many rooms?"
"There are two singles, a double and a family suite in this wing, all in varying stages of disorder." She skirted a door that was propped against a wall, then walked into a room. "You can take this one. It's as close to being finished as I have in this section."
It was a small, bright room. Its window was bordered with stained glass and looked out over the mill wheel. The bed was stripped, and the floors were bare and in need of sanding. Wallpaper that was obviously new covered the walls from the ceiling down to a white chair rail. Below that was bare drywall.
"It doesn't look like much now," Charity commented.
"It's fine." He'd spent time in places that made the little room look like a suite at the Waldorf.
Automatically she checked the closet and the adjoining bath, making a mental list of what was needed. "You can start in here, if it'll make you more comfortable. I'm not particular. George had his own system. I never understood it, but he usually managed to get things done."
He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. "You got a game plan?"
"Absolutely."
Charity spent the next thirty minutes taking him through the wing and explaining exactly what she wanted. Roman listened, commenting little, and studied the setup. He knew from the blueprints he'd studied that the floor plan of this section mirrored that of the east wing. His position in it would give him easy access to the main floor and the rest of the inn.
He'd have to work, he mused as he looked at the half-finished walls and the paint tarps. He considered it a small bonus. Working with his hands was something he enjoyed and something he'd had little time for in the past.
She was very precise in her instructions. A woman who knew what she wanted and intended to have it. He appreciated that. He had no doubt that she was very good at what she did, whether it was running an inn ... or something else.
"What's up there?" He pointed to a set of stairs at the end of the hallway.
"My rooms. We'll worry about them after the guest quarters are done." She jingled the keys as her thoughts went off in a dozen directions. "So, what do you think?"
"About what?"
"About the work."
"Do you have tools?"
"In the shed, the other side of the parking area."
"I can handle it."
"Yes." Charity tossed the keys to him. She was certain he could. They were standing in the octagonal parlor of the family suite. It was empty but for stacks of material and tarps. And it was quiet. She noticed all at once that they were standing quite close together and that she couldn't hear a sound. Feeling foolish, she took a key off her ring.
"You'll need this."
"Thanks." He tucked it in his pocket.
She drew a deep breath, wondering why she felt as though she'd just taken a long step with her eyes closed. "Have you had lunch?"
"No."
"I'll show you down to the kitchen. Mae'll fix you up." She started out, a little too quickly. She wanted to escape from the sensation that she was completely alone with him. And helpless. Charity moved her shoulders restlessly. A stupid thought, she told herself. She'd never been helpless. Still, she felt a breath of relief when she closed the door behind them.
She took him downstairs, through the empty lobby and into a large dining room decorated in pastels. There were small milk-glass vases on each table, with a handful of fresh flowers in each. Big windows opened onto a view of the water, and as if carrying through the theme, an aquarium was built into the south wall.
She stopped there for a moment, hardly breaking stride, scanning the room until she was satisfied that the tables were properly set for dinner. Then she pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.
"And I say it needs more basil."
"I say it don't."
"Whatever you do," Charity murmured under her breath, "don't agree with either of them. Ladies," she said, using her best smile. "I brought you a hungry man."
The woman guarding the pot held up a dripping spoon. The best way to describe her was wide---face, hips, hands. She gave Roman a quick, squint-eyed survey. "Sit down, then," she told him, jerking a thumb in the direction of a long wooden table.
"Mae Jenkins, Roman DeWinter."
"Ma'am."
"And Dolores Rumsey." The other woman was holding a jar of herbs. She was as narrow as Mae was wide. After giving Roman a nod, she began to ease her way toward the pot.
"Keep away from that," Mae ordered, "and get the man some fried chicken."
Muttering, Dolores stalked off to find a plate.
"Roman's going to pick up where George left off," Charity explained. "He'll be staying in the west wing."
"Not from around here." Mae looked at him again, the way he imagined a nanny would look at a small, grubby child.
"No."
With a sniff, she poured him some coffee. "Looks like you could use a couple of decent meals."
"You'll get them here," Charity put in, playing peacemaker. She winced only a little when Dolores slapped a plate of cold chicken and potato salad in front of Roman.
"Needed more dill." Dolores glared at him, as if she were daring him to disagree. "She wouldn't listen."
Roman figured the best option was to grin at her and keep his mouth full. Before Mae could respond, the door swung open again.
"Can a guy get a cup of coffee in here?" The man stopped and sent Roman a curious look.
"Bob Mullins, Roman DeWinter. I hired him to finish the west wing. Bob's one of my many right hands."
"Welcome aboard." He moved to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee, adding three lumps of sugar as Mae clucked her tongue at him. The sweet tooth didn't seem to have an effect on him. He was tall, perhaps six-two, and he couldn't weigh more than 160. His light brown hair was cut short around his ears and swept back from his high forehead.
"You from back east?" Bob asked between sips of coffee.
"East of here."
"Easy to do." He grinned when Mae flapped a hand to move him away from her stove.
"Did you get that invoice business straightened out with the greengrocer?" Charity asked.
"All taken care of. You got a couple of calls while you were out. And there's some papers you need to sign."
"I'll get to it." She checked her watch. "Now." She glanced over at Roman. "I'll be in the office off the lobby if there's anything you need to know."
"I'll be fine."
"Okay." She studied him for another moment. She couldn't quite figure out how he could be in a room with four other people and seem so alone. "See you later."
\*
Roman took a long, casual tour of the inn before he began to haul tools into the west wing. He saw a young couple who had to be newlyweds locked in an embrace near the pond. A man and a young boy played one-on-one on a small concrete basketball court. The ladies, as he had come to think of them, had left their game to sit on the porch and discuss the garden. Looking exhausted, a family of four pulled up in a station wagon, then trooped toward the cabins. A man in a fielder's cap walked down the pier with a video camera on his shoulder.
There were birds trilling in the trees, and there was the distant sound of a motorboat. He heard a baby crying halfheartedly, and the strains of a Mozart piano sonata.
If he hadn't pored over the data himself he would have sworn he was in the wrong place.
He chose the family suite and went to work, wondering how long it would take him to get into Charity's rooms.
There was something soothing about working with his hands. Two hours passed, and he relaxed a little. A check of his watch had him deciding to take another, unnecessary trip to the shed. Charity had mentioned that wine was served in what she called the gathering room every evening at five. It wouldn't hurt for him to get another, closer look at the inn's guests.
He started out, then stopped by the doorway to his room. He'd heard something, a movement. Cautious, he eased inside the door and scanned the empty room.
Humming under her breath, Charity came out of the bath, where she'd just placed fresh towels. She unfolded linens and began to make the bed.
"What are you doing?"
Muffling a scream, she stumbled backward, then eased down on the bed to catch her breath. "My God, Roman, don't do that."
He stepped into the room, watching her with narrowed eyes. "I asked what you were doing."
"That should be obvious." She patted the pile of linens with her hand.
"You do the housekeeping, too?"
"From time to time." Recovered, she stood up and smoothed the bottom sheet on the bed. "There's soap and towels in the bath," she told him, then tilted her head. "Looks like you can use them." She unfolded the top sheet with an expert flick. "Been busy?"
"That was the deal."
With a murmur of agreement, she tucked up the corners at the foot of the bed the way he remembered his grandmother doing. "I put an extra pillow and blanket in the closet." She moved from one side of the bed to the other in a way that had him watching her with simple male appreciation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen anyone make a bed. It stirred thoughts in him that he couldn't afford. Thoughts of what it might be like to mess it up again---with her.
"Do you ever stop?"
"I've been known to." She spread a white wedding-ring quilt on the bed. "We're expecting a tour tomorrow, so everyone's a bit busy."
"Tomorrow?"
"Mmm. On the first ferry from Sidney." She fluffed his pillows, satisfied. "Did you---"
She broke off when she turned and all but fell against him. His hands went to her hips instinctively as hers braced against his shoulders. An embrace---unplanned, unwanted and shockingly intimate.
She was slender beneath the long, chunky sweater, he realized, even more slender than a man might expect. And her eyes were bluer than they had any right to be, bigger, softer. She smelled like the inn, smelled of that welcoming combination of lavender and woodsmoke. Drawn to it, he continued to hold her, though he knew he shouldn't.
"Did I what?" His fingers spread over her hips, drawing her just a fraction closer. He saw the dazed confusion in her eyes; her reaction tugged at him.
She'd forgotten everything. She could only stare, almost stupefied by the sensations that spiked through her. Involuntarily her fingers curled into his shirt. She got an impression of strength, a ruthless strength with the potential for violence. The fact that it excited her left her speechless.
"Do you want something?" he murmured.
"What?"
He thought about kissing her, about pressing his mouth hard on hers and plunging into her. He would enjoy the taste, the momentary passion. "I asked if you wanted something." Slowly he ran his hands up under her sweater to her waist.
The shock of heat, the press of fingers, brought her back. "No." She started to back away, found herself held still, and fought her rising panic. Before she could speak again, he had released her. Disappointment. That was an odd reaction, she thought, when you'd just missed getting burned.
"I was---" She took a deep breath and waited for her scattered nerves to settle. "I was going to ask if you'd found everything you needed."
His eyes never left hers. "It looks like it."
She pressed her lips together to moisten them. "Good. I've got a lot to do, so I'll let you get back."
He took her arm before she could step away. Maybe it wasn't smart, but he wanted to touch her again. "Thanks for the towels."
"Sure."
He watched her hurry out, knowing her nerves were as jangled as his own. Thoughtfully he pulled out a cigarette. He couldn't remember ever having been thrown off balance so easily. Certainly not by a woman who'd done nothing more than look at him. Still, he made a habit of landing on his feet.
It might be to his advantage to get close to her, to play on the response he'd felt from her. Ignoring a wave of self-disgust, he struck a match.
He had a job to do. He couldn't afford to think about Charity Ford as anything more than a means to an end.
He drew smoke in, cursing the dull ache in his belly.
It was barely dawn, and the sky to the east was fantastic. Roman stood near the edge of the narrow road, his hands tucked in his back pockets. Though he rarely had time for them, he enjoyed mornings such as this, when the air was cool and sparkling clear. A man could breathe here, and if he could afford the luxury he could empty his mind and simply experience.
He'd promised himself thirty minutes, thirty solitary, soothing minutes. The blooming sunlight pushed through the cloud formations, turning them into wild, vivid colors and shapes. Dream shapes. He considered lighting a cigarette, then rejected it. For the moment he wanted only the taste of morning air flavored by the sea.
There was a dog barking in the distance, a faint yap, yap, yap that only added to the ambience. Gulls, out for an early feeding, swooped low over the water, slicing the silence with their lonely cries. The fragrance of flowers, a celebration of spring, carried delicately on the quiet breeze.
He wondered why he'd been so certain he preferred the rush and noise of cities.
As he stood there he saw a deer come out of the trees and raise her head to scent the air. That was freedom, he thought abruptly. To know your place and to be content with it. The doe cleared the trees, picking her way delicately toward the high grass. Behind her came a gangly fawn. Staying upwind, Roman watched them graze.
He was restless. Even as he tried to absorb and accept the peace around him he felt the impatience struggling through. This wasn't his place. He had no place. That was one of the things that made him so perfect for his job. No roots, no family, no woman waiting for his return. That was the way he wanted it.
But he'd felt enormous satisfaction in doing the carpentry the day before, in leaving his mark on something that would last. All the better for his cover, he told himself. If he showed some skill and some care in the work he would be accepted more easily.
He was already accepted.
She trusted him. She'd given him a roof and a meal and a job, thinking he needed all three. She seemed to have no guile in her. Something had simmered between them the evening before, yet she had done nothing to provoke or prolong it. She hadn't---though he knew all females were capable of it from birth---issued a silent invitation that she might or might not have intended to keep.
She'd simply looked at him, and everything she felt had been almost ridiculously clear in her eyes.
He couldn't think of her as a woman. He couldn't think of her as ever being his woman.
He felt the urge for a cigarette again, and this time he deliberately suppressed it. If there was something you wanted that badly, it was best to pass it by. Once you gave in, you surrendered control.
He'd wanted Charity. For one brief, blinding instant the day before, he had craved her. A very serious error. He'd blocked the need, but it had continued to surface---when he'd heard her come into the wing for the night, when he'd listened to the sound of Chopin drifting softly down the stairway from her rooms. And again in the middle of the night, when he'd awakened to the deep country silence, thinking of her, imagining her.
He didn't have time for desires. In another place, at another time, they might have met and enjoyed each other for as long as enjoyments lasted. But now she was part of an assignment---nothing less, nothing more.
He heard the sound of running footsteps and tensed instinctively. The deer, as alert as he, lifted her head, then sprinted back into the trees with her young. His weapon was strapped just above his ankle, more out of habit than necessity, but he didn't reach for it. If he needed it it could be in his hand in under a second. Instead he waited, braced, to see who was running down the deserted road at dawn.
Charity was breathing fast, more from the effort of keeping pace with her dog than from the three-mile run. Ludwig bounded ahead, tugged to the right, jerked to the left, tangled and untangled in the leash. It was a daily routine, one that both of them were accustomed to. She could have controlled the little golden cocker, but she didn't want to spoil his fun. Instead, she swerved with him, adjusting her pace from a flat-out run to an easy jog and back again.
She hesitated briefly when she saw Roman. Then, because Ludwig sprinted ahead, she tightened her grip on the leash and kept pace.
"Good morning," she called out, then skidded to a halt when Ludwig decided to jump on Roman's shins and bark at him. "He doesn't bite."
"That's what they all say." But he grinned and crouched down to scratch between the dog's ears. Ludwig immediately collapsed, rolled over and exposed his belly for rubbing. "Nice dog."
"A nice spoiled dog," Charity added. "I have to keep him fenced because of the guests, but he eats like a king. You're up early."
"So are you."
"I figure Ludwig deserves a good run every morning, since he's so understanding about being fenced."
To show his appreciation, Ludwig raced once around Roman, tangling his lead around his legs.
"Now if I could only get him to understand the concept of a leash." She stooped to untangle Roman and to control the now-prancing dog.
Her light jacket was unzipped, exposing a snug T-shirt darkened with sweat between her breasts. Her hair, pulled straight, almost severely, back from her face, accented her bone structure. Her skin seemed almost translucent as it glowed from her run. He had an urge to touch it, to see how it felt under his fingertips. And to see if that instant reaction would rush out again.
"Ludwig, be still a minute." She laughed and tugged at his collar.
In response, the dog jumped up and lapped at her face. "He listens well," Roman commented.
"You can see why I need the fence. He thinks he can play with everyone." Her hand brushed Roman's leg as she struggled with the leash.
When he took her wrist, both of them froze.
He could feel her pulse skip, then sprint. It was a quick, vulnerable response that was unbearably arousing. Though it cost him, he kept his fingers loose. He had only meant to stop her before she inadvertently found his weapon. Now they crouched, knee to knee, in the center of the deserted road, with the dog trying to nuzzle between them.
"You're trembling." He said it warily, but he didn't release her. "Do you always react that way when a man touches you?"
"No." Because it baffled her, she kept still and waited to see what would happen next. "I'm pretty sure this is a first."
It pleased him to hear it, and it annoyed him, because he wanted to believe it. "Then we'll have to be careful, won't we?" He released her, then stood up.
More slowly, because she wasn't sure of her balance, she rose. He was angry. Though he was holding on to his temper, it was clear enough to see in his eyes. "I'm not very good at being careful."
His gaze whipped back to hers. There was a fire in it, a fire that raged and then was quickly and completely suppressed. "I am."
"Yes." The brief, heated glance had alarmed her, but Charity had always held her own. She tilted her head to study him. "I think you'd have to be, with that streak of violence you have to contend with. Who are you mad at, Roman?"
He didn't like to be read that easily. Watching her, he lowered a hand to pet Ludwig, who was resting his front paws on his knees. "Nobody at the moment," he told her, but it was a lie. He was furious---with himself.
She only shook her head. "You're entitled to your secrets, but I can't help wondering why you'd be angry with yourself for responding to me."
He took a lazy scan of the road, up, then down. They might have been alone on the island. "Would you like me to do something about it, here and now?"
He could, she realized. And he would. If he was pushed too far he would do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted. The frisson of excitement that passed through her annoyed her. Macho types were for other women, different women---not Charity Ford. Deliberately she looked at her watch.
"Thanks. I'm sure that's a delightful offer, but I have to get back and set up for breakfast." Struggling with the dog, she started off at what she hoped was a dignified walk. "I'll let you know if I can squeeze in, say, fifteen minutes later."
"Charity?"
She turned her head and aimed a cool look. "Yes?"
"Your shoe's untied."
She just lifted her chin and continued on.
Roman grinned at her back and tucked his thumbs in his pockets. Yes, indeed, the woman had one hell of a walk. It was too damn bad all around that he was beginning to like her.
He was interested in the tour group. It was a simple matter for Roman to loiter on the first floor, lingering over a second cup of coffee in the kitchen, passing idle conversation with the thick-armed Mae and the skinny Dolores. He hadn't expected to be put to work, but when he'd found himself with an armful of table linens he had made the best of it.
Charity, wearing a bright red sweatshirt with the inn's logo across the chest, meticulously arranged a folded napkin in a water glass. Roman waited a moment, watching her busy fingers smoothing and tapering the cloth.
"Where do you want these?"
She glanced over, wondering if she should still be annoyed with him, then decided against it. At the moment she needed every extra hand she could get. "On the tables would be a good start. White on the bottom, apricot on top, slanted. Okay?" She indicated a table that was already set.
"Sure." He began to spread the cloths. "How many are you expecting?"
"Fifteen on the tour." She held a glass up to the light and placed it on the table only after a critical inspection. "Their breakfast is included. Plus the guests already registered. We serve between seven-thirty and ten." She checked her watch, satisfied, then moved to another table. "We get some drop-ins, as well." After setting a chipped bread plate aside, she reached for another. "But it's lunch and dinner that really get hectic."
Dolores swooped in with a stack of china, then dashed out again when Mae squawked at her. Before the door had swung closed, the waitress they had passed on the road the day before rushed out with a tray of clanging silverware.
"Right," Roman murmured.
Charity rattled off instructions to the waitress, finished setting yet another table, then rushed over to a blackboard near the doorway and began to copy out the morning menu in a flowing, elegant hand.
Dolores, whose spiky red hair and pursed lips made Roman think of a scrawny chicken, shoved through the swinging door and set her fists on her skinny hips. "I don't have to take this, Charity."
Charity calmly continued to write. "Take what?"
"I'm doing the best that I can, and you know I told you I was feeling poorly."
Dolores was always feeling poorly, Charity thought as she added a ham-and-cheese omelet to the list. Especially when she didn't get her way. "Yes, Dolores."
"My chest's so tight that I can hardly take a breath."
"Um-hmm."
"Was up half the night, but I come in, just like always."
"And I appreciate it, Dolores. You know how much I depend on you."
"Well." Slightly mollified, Dolores tugged at her apron. "I guess I can be counted on to do my job, but you can just tell that woman in there---" She jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. "Just tell her to get off my back."
"I'll speak to her, Dolores. Just try to be patient. We're all a little frazzled this morning, with Mary Alice out sick again."
"Sick." Dolores sniffed. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"
Listening with only half an ear, Charity continued to write. "What do you mean?"
"Don't know why her car was in Bill Perkin's driveway all night again if she's sick. Now, with my condition---"
Charity stopped writing. Roman's brow lifted when he heard the sudden thread of steel in her voice. "We'll talk about this later, Dolores."
Deflated, Dolores poked out her lower lip and stalked back into the kitchen.
Storing her anger away, Charity turned to the waitress. "Lori?"
"Almost ready."
"Good. If you can handle the registered guests, I'll be back to give you a hand after I check the tour group in."
"No problem."
"I'll be at the front desk with Bob." Absently she pushed her braid behind her back. "If it gets too busy, send for me. Roman---"
"Want me to bus tables?"
She gave him a quick, grateful smile. "Do you know how?"
"I can figure it out."
"Thanks." She checked her watch, then rushed out.
He hadn't expected to enjoy himself, but it was hard not to, with Miss Millie flirting with him over her raspberry preserves. The scent of baking---something rich, with apples and cinnamon---the quiet strains of classical music and the murmur of conversation made it almost impossible not to relax. He carried trays to and from the kitchen. The muttered exchanges between Mae and Dolores were more amusing than annoying.
So he enjoyed himself. And took advantage of his position by doing his job.
As he cleared the tables by the windows, he watched a tour van pull up to the front entrance. He counted heads and studied the faces of the group. The guide was a big man in a white shirt that strained across his shoulders. He had a round, ruddy, cheerful face that smiled continually as he piloted his passengers inside. Roman moved across the room to watch them mill around in the lobby.
They were a mix of couples and families with small children. The guide---Roman already knew his name was Block---greeted Charity with a hearty smile and then handed her a list of names.
Did she know that Block had done a stretch in Leavenworth for fraud? he wondered. Was she aware that the man she was joking with had escaped a second term only because of some fancy legal footwork?
Roman's jaw tensed as Block reached over and flicked a finger at Charity's dangling gold earring.
As she assigned cabins and dealt out keys, two of the group approached the desk to exchange money. Fifty for one, sixty for the other, Roman noted as Canadian bills were passed to Charity's assistant and American currency passed back.
Within ten minutes the entire group was seated in the dining room, contemplating breakfast. Charity breezed in behind them, putting on an apron. She flipped open a pad and began to take orders.
She didn't look as if she were in a hurry, Roman noted. The way she chatted and smiled and answered questions, it was as though she had all the time in the world. But she moved like lightning. She carried three plates on her right arm, served coffee with her left hand and cooed over a baby, all at the same time.
Something was eating at her, Roman mused. It hardly showed ... just a faint frown between her eyes. Had something gone wrong that morning that he'd missed? If there was a glitch in the system, it was up to him to find it and exploit it. That was the reason he was here on the inside.
Charity poured another round of coffee for a table of four, joked with a bald man wearing a paisley tie, then made her way over to Roman.
"I think the crisis has passed." She smiled at him, but again he caught something ... Anger? Disappointment?
"Is there anything you don't do around here?"
"I try to stay out of the kitchen. The restaurant has a three-star rating." She glanced longingly at the coffeepot. There would be time for that later. "I want to thank you for pitching in this morning."
"That's okay." He discovered he wanted to see her smile. Really smile. "The tips were good. Miss Millie slipped me a five."
She obliged him. Her lips curved quickly, and whatever had clouded her eyes cleared for a moment. "She likes the way you look in a tool belt. Why don't you take a break before you start on the west wing?"
"All right."
She grimaced at the sound of glass breaking. "I didn't think the Snyder kid wanted that orange juice." She hurried off to clean up the mess and listen to the parents' apologies.
The front desk was deserted. Roman decided that Charity's assistant was either shut up in the side office or out hauling luggage to the cabins. He considered slipping behind the desk and taking a quick look at the books but decided it could wait. Some work was better done in the dark.
An hour later Charity let herself into the west wing. She'd managed to hold on to her temper as she'd passed the guests on the first floor. She'd smiled and chatted with an elderly couple playing Parcheesi in the gathering room. But when the door closed behind her she let loose with a series of furious, pent-up oaths. She wanted to kick something.
Roman stepped into a doorway and watched her stride down the hall. Anger had made her eyes dark and brilliant.
"Problem?"
"Yes," she snapped. She stalked half a dozen steps past him, then whirled around. "I can take incompetence, and even some degree of stupidity. I can even tolerate an occasional bout of laziness. But I won't be lied to."
Roman waited a beat. Her anger was ripe and rich, but it wasn't directed at him. "All right," he said, and waited.
"She could have told me she wanted time off, or a different shift. I might have been able to work it out. Instead she lies, calling in sick at the last minute five days out of the last two weeks. I was worried about her." She turned again, then gave in and kicked a door. "I hate being made a fool of. And I hate being lied to."
It was a simple matter to put two and two together. "You're talking about the waitress ... Mary Alice?"
"Of course." She spun around. "She came begging me for a job three months ago. That's our slowest time, but I felt sorry for her. Now she's sleeping with Bill Perkin---or I guess it's more accurate to say she's not getting any sleep, so she calls in sick. I had to fire her." She let out a breath with a sound like an engine letting off steam. "I get a headache whenever I have to fire anybody."
"Is that what was bothering you all morning?"
"As soon as Dolores mentioned Bill, I knew." Calmer now, she rubbed at the insistent ache between her eyes. "Then I had to get through the checkin and the breakfast shift before I could call and deal with her. She cried." She gave Roman a long, miserable look. "I knew she was going to cry."
"Listen, baby, the best thing for you to do is take some aspirin and forget about it."
"I've already taken some."
"Give it a chance to kick in." Before he realized what he was doing, he lifted his hands and framed her face. Moving his thumbs in slow circles, he massaged her temples. "You've got too much going on in there."
"Where?"
"In your head."
She felt her eyes getting heavy and her blood growing warm. "Not at the moment." She tilted her head back and let her eyes close. Moving on instinct, she stepped forward. "Roman ..." She sighed a little as the ache melted out of her head and stirred in the very center of her. "I like the way you look in a tool belt, too."
"Do you know what you're asking for?"
She studied his mouth. It was full and firm, and it would certainly be ruthless on a woman's. "Not exactly." Perhaps that was the appeal, she thought as she stared up at him. She didn't know. But she felt, and what she felt was new and thrilling. "Maybe it's better that way."
"No." Though he knew it was a mistake, he couldn't resist skimming his fingers down to trace her jaw, then her lips. "It's always better to know the consequences before you take the action."
"So we're being careful again."
He dropped his hands. "Yeah."
She should have been grateful. Instead of taking advantage of her confused emotions he was backing off, giving her room. She wanted to be grateful, but she felt only the sting of rejection. He had started it, she thought. Again. And he had stopped it. Again. She was sick and tired of being jolted along according to his whims.
"You miss a lot that way, don't you, Roman? A lot of warmth, a lot of joy."
"A lot of disappointment."
"Maybe. I guess it's harder for some of us to live our lives aloof from others. But if that's your choice, fine." She drew in a deep breath. Her headache was coming back, doubled. "Don't touch me again. I make it a habit to finish whatever I start." She glanced into the room behind them. "You're doing a nice job here," she said briskly. "I'll let you get back to it."
He cursed her as he sanded the wood for the window trim. She had no right to make him feel guilty just because he wanted to keep his distance. Noninvolvement wasn't just a habit with him; it was a matter of survival. It was self-indulgent and dangerous to move forward every time you were attracted to a woman.
But it was more than attraction, and it was certainly different from anything, he'd felt before. Whenever he was near her, his purpose became clouded with fantasies of what it would be like to be with her, to hold her, to make love with her.
And fantasies were all they were, he reminded himself. If things went well he would be gone in a matter of days. Before he was done he might very well destroy her life.
It was his job, he reminded himself.
He saw her, walking out to the van with those long, purposeful strides of hers, the keys jingling in her hand. Behind her were the newlyweds, holding hands, even though each was carrying a suitcase.
She would be taking them to the ferry, he thought. That would give him an hour to search her rooms.
He knew how to go through every inch of a room without leaving a trace. He concentrated first on the obvious---the desk in the small parlor. It was common for people to be careless in the privacy of their own homes. A slip of paper, a scribbled note, a name in an address book, were often left behind for the trained eye to spot.
It was an old desk, solid mahogany with a few rings and scratches. Two of the brass pulls were loose. Like the rest of the room, it was neat and well organized. Her personal papers---insurance documents, bills, correspondence---were filed on the left. Inn business took up the three drawers on the right.
He could see from a quick scan that the inn made a reasonable profit, most of which she tunneled directly back into it. New linens, bathroom fixtures, paint. The stove Mae was so territorial about had been purchased only six months earlier.
She took a salary for herself, a surprisingly modest one. He didn't find, even after a more critical study, any evidence of her using any of the inn's finances to ease her own way.
An honest woman, Roman mused. At least on the surface.
There was a bowl of potpourri on the desk, as there was in every room in the inn. Beside it was a framed picture of Charity standing in front of the mill wheel with a fragile-looking man with white hair.
The grandfather, Roman decided, but it was Charity's image he studied. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her baggy overalls were stained at the knees. From gardening, Roman guessed. She was holding an armful of summer flowers. She looked as if she didn't have a care in the world, but he noted that her free arm was around the old man, supporting him.
He wondered what she had been thinking at that moment, what she had done the moment after the picture had been snapped. He swore at himself and looked away from the picture.
She left notes to herself: Return wallpaper samples. New blocks for toy chest. Call piano tuner. Get flat repaired.
He found nothing that touched on his reason for coming to the inn. Leaving the desk, he meticulously searched the rest of the parlor.
Then he went into the adjoining bedroom. The bed, a four-poster, was covered with a lacy white spread and plumped with petit-point pillows. Beside it was a beautiful old rocker, its arms worn smooth as glass. In it sat a big purple teddy bear wearing yellow suspenders.
The curtains were romantic priscillas. She'd left the windows open, and the breeze came through billowing them. A woman's room, Roman thought, unrelentingly feminine with its lace and pillows, its fragile scents and pale colors. Yet somehow it welcomed a man, made him wish, made him want. It made him want one hour, one night, in that softness, that comfort.
He crossed the faded handhooked rug and, burying his self-disgust, went through her dresser.
He found a few pieces of jewelry he took to be heirlooms.
They belonged in a safe, he thought, annoyed with her. There was a bottle of perfume. He knew exactly how it would smell. It would smell the way her skin did. He nearly reached for it before he caught himself. Perfume wasn't of any interest to him. Evidence was.
A packet of letters caught his eye. From a lover? he wondered, dismissing the sudden pang of jealousy he felt as ridiculous.
The room was making him crazy, he thought as he carefully untied the slender satin ribbon. It was impossible not to imagine her there, curled on the bed, wearing something white and thin, her hair loose and the candles lit.
He shook himself as he unfolded the first letter. A room with a purple teddy bear wasn't seductive, he told himself.
The date showed him that they had been written when she had attended college in Seattle. From her grandfather, Roman realized as he scanned them. Every one. They were written with affection and humor, and they contained dozens of little stories about daily life at the inn. Roman put them back the way he'd found them.
Her clothes were casual, except for a few dresses hanging in the closet. There were sturdy boots, sneakers spotted with what looked like grass stains, and two pairs of elegant heels on either side of fuzzy slippers in the shape of elephants. Like the rest of her rooms, they were meticulously arranged. Even in the closet he didn't find a trace of dust.
Besides an alarm clock and a pot of hand cream she had two books on her nightstand. One was a collection of poetry, the other a murder mystery with a gruesome cover. She had a cache of chocolate in the drawer and Chopin on her small portable stereo. There were candles, dozens of them, burned down to various heights. On one wall hung a seascape in deep, stormy blues and grays. On another was a collection of photos, most taken at the inn, many of her grandfather. Roman searched behind each one. He discovered that her paint was fading, nothing more.
Her rooms were clean. Roman stood in the center of the bedroom, taking in the scents of candle wax, potpourri and perfume. They couldn't have been cleaner if she'd known they were going to be searched. All he knew after an hour was that she was an organized woman who liked comfortable clothes and Chopin and had a weakness for chocolate and lurid paperback novels.
Why did that make her fascinating?
He scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets, struggling for objectivity as he had never had to struggle before. All the evidence pointed to her being involved in some very shady business. Everything he'd discovered in the last twenty-four hours indicated that she was an open, honest and hardworking woman.
Which did he believe?
He walked toward the door at the far end of the room. It opened onto a postage-stamp size porch with a long set of stairs that led down to the pond. He wanted to open the door, to step out and breathe in the air, but he turned his back on it and went out the way he had come in.
The scent of her bedroom stayed with him for hours.
"I told you that girl was no good."
"I know, Mae."
"I told you you were making a mistake taking her on like you did."
"Yes, Mae." Charity bit back a sigh. "You told me."
"You keep taking in strays, you're bound to get bit."
Charity resisted---just barely---the urge to scream. "So you've told me."
With a satisfied grunt, Mae finished wiping off her pride and joy, the eight-burner gas range. Charity might run the inn, but Mae had her own ideas about who was in charge. "You're too softhearted, Charity."
"I thought you said it was hardheaded."
"That too." Because she had a warm spot for her young employer, Mae poured a glass of milk and cut a generous slab from the remains of her double chocolate cake. Keeping her voice brisk, she set both on the table. "You eat this now. My baking always made you feel better as a girl."
Charity took a seat and poked a finger into the icing. "I would have given her some time off."
"I know." Mae rubbed her wide-palmed hand on Charity's shoulder. "That's the trouble with you. You take your name too seriously."
"I hate being made a fool of." Scowling, Charity took a huge bite of cake. Chocolate, she was sure, would be a better cure for her headache than an entire bottle of aspirin. Her guilt was a different matter. "Do you think she'll get another job? I know she's got rent to pay."
"Types like Mary Alice always land on their feet. Wouldn't surprise me if she moved in lock, stock and barrel with that Perkin boy, so don't you be worrying about the likes of her. Didn't I tell you she wouldn't last six months?"
Charity pushed more cake into her mouth. "You told me," she mumbled around it.
"Now then, what about this man you brought home?"
Charity took a gulp of her milk. "Roman DeWinter."
"Screwy name." Mae glanced around the kitchen, surprised and a little disappointed that there was nothing left to do. "What do you know about him?"
"He needed a job."
Mae wiped her reddened hands on the skirt of her apron. "I expect there's a whole slew of pickpockets, cat burglars and mass murderers who need jobs."
"He's not a mass murderer," Charity stated. She thought she had better reserve judgment on the other occupations.
"Maybe, maybe not."
"He's a drifter." She shrugged and took another bite of the cake. "But I wouldn't say aimless. He knows where he's going. In any case, with George off doing the hula, I needed someone. He does good work, Mae."
Mae had determined that for herself with a quick trip into the west wing. But she had other things on her mind. "He looks at you."
Stalling, Charity ran a fingertip up and down the side of her glass. "Everyone looks at me. I'm always here."
"Don't play stupid with me, young lady. I powdered your bottom."
"Whatever that has to do with anything," Charity answered with a grin. "So he looks?" She moved her shoulders again. "I look back." When Mae arched her brows, Charity just smiled. "Aren't you always telling me I need a man in my life?"
"There's men and there's men," Mae said sagely. "This one's not bad on the eyes, and he ain't afraid of working. But he's got a hard streak in him. That one's been around, my girl, and no mistake."
"I guess you'd rather I spent time with Jimmy Loggerman."
"Spineless worm."
After a burst of laughter, Charity cupped her chin in her hands. "You were right, Mae. I do feel better."
Pleased, Mae untied the apron from around her ample girth. She didn't doubt that Charity was a sensible girl, but she intended to keep an eye on Roman herself. "Good. Don't cut any more of that cake or you'll be up all night with a bellyache."
"Yes'm."
"And don't leave a mess in my kitchen," she added as she tugged on a practical brown coat.
"No, ma'am. Good night, Mae."
Charity sighed as the door rattled shut. Mae's leaving usually signaled the end of the day. The guests would be tucked into their beds or finishing up a late card game. Barring an emergency, there was nothing left for Charity to do until sunrise.
Nothing to do but think.
Lately she'd been toying with the idea of putting in a whirlpool. That might lure a small percentage of the resortgoers. She'd priced a few solarium kits, and in her mind she could already see the sun room on the inn's south side. In the winter guests could come back from hiking to a hot, bubbling tub and top off the day with rum punch by the fire.
She would enjoy it herself, especially on those rare winter days when the inn was empty and there was nothing for her to do but rattle around alone.
Then there was her long-range plan to add on a gift shop supplied by local artists and craftsmen. Nothing too elaborate, she thought. She wanted to keep things simple, in keeping with the spirit of the inn.
She wondered if Roman would stay around long enough to work on it.
It wasn't wise to think of him in connection with any of her plans. It probably wasn't wise to think of him at all. He was, as she had said herself, a drifter. Men like Roman didn't light in one spot for long.
She couldn't seem to stop thinking about him. Almost from the first moment she'd felt something. Attraction was one thing. He was, after all, an attractive man, in a tough, dangerous kind of way. But there was more. Something in his eyes? she wondered. In his voice? In the way he moved? She toyed with the rest of her cake, wishing she could pin it down. It might simply be that he was so different from herself. Taciturn, suspicious, solitary.
And yet ... was it her imagination, or was part of him waiting, to reach out, to grab hold? He needed someone, she thought, though he was probably unaware of it.
Mae was right, she mused. She had always had a weakness for strays and a hard-luck story. But this was different. She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she could explain, even to herself, why it was so very different.
She'd never experienced anything like the sensations that had rammed into her because of Roman. It was more than physical. She could admit that now. Still it made no sense. Then again, Charity had always thought that feelings weren't required to make sense.
For a moment out on the deserted road this morning she'd felt emotions pour out of him. They had been almost frightening in their speed and power. Emotions like that could hurt ... the one who felt them, the one who received them. They had left her dazed and aching---and wishing, she admitted.
She thought she knew what his mouth would taste like. Not soft, not sweet, but pungent and powerful. When he was ready, he wouldn't ask, he'd take. It worried her that she didn't resent that. She had grown up knowing her own mind, making her own choices. A man like Roman would have little respect for a woman's wishes.
It would be better, much better, for them to keep their relationship---their short-term relationship, she added---on a purely business level. Friendly but careful. She let her chin sink into her hands again. It was a pity she had such a difficult time combining the two.
He watched her toy with the crumbs on her plate. Her hair was loose now and tousled, as if she had pulled it out of the braid and ran impatient fingers through it. Her bare feet were crossed at the ankles, resting on the chair across from her.
Relaxed. Roman wasn't sure he'd ever seen anyone so fully relaxed except in sleep. It was a sharp contrast to the churning energy that drove her during the day.
He wished she were in her rooms, tucked into bed and sleeping deeply. He'd wanted to avoid coming across her at all. That was personal. He needed her out of his way so that he could go through the office off the lobby. That was business.
He knew he should step back and keep out of sight until she retired for the night.
What was it about this quiet scene that was so appealing, so irresistible? The kitchen was warm and the scents of cooking were lingering, pleasantly overlaying those of pine and lemon from Mae's cleaning. There was a hanging basket over the sink that was almost choked with some leafy green plant. Every surface was scrubbed, clean and shiny. The huge refrigerator hummed.
She looked so comfortable, as if she were waiting for him to come in and sit with her, to talk of small, inconsequential things.
That was crazy. He didn't want any woman waiting for him, and especially not her.
But he didn't step back into the shadows of the dining room, though he could easily have done so. He stepped toward her, into the light.
"I thought people kept early hours in the country."
She jumped but recovered quickly. She was almost used to the silent way he moved. "Mostly. Mae was giving me chocolate and a pep talk. Want some cake?"
"No."
"Just as well. If you had I'd have taken another piece and made myself sick. No willpower. How about a beer?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
She got up lazily and moved to the refrigerator to rattle off a list of brands. He chose one and watched her pour it into a pilsner glass. She wasn't angry, he noted, though she had certainly been the last time they were together. So Charity didn't hold grudges. She wouldn't, Roman decided as he took the glass from her. She would forgive almost anything, would trust everyone and would give more than was asked.
"Why do you look at me that way?" she murmured.
He caught himself, then took a long, thirsty pull on the beer. "You have a beautiful face."
She lifted a brow when he sat down and pulled out a cigarette. After taking an ashtray from a drawer, she sat beside him. "I like to accept compliments whenever I get them, but I don't think that's the reason."
"It's reason enough for a man to look at a woman." He sipped his beer. "You had a busy night."
Let it go, Charity told herself. "Busy enough that I need to hire another waitress fast. I didn't get a chance to thank you for helping out with the dinner crowd."
"No problem. Lose the headache?"
She glanced up sharply. But, no, he wasn't making fun of her. It seemed, though she couldn't be sure why the impression was so strong, that his question was a kind of apology. She decided to accept it.
"Yes, thanks. Getting mad at you took my mind off Mary Alice, and Mae's chocolate cake did the rest." She thought about brewing some tea, then decided she was too lazy to bother. "So, how was your day?"
She smiled at him in an easy offer of friendship that he found difficult to resist and impossible to accept. "Okay. Miss Millie said the door to her room was sticking, so I pretended to sand it."
"And made her day."
He couldn't prevent the smile. "I don't think I've ever been ogled quite so completely before."
"Oh, I imagine you have." She tilted her head to study him from a new angle. "But, with apologies to your ego, in Miss Millie's case it's more a matter of nearsightedness than lust. She's too vain to wear her glasses in front of any male over twenty."
"I'd rather go on thinking she's leering at me," he said. "She said she's been coming here twice a year since '52." He thought that over for a moment, amazed that anyone could return time after time to the same spot.
"She and Miss Lucy are fixtures here. When I was young I thought we were related."
"You been running this place long?"
"Off and on for all of my twenty-seven years." Smiling, she tipped back in her chair. She was a woman who relaxed easily and enjoyed seeing others relaxed. He seemed so now, she thought, with his legs stretched out under the table and a glass in his hand. "You don't really want to hear the story of my life, do you, Roman?"
He blew out a stream of smoke. "I've got nothing to do." And he wanted to hear her version of what he'd read in her file.
"Okay. I was born here. My mother had fallen in love a bit later in life than most. She was nearly forty when she had me, and fragile. There were complications. After she died, my grandfather raised me, so I grew up here at the inn, except for the periods of time when he sent me away to school. I loved this place." She glanced around the kitchen. "In school I pined for it, and for Pop. Even in college I missed it so much I'd ferry home every weekend. But he wanted me to see something else before I settled down here. I was going to travel some, get new ideas for the inn. See New York, New Orleans, Venice. I don't know ..." Her words trailed off wistfully.
"Why didn't you?"
"My grandfather was ill. I was in my last year of college when I found out how ill. I wanted to quit, come home, but the idea upset him so much I thought it was better to graduate. He hung on for another three years, but it was ... difficult." She didn't want to talk about the tears and the terror, or about the exhaustion of running the inn while caring for a near-invalid. "He was the bravest, kindest man I've ever known. He was so much a part of this place that there are still times when I expect to walk into a room and see him checking for dust on the furniture."
He was silent for a moment, thinking as much about what she'd left out as about what she'd told him. He knew her father was listed as unknown---a difficult obstacle anywhere, but especially in a small town. In the last six months of her grandfather's life his medical expenses had nearly driven the inn under. But she didn't speak of those things; nor did he detect any sign of bitterness.
"Do you ever think about selling the place, moving on?"
"No. Oh, I still think about Venice occasionally. There are dozens of places I'd like to go, as long as I had the inn to come back to." She rose to get him another beer. "When you run a place like this, you get to meet people from all over. There's always a story about a new place."
"Vicarious traveling?"
It stung, perhaps because it was too close to her own thoughts. "Maybe." She set the bottle at his elbow, then took her dishes to the sink. Even knowing that she was overly sensitive on this point didn't stop her from bristling. "Some of us are meant to be boring."
"I didn't say you were boring."
"No? Well, I suppose I am to someone who picks up and goes whenever and wherever he chooses. Simple, settled and naive."
"You're putting words in my mouth, baby."
"It's easy to do, baby, since you rarely put any there yourself. Turn off the lights when you leave."
He took her arm as she started by in a reflexive movement that he regretted almost before it was done. But it was done, and the sulky, defiant look she sent him began a chain reaction that raced through his system. There were things he could do with her, things he burned to do, that neither of them would ever forget.
"Why are you angry?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to talk to you for more than ten minutes without getting edgy. Since I normally get along with everyone, I figure it's you."
"You're probably right."
She calmed a little. It was hardly his fault that she had never been anywhere. "You've been around a little less than forty-eight hours and I've nearly fought with you three times. That's a record for me."
"I don't keep score."
"Oh, I think you do. I doubt you forget anything. Were you a cop?"
He had to make a deliberate effort to keep his face bland and fingers from tensing. "Why?"
"You said you weren't an artist. That was my first guess." She relaxed, though he hadn't removed his hand from her arm. Anger was something she enjoyed only in fast, brief spurts. "It's the way you look at people, as if you were filing away descriptions and any distinguishing marks. And sometimes when I'm with you I feel as though I should get ready for an interrogation. A writer, then? When you're in the hotel business you get pretty good at matching people with professions."
"You're off this time."
"Well, what are you, then?"
"Right now I'm a handyman."
She shrugged, making herself let it go. "Another trait of hotel people is respecting privacy, but if you turn out to be a mass murderer Mae's never going to let me hear the end of it."
"Generally I only kill one person at a time."
"That's good news." She ignored the suddenly very real anxiety that he was speaking the simple truth. "You're still holding my arm."
"I know."
So this was it, she thought, and struggled to keep her voice. "Should I ask you to let go?"
"I wouldn't bother."
She drew a deep, steadying breath. "All right. What do you want, Roman?"
"To get this out of the way, for both of us."
He rose. Her step backward was instinctive, and much more surprising to her than to him. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Neither do I." With his free hand, he gathered up her hair. It was soft, as he'd known it would be. Thick and full and so soft that his fingers dived in and were lost. "But I'd rather regret something I did than something I didn't do."
"I'd rather not regret at all."
"Too late." He heard her suck in her breath as he yanked her against him. "One way or the other, we'll both have plenty to regret."
He was deliberately rough. He knew how to be gentle, though he rarely put the knowledge into practice. With her, he could have been. Perhaps because he knew that, he shoved aside any desire for tenderness. He wanted to frighten her, to make certain that when he let her go she would run, run away from him, because he wanted so badly for her to run to him.
Buried deep in his mind was the hope that he could make her afraid enough, repelled enough, to send him packing. If she did, she would be safe from him, and he from her. He thought he could accomplish it quickly. Then, suddenly, it was impossible to think at all.
She tasted like heaven. He'd never believed in heaven, but the flavor was on her lips, pure and sweet and promising. Her hand had gone to his chest in an automatic defensive movement. Yet she wasn't fighting him, as he'd been certain she would. She met his hard, almost brutal kiss with passion laced with trust.
His mind emptied. It was a terrifying experience for a man who kept his thoughts under such stringent control. Then it filled with her, her scent, her touch, her taste.
He broke away---for his sake now, not for hers. He was and had always been a survivor. His breath came fast and raw. One hand was still tangled in her hair, and his other was clamped tight on her arm. He couldn't let go. No matter how he chided himself to release her, to step back and walk away, he couldn't move. Staring at her, he saw his own reflection in her eyes.
He cursed her---it was a last quick denial---before he crushed his mouth to hers again. It wasn't heaven he was heading for, he told himself. It was hell.
She wanted to soothe him, but he never gave her the chance. As before, he sent her rushing into some hot, airless place where there was room only for sensation.
She'd been right. His mouth wasn't soft, it was hard and ruthless and irresistible. Without hesitation, without thought of self-preservation, she opened for him, greedily taking what was offered, selflessly giving what was demanded.
Her back was pressed against the smooth, cool surface of the refrigerator, trapped there by the firm, taut lines of his body. If it had been possible, she would have brought him closer.
His face was rough as it scraped against hers, and she trembled at the thrill of pleasure even that brought her. Desperate now, she nipped at his lower lip, and felt a new rush of excitement as he groaned and deepened an already bottomless kiss.
She wanted to be touched. She tried to murmur this new, compelling need against his mouth, but she managed only a moan. Her body ached. Just the anticipation of his hands running over her was making her shudder.
For a moment their hearts beat against each other in the same wild rhythm.
He tore away, aware that he had come perilously close to a line he didn't dare cross. He could hardly breathe, much less think. Until he was certain he could do both, he was silent.
"Go to bed, Charity."
She stayed where she was, certain that if she took a step her legs would give away. He was still close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body. But she looked into his eyes and knew he was already out of reach.
"Just like that?"
Hurt. He could hear it in her voice, and he wished he could make himself believe she had brought it on herself. He reached for his beer but changed his mind when he saw that his hand was unsteady. Only one thing was clear. He had to get rid of her, quickly, before he touched her again.
"You're not the type for quick sex on the kitchen floor."
The color that passion had brought to her cheeks faded. "No. At least I never have been." After taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. She believed in facing facts, even unpleasant ones. "Is that all this would have been, Roman?"
His hand curled into a fist. "Yes," he said. "What else?"
"I see." She kept her eyes on his, wishing she could hate him. "I'm sorry for you."
"Don't be."
"You're in charge of your feelings, Roman, not mine. And I am sorry for you. Some people lose a leg or a hand or an eye. They either deal with that loss or become bitter. I can't see what piece of you is missing, Roman, but it's just as tragic." He didn't answer; she hadn't expected him to. "Don't forget the lights."
He waited until she was gone before he fumbled for a match. He needed time to gain control of his head---and his hands---before he searched the office. What worried him was that it was going to take a great deal longer to gain control of his heart.
Nearly two hours later he hiked a mile and a half to use the pay phone at the nearest gas station. The road was quiet, the tiny village dark. The wind had come up, and it tasted of rain. Roman hoped dispassionately that it would hold off until he was back at the inn.
He placed the call, waited for the connection.
"Conby."
"DeWinter."
"You're late."
Roman didn't bother to check his watch. He knew it was just shy of 3:00 a.m. on the East Coast. "Get you up?"
"Am I to assume that you've established yourself?"
"Yeah, I'm in. Rigging the handyman's lottery ticket cleared the way. Arranging the flat gave me the opening. Miss Ford is ... trusting."
"So we were led to believe. Trusting doesn't mean she's not ambitious. What have you got?"
A bad case of guilt, Roman thought as he lit a match. A very bad case. "Her rooms are clean." He paused and held the flame to the tip of his cigarette. "There's a tour group in now, mostly Canadians. A few exchanged money. Nothing over a hundred."
The pause was very brief. "That's hardly enough to make the business worthwhile."
"I got a list out of the office. The names and addresses of the registered guests."
There was another, longer pause, and a rustling sound that told Roman that his contact was searching for writing materials. "Let me have it."
He read them off from the copy he'd made. "Block's the tour guide. He's the regular, comes in once a week for a one-or two-night stay, depending on the package."
"Vision Tours."
"Right."
"We've got a man on that end. You concentrate on Ford and her staff." Roman heard the faint tap-tap-tap of Conby's pencil against his pad. "There's no way they can be pulling this off without someone on the inside. She's the obvious answer."
"It doesn't fit."
"I beg your pardon?"
Roman crushed the cigarette under his boot heel. "I said it doesn't fit. I've watched her. I've gone through her personal accounts, damn it. She's got under three thousand in fluid cash. Everything else goes into the place for new sheets and soap."
"I see." The pause again. It was maddening. "I suppose our Miss Ford hasn't heard of Swiss bank accounts."
"I said she's not the type, Conby. It's the wrong angle."
"I'll worry about the angles, DeWinter. You worry about doing your job. I shouldn't have to remind you that it's taken us nearly a year to come close to pinning this thing down. The Bureau wants this wrapped quickly, and that's what I expect from you. If you have a personal problem with this, you'd better let me know now."
"No." He knew personal problems weren't permitted. "You want to waste time, and the taxpayers' money, it's all the same to me. I'll get back to you."
"Do that."
Roman hung up. It made him feel a little better to scowl at the phone and imagine Conby losing a good night's sleep. Then again, his kind rarely did. He'd wake some hapless clerk up at six and have the list run through the computer. Conby would drink his coffee, watch the Today show and wait in his comfortable house in the D.C. suburbs for the results.
Grunt work and dirty work were left to others.
That was the way the game was played, Roman reminded himself as he started the long walk back to the inn. But lately, just lately, he was getting very tired of the rules.
Charity heard him come in. Curious, she glanced at the clock after she heard the door close below. It was after one, and the rain had started nearly thirty minutes before with a gentle hissing that promised to gain strength through the night.
She wondered where he had been.
His business, she reminded herself as she rolled over and tried to let the rain lull her to sleep. As long as he did his job, Roman DeWinter was free to come and go as he pleased. If he wanted to walk in the rain, that was fine by her.
How could he have kissed her like that and felt nothing?
Charity squeezed her eyes shut and swore at herself. It was her feelings she had to worry about, not Roman's. The trouble was, she always felt too much. This was one time she couldn't afford that luxury.
Something had happened to her when he'd kissed her. Something thrilling, something that had reached deep inside her and opened up endless possibilities. No, not possibilities, fantasies, she thought, shaking her head. If she were wise she would take that one moment of excitement and stop wanting more. Drifters made poor risks emotionally. She had the perfect example before her.
Her mother had turned to a drifter and had given him her heart, her trust, her body. She had ended up pregnant and alone. She had, Charity knew, pined for him for months. She'd died in the same hospital where her baby had been born, only days later. Betrayed, rejected and ashamed.
Charity had only discovered the extent of the shame after her grandfather's death. He'd kept the diary her mother had written. Charity had burned it, not out of shame but out of pity. She would always think of her mother as a tragic woman who had looked for love and had never found it.
But she wasn't her mother, Charity reminded herself as she lay awake listening to the rain. She was far, far less fragile. Love was what she had been named for, and she had felt its warmth all her life.
Now a drifter had come into her life.
He had spoken of regrets, she remembered. She was afraid that whatever happened---or didn't happen---between them, she would have them.
The rain continued all morning, soft, slow, steady. It brought a chill, and a gloom that was no less appealing than the sunshine. Clouds hung over the water, turning everything to different shades of gray. Raindrops hissed on the roof and at the windows, making the inn seem all the more remote. Occasionally the wind gusted, rattling the panes.
At dawn Roman had watched Charity, bundled in a hooded windbreaker, take Ludwig out for his morning run. And he had watched her come back, dripping, forty minutes later. He'd heard the music begin to play in her room after she had come in the back entrance. She had chosen something quiet and floating with lots of violins this time. He'd been sorry when it had stopped and she had hurried down the hallway on her way to the dining room.
From his position on the second floor he couldn't hear the bustle in the kitchen below, but he could imagine it. Mae and Dolores would be bickering as waffle or muffin batter was whipped up. Charity would have grabbed a quick cup of coffee before rushing out to help the waitress set up tables and write the morning's menu.
Her hair would be damp, her voice calm as she smoothed over Dolores's daily complaints. She'd smell of the rain. When the early risers wandered down she would smile, greet them by name and make them feel as though they were sharing a meal at an old friend's house.
That was her greatest skill, Roman mused. Making a stranger feel at home.
Could she be as uncomplicated as she seemed? A part of him wanted badly to believe that. Another part of him found it impossible. Everyone had an angle, from the mailroom clerk dreaming of a desk job to the CEO wheeling another deal. She couldn't be any different.
He wouldn't have called the kiss they'd shared uncomplicated. There had been layers to it he couldn't have begun to peel away. It seemed contradictory that such a calm-eyed, smooth-voiced woman could explode with such towering passion. Yet she had. Perhaps her passion was as much a part of the act as her serenity.
It annoyed him. Just remembering his helpless response to her infuriated him. So he made himself dissect it further. If he was attracted to what she seemed to be, that was reasonable enough. He'd lived a solitary and often turbulent life. Though he had chosen to live that way, and certainly preferred it, it wasn't unusual that at some point he would find himself pulled toward a woman who represented everything he had never had. And had never wanted, Roman reminded himself as he tacked up a strip of molding.
He wasn't going to pretend he'd found any answers in Charity. The only answers he was looking for pertained to the job.
For now he would wait until the morning rush was over. When Charity was busy in her office, he would go down and charm some breakfast out of Mae. There was a woman who didn't trust him, Roman thought with a grin. There wasn't a naive bone in her sturdy body. And except for Charity there was no one, he was sure, who knew the workings of the inn better.
Yes, he'd put some effort into charming Mae. And he'd keep some distance between himself and Charity. For the time being.
\*
"You're looking peaked this morning."
"Thank you very much." Charity swallowed a yawn as she poured her second cup of coffee. Peaked wasn't the word, she thought. She was exhausted right down to the bone. Her body wasn't used to functioning on three hours' sleep. She had Roman to thank for that, she thought, and shoved the just-filled cup aside.
"Sit." Mae pointed to the table. "I'll fix you some eggs."
"I haven't got time. I---"
"Sit," Mae repeated, waving a wooden spoon. "You need fuel."
"Mae's right," Dolores put in. "A body can't run on coffee. You need protein and carbohydrates." She set a blueberry muffin on the table. "Why, if I don't watch my protein intake I get weak as a lamb. 'Course, the doctor don't say, but I think I'm hydroglycemic."
"Hypoglycemic," Charity murmured.
"That's what I said." Dolores decided she liked the sound of it. At the moment, however, it was just as much fun to worry about Charity as it was to worry about herself. "She could use some nice crisp bacon with those eggs, Mae. That's what I think."
"I'm putting it on."
Outnumbered, Charity sat down. The two women could scrap for days, but when they had common cause they stuck together like glue.
"I'm not peaked," she said in her own defense. "I just didn't sleep well last night."
"A warm bath before bed," Mae told her as the bacon sizzled. "Not hot, mind you. Lukewarm."
"With bath salts. Not bubbles or oils," Dolores added as she plunked down a glass of juice. "Good old-fashioned bath salts. Ain't that right, Mae?"
"Couldn't hurt," Mae mumbled, too concerned about Charity to think of an argument. "You've been working too hard, girl."
"I agree," Charity said, because it was easiest that way. "The reason I don't have time for a long, leisurely breakfast is that I have to see about hiring a new waitress so I don't have to work so hard. I put an ad in this morning's paper, so the calls should be coming in."
"Told Bob to cancel the ad," Mae announced, cracking an egg into the pan.
"What? Why?" Charity started to rise. "Damn it, Mae, if you think I'm going to take Mary Alice back after she---"
"No such thing, and don't you swear at me, young lady."
"Testy." Dolores clucked her tongue. "Happens when you work too hard."
"I'm sorry," Charity mumbled, managing not to grind her teeth. "But, Mae, I was counting on setting up interviews over the next couple of days. I want someone in by the end of the week."
"My brother's girl left that worthless husband of hers in Toledo and came home." Keeping her back to Charity, Mae set the bacon to drain, then poked at the eggs. "She's a good girl, Bonnie is. Worked here a couple of summers while she was in school."
"Yes, I remember. She married a musician who was playing at one of the resorts in Eastsound."
Mae scowled and began to scoop up the eggs. "Saxophone player," she said, as if that explained it all. "She got tired of living out of a van and came home a couple weeks back. Been looking for work."
With a sigh, Charity pushed a hand through her bangs. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
"You didn't need anyone before." Mae set the eggs in front of her. "You need someone now."
Charity glanced over as Mae began wiping off the stove. The cook's heart was as big as the rest of her. "When can she start?"
Mae's lips curved, and she cleared her throat and wiped at a spill with more energy. "Told her to come in this afternoon so's you could have a look at her. Don't expect you to hire her unless she measures up."
"Well, then." Charity picked up her fork. Pleased at the thought of having one job settled, she stretched out her legs and rested her feet on an empty chair. "I guess I've got time for breakfast after all."
Roman pushed through the door and almost swore out loud. The dining room was all but empty. He'd been certain Charity would be off doing one of the dozens of chores she took on. Instead, she was sitting in the warm, fragrant kitchen, much as she had been the night before. With one telling difference, Roman reflected. She wasn't relaxed now.
Her easy smile faded the moment he walked in. Slowly she slipped her feet off the chair and straightened her back. He could see her body tense, almost muscle by muscle. Her fork stopped halfway to her lips. Then she turned slightly away from him and continued to eat. It was, he supposed, as close to a slap in the face as she could manage.
He rearranged his idea about breakfast and gossip in the kitchen. For now he'd make do with coffee.
"Wondered where you'd got to," Mae said as she pulled bacon out of the refrigerator again.
"I didn't want to get in your way." He nodded toward the coffeepot. "I thought I'd take a cup up with me."
"You need fuel." Dolores busied herself arranging a place setting across from Charity. "Isn't that right, Mae? Man can't work unless he has a proper breakfast."
Mae poured a cup. "He looks like he could run on empty well enough."
It was quite true, Charity thought. She knew what time he'd come in the night before, and he'd been up and working when she'd left the wing to oversee the breakfast shift. He couldn't have gotten much more sleep than she had herself, but he didn't look any the worse for wear.
"Meals are part of your pay, Roman." Though her appetite had fled, Charity nipped off a bite of bacon. "I believe Mae has some pancake batter left over, if you'd prefer that to eggs."
It was a cool invitation, so cool that Dolores opened her mouth to comment. Mae gave her a quick poke and a scowl. He accepted the coffee Mae shoved at him and drank it black.
"Eggs are fine." But he didn't sit down. The welcoming feel that was usually so much a part of the kitchen was not evident. Roman leaned against the counter and sipped while Mae cooked beside him.
She wasn't going to feel guilty, Charity told herself, ignoring a chastising look from Dolores. After all, she was the boss, and her business with Roman was ... well, just business. But she couldn't bear the long, strained silence.
"Mae, I'd like some petits fours and tea sandwiches this afternoon. The rain's supposed to last all day, so we'll have music and dancing in the gathering room." Because breakfast seemed less and less appealing. Charity pulled a notepad out of her shirt pocket. "Fifty sandwiches should do if we have a cheese tray. We'll set up an urn of tea, and one of hot chocolate."
"What time?"
"At three, I think. Then we can bring out the wine at five for anyone who wants to linger. You can have your niece help out."
She began making notes on the pad.
She looked tired, Roman thought. Pale and heavy-eyed and surprisingly fragile. She'd apparently pulled her hair back in a hasty ponytail when it had still been damp. Little tendrils had escaped as they'd dried. They seemed lighter than the rest, their color more delicate than rich. He wanted to brush them away from her temples and watch the color come back into her cheeks.
"Finish your eggs," Mae told her. Then she nodded at Roman. "Yours are ready."
"Thanks." He sat down, wishing no more fervently than Charity that he was ten miles away.
Dolores began to complain that the rain was making her sinuses swell.
"Pass the salt," Roman murmured.
Charity pushed it in his direction. Their fingers brushed briefly, and she snatched hers away.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome." Charity poked her fork into her eggs. She knew from experience that it would be difficult to escape from the kitchen without cleaning her plate, and she intended to do it quickly.
"Nice day," he said, because he wanted her to look at him again. She did, and pent-up anger was simmering in her eyes. He preferred it, he discovered, to the cool politeness that had been there.
"I like the rain."
"Like I said---" he broke open his muffin "---it's a nice day."
Dolores blew her nose heartily. Amusement curved the corners of Charity's mouth before she managed to suppress it. "You'll find the paint you need---wall, ceiling, trim---in the storage cellar. It's marked for the proper rooms."
"All right."
"The brushes and pans and rollers are down there, too. Everything's on the workbench on the right as you come down the stairs."
"I'll find them."
"Good. Cabin 4 has a dripping faucet."
"I'll look at it."
She didn't want him to be so damn agreeable, Charity thought. She wanted him to be as tense and out of sorts as she was. "The window sticks in unit 2 in the east wing."
He sent her an even look. "I'll unstick it."
"Fine." Suddenly she noticed that Dolores had stopped complaining and was gawking at her. Even Mae was frowning over her mixing bowl. The hell with it, Charity thought as she shoved her plate away. So she was issuing orders like Captain Bligh. She damn well felt like Captain Bligh.
She took a ring of keys out of her pocket. She'd just put them on that morning, having intended to see to the minor chores herself. "Make sure to bring these back to the office when you've finished. They're tagged for the proper doors."
"Yes, ma'am." Keeping his eyes on hers, he dropped the ring into his breast pocket. "Anything else?"
"I'll let you know." She rose, took her plate to the sink and stalked out.
"What got into her?" Dolores wanted to know. "She looked like she wanted to chew somebody's head off."
"She just didn't sleep well." More concerned than she wanted to let on, Mae set down the mixing bowl in which she'd been creaming butter and sugar. Because she felt like the mother of an ill-mannered child, she picked up the coffeepot and carried it over to Roman. "Charity's not feeling quite herself this morning," she told him as she poured him a second cup. "She's been overworked lately."
"I've got thick skin." But he'd felt the sting. "Maybe she should delegate more."
"Ha! That girl?" Pleased that he hadn't complained, she became more expansive. "It ain't in her. Feels responsible if a guest stubs his toe. Just like her grandpa." Mae added a stream of vanilla to the bowl and went back to her mixing. "Not a thing goes on around here she don't have a finger---more likely her whole hand---in. Except my cooking." Mae's wide face creased in a smile. "I shooed her out of here when she was a girl, and I can shoo her out of here today if need be."
"Girl can't boil water without scorching the pan," Dolores put in.
"She could if she wanted to," Mae said defensively, turning back to Roman with a sniff. "There's no need for her to cook when she's got me, and she's smart enough to know it. Everything else, though, from painting the porch to keeping the books, has to have her stamp on it. She's one who takes her responsibilities to heart."
Roman played out the lead she had offered him. "That's an admirable quality. You've worked for her a long time."
"Between Charity and her grandfather, I've worked at the inn for twenty-eight years come June." She jerked her head in Dolores's direction. "She's been here eight."
"Nine," Dolores said. "Nine years this month."
"It sounds like when people come to work here they stay."
"You got that right," Mae told him.
"It seems the inn has a loyal, hardworking staff."
"Charity makes it easy." Competently Mae measured out baking powder. "She was just feeling moody this morning."
"She did look a little tired," Roman said slowly, ignoring a pang of guilt. "Maybe she'll rest for a while today."
"Not likely."
"The housekeeping staff seems tight."
"She'll still find a bed to make."
"Bob handles the accounts."
"She'll poke her nose in the books and check every column." There was simple pride in her voice as she sifted flour into the bowl. "Not that she don't trust those who work for her," Mae added. "It would just make her heart stop dead to have a bill paid late or an order mixed up. Thing is, she'd rather blame herself than somebody else if a mistake's made."
"I guess nothing much gets by her."
"By Charity?" With a snicker, Mae plugged in her electric mixer. "She'd know if a napkin came back from the laundry with a stain on it. Watch where you sneeze," she added as Dolores covered her face with a tissue. "Drink some hot water with a squeeze of lemon."
"Hot tea with honey," Dolores said.
"Lemon. Honey'll clog your throat."
"My mother always gave me hot tea with honey," Dolores told her.
They were still arguing about it when Roman slipped out of the kitchen.
He spent most of his time closed off in the west wing. Working helped him think. Though he heard Charity pass in and out a few times, neither of them sought the other's company. He could be more objective, Roman realized, when he wasn't around her.
Mae's comments had cemented his observations and the information that had been made available to him. Charity Ford ran the inn from top to bottom. Whatever went on in it or passed through it was directly under her eye. Logically that meant that she was fully involved with, perhaps in charge of, the operation he had come to destroy.
And yet ... what he had said to Conby the night before still held true. It didn't fit.
The woman worked almost around the clock to make the inn a success. He'd seen her do everything from potting geraniums to hauling firewood. And, unless she was an astounding actress, she enjoyed it all.
She didn't seem the type who would want to make money the easy way. Nor did she seem the type who craved all the things easy money could buy. But that was instinct, not fact.
The problem was, Conby ran on facts. Roman had always relied heavily on instinct. His job was to prove her guilt, not her innocence. Yet, in less than two days, his priorities had changed.
It wasn't just a matter of finding her attractive. He had found other women attractive and had brought them down without a qualm. That was justice. One of the few things he believed in without reservation was justice.
With Charity he needed to be certain that his conclusions about her were based on more than the emotions she dragged out of him. Feelings and instincts were different. If a man in his position allowed himself to be swayed by feelings, he was useless.
Then what was it? No matter how long or how hard he thought it through, he couldn't pinpoint one specific reason why he was certain of her innocence. Because it was the whole of it, Roman realized. Her, the inn, the atmosphere that surrounded her. It made him want to believe that such people, such places, existed. And existed untainted.
He was getting soft. A pretty woman, big blue eyes, and he started to think in fairy tales. In disgust, he took the brushes and the paint pans to the sink to clean them. He was going to take a break, from work and from his own rambling thoughts.
In the gathering room, Charity was thinking just as reluctantly of him as she set a stack of records on the table between Miss Millie and Miss Lucy.
"What a lovely idea." Miss Lucy adjusted her glasses and peered at the labels. "A nice old-fashioned tea dance." From one of the units in the east wing came the unrelenting whine of a toddler. Miss Lucy sent a sympathetic glance in the direction of the noise. "I'm sure this will keep everyone entertained."
"It's hard for young people to know what to do with themselves on a rainy day. It makes them cross. Oh, look." Miss Millie held up a 45. "Rosemary Clooney. Isn't this delightful?"
"Pick out your favorites." Charity gave the room a distracted glance. How could she prepare for a party when all she could think of was the way Roman had looked at her across the breakfast table? "I'm depending on you."
The long buffet and a small server had been cleared off to hold the refreshments. If she could count on Mae---and she always had---they should be coming up from the kitchen shortly.
Would Roman come in? she wondered. Would he hear the music and slip silently into the room? Would he look at her until her heart started to hammer and she forgot there was anything or anyone but him?
She was going crazy, Charity decided. She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to three. Word had been passed to all the guests, and with luck she would be ready for them when they began to arrive. The ladies were deep in a discussion of Perry Como. Leaving them to it, Charity began to tug on the sofa.
"What are you doing?"
A squeal escaped her, and she cursed Roman in the next breath. "If you keep sneaking around I'm going to take Mae's idea of you being a cat burglar more seriously."
"I wasn't sneaking around. You were so busy huffing and puffing you didn't hear me."
"I wasn't huffing or puffing." She tossed her hair over her shoulder and glared at him. "But I am busy, so if you'd get out of my way---"
She waved a hand at him, and he caught it and held it. "I asked what you were doing."
She tugged, then tugged harder, struggling to control her temper. If he wanted to fight, she thought, she'd be happy to oblige him. "I'm knitting an afghan," she snapped. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm moving the sofa."
"No, you're not."
She could, when the occasion called for, succeed in being haughty. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said you're not moving the sofa. It's too heavy."
"Thank you for your opinion, but I've moved it before." She lowered her voice when she noticed the interested glances the ladies were giving her. "And if you'd get the hell out of my way I'd move it again."
He stood where he was, blocking her. "You really do have to do everything yourself, don't you?"
"Meaning?"
"Where's your assistant?"
"The computer sprang a leak. Since Bob's better equipped to deal with that, he's playing with components and I'm moving furniture. Now---"
"Where do you want it?"
"I didn't ask you to---" But he'd already moved to the other end of the sofa.
"I said, where do you want it?"
"Against the side wall." Charity hefted her end and tried not to be grateful.
"What else?"
She smoothed down the skirt of her dress. "I've already given you a list of chores."
He hooked a thumb in his pocket as they stood on either side of the sofa. He had an urge to put his hand over her angry face and give it a nice hard shove. "I've finished them."
"The faucet in cabin 4?"
"It needed a new washer."
"The window in unit 2?"
"A little sanding."
She was running out of steam. "The painting?"
"The first coat's drying." He angled his head. "Want to check it out?"
She blew out a breath. It was difficult to be annoyed when he'd done everything she'd asked. "Efficient, aren't you, DeWinter?"
"That's right. Got your second wind?"
"What do you mean?"
"You looked a little tired this morning." He skimmed a glance over her. The dark plum-colored dress swirled down her legs. Little silver buttons ranged down from the high neck to the hem, making him wonder how long it would take him to unfasten them. There was silver at her ears, as well, a fanciful trio of columns he remembered having seen in her drawer. "You don't now," he added, bringing his eyes back to hers.
She started to breathe again, suddenly aware that she'd been holding her breath since he'd started his survey. Charity reminded herself that she didn't have time to let him---or her feelings for him---distract her.
"I'm too busy to be tired." Relieved, she signaled to a waitress who was climbing the steps with a laden tray. "Just set it on the buffet, Lori."
"Second load's right behind me."
"Great. I just need to---" She broke off when the first damp guests came through the back door. Giving up, she turned to Roman. If he was going to be in the way anyway, he might as well make himself useful. "I'd appreciate it if you'd roll up the rug and store it in the west wing. Then you're welcome to stay and enjoy yourself."
"Thanks. Maybe I will."
Charity greeted the guests, hung up their jackets, offered them refreshments and switched on the music almost before Roman could store the rug out of sight. Within fifteen minutes she had the group mixing and mingling.
She was made for this, he thought as he watched her. She was made for being in the center of things, for making people feel good. His place had always been on the fringe.
"Oh, Mr. DeWinter." Smelling of lilacs, Miss Millie offered him a cup and saucer. "You must have some tea. Nothing like tea to chase the blues away on a rainy day."
He smiled into her blurred eyes. If even she could see that he was brooding, he'd better watch his step. "Thanks."
"I love a party," she said wistfully as she watched a few couples dance to a bluesy Clooney ballad. "Why, when I was a girl, I hardly thought of anything else. I met my husband at a tea like this. That was almost fifty years ago. We danced for hours."
He would never have considered himself gallant, but she was hard to resist. "Would you like to dance now?"
The faintest of blushes tinted her cheeks. "I'd love to, Mr. DeWinter."
Charity watched Roman lead Miss Millie onto the floor. Her heart softened. She tried to harden it again but found it was a lost cause. It was a sweet thing to do, she thought, particularly since he was anything but a sweet man. She doubted that teas and dreamy little old ladies were Roman's style, but Miss Millie would remember this day for a long time.
What woman wouldn't? Charity mused. To dance with a strong, mysterious man on a rainy afternoon was a memory to be pressed in a book like a red rose. It was undoubtedly fortunate he hadn't asked her. She had already stored away too many memories of Roman. With a sigh, she herded a group of children into the television room and pushed a Disney movie into the VCR.
Roman saw her leave. And he saw her come back.
"That was lovely," Miss Millie told him when the music had stopped.
"What?" Quickly he brought himself back. "My pleasure." Then he made her pleasure complete by kissing her hand. By the time she had walked over to sigh with her sister he had forgotten her and was thinking of Charity.
She was laughing as an older man led her onto the floor. The music had changed. It was up-tempo now, something brisk and Latin. A mambo, he thought. Or a merengue. He wouldn't know the difference. Apparently Charity knew well enough. She moved through the complicated, flashy number as if she'd been dancing all her life.
Her skirt flared, wrapped around her legs, then flared again as she turned. She laughed, her face level and close to her partner's as they matched steps. The first prick of jealousy infuriated Roman and made him feel like a fool. The man Charity was matching steps with was easily old enough to be her father.
By the time the music ended he had managed to suppress the uncomfortable emotion but another had sprung up to take its place. Desire. He wanted her, wanted to take her by the hand and pull her out of that crowded room into someplace dim and quiet where all they would hear was the rain. He wanted to see her eyes go big and unfocused the way they had when he'd kissed her. He wanted to feel the incredible sensation of her mouth softening and heating under his.
"It's an education to watch her, isn't it?"
Roman jerked himself back as Bob eased over to pluck a sandwich from the tray. "What?"
"Charity. Watching her dance is an education." He popped the tiny sandwich into his mouth. "She tried to teach me once, hoping I'd be able to entertain some of the ladies on occasions like this. Trouble is, I not only have two left feet, I have two left legs." He gave a cheerful shrug and reached for another sandwich.
"Did you get the computer fixed?"
"Yeah. Just a couple of minor glitches." The little triangle of bread disappeared. Roman caught a hint of nerves in the way Bob's knuckle tapped against the server. "I can't teach Charity about circuit boards and software any more than she can teach me the samba. How's the work going?"
"Well enough." He watched as Bob poured a cup of tea and added three sugars to it. "I should be done in two or three weeks."
"She'll find something else for you to do." He glanced over to where Charity and a new partner were dancing a foxtrot. "She's always got a new idea for this place. Lately she's been making noises about adding on a sun room and putting in one of those whirlpool tubs."
Roman lit a cigarette. He was watching the guests now, making mental notes to pass on to Conby. There were two men who seemed to be alone, though they were chatting with other members of the tour group. Block stood by the doors, holding a plate full of sandwiches that he was dispatching with amazing ease and grinning at no one in particular.
"The inn must be doing well."
"Oh, it's stable." Bob turned his attention to the petits fours. "A couple of years ago things were a little rocky, but Charity would always find a way to keep the ship afloat. Nothing's more important to her."
Roman was silent for a moment. "I don't know much about the hotel business, but she seems to know what she's doing."
"Inside and out." Bob chose a cake with pink frosting. "Charity is the inn."
"Have you worked for her long?"
"About two and a half years. She couldn't really afford me, but she wanted to turn things around, modernize the bookkeeping. Pump new life into the place, was what she said." Someone put on a jitterbug, and he grinned. "She did just that."
"Apparently."
"So you're from back east." Bob paused for a moment, then continued when Roman made no comment. "How long are you planning to stay?"
"As long as it takes."
He took a long sip of tea. "As long as what takes?"
"The job." Roman glanced idly toward the west wing. "I like to finish what I start."
"Yeah. Well ..." He arranged several petits fours on a plate. "I'm going to go offer these to the ladies and hope they let me eat them."
Roman watched him pass Block and exchange a quick word with him before he crossed the room. Wanting time to think, Roman slipped back into the west wing.
It was still raining when he came back hours later. Music was playing, some slow, melodic ballad from the fifties. The room was dimmer now, lit only by the fire and a glass-globed lamp. It was empty, too, except for Charity, who was busy tidying up, humming along with the music.
"Party over?"
She glanced around, then went hurriedly back to stacking cups and plates. "Yes. You didn't stay long."
"I had work to do."
Because she wanted to keep moving, she switched to emptying ashtrays. She'd held on to her guilt long enough. "I was tired this morning, but that's no excuse for being rude to you. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that you couldn't enjoy yourself for a few hours."
He didn't want to accept an apology that he knew he didn't deserve. "I enjoy the work."
That only made her feel worse. "Be that as it may, I don't usually go around barking orders. I was angry with you."
"Was?"
She looked up, and her eyes were clear and direct. "Am. But that's my problem. If it helps, I'm every bit as angry with myself for acting like a child because you didn't let things get out of hand last night."
Uncomfortable, he picked up the wine decanter and poured a glass. "You didn't act like a child."
"A woman scorned, then, or something equally dramatic. Try not to contradict me when I'm apologizing."
Despite his best efforts, his lips curved against the rim of his glass. If he didn't watch himself he could find he was crazy about her. "All right. Is there more?"
"Just a little." She picked up one of the few petits fours that were left over, debated with herself, then popped it into her mouth. "I shouldn't let my personal feelings interfere with my running of the inn. The problem is, almost everything I think or feel connects with the inn."
"Neither of us were thinking of the inn last night. Maybe that's the problem."
"Maybe."
"Do you want the couch moved back?"
"Yes." Business as usual, Charity told herself as she walked over to lift her end. The moment it was in place she scooted around to plump the pillows. "I saw you dancing with Miss Millie. It thrilled her."
"I like her."
"I think you do," Charity said slowly, straightening and studying him. "You're not the kind of man who likes easily."
"No."
She wanted to go to him, to lift a hand to his cheek. That was ridiculous, she told herself. Apology notwithstanding, she was still angry with him for last night. "Has life been so hard?" she murmured.
"No."
With a little laugh, she shook her head. "Then again, you wouldn't tell me if it had been. I have to learn not to ask you questions. Why don't we call a truce, Roman? Life's too short for bad feelings."
"I don't have any bad feelings toward you, Charity."
She smiled a little. "It's tempting, but I'm not going to ask what kind of feelings you do have."
"I wouldn't be able to tell you, because I haven't figured it out." He was amazed that the words had come out. After draining the wine, he set the empty glass aside.
"Well." Nonplussed, she pushed her hair back with both hands. "That's the first thing you've told me I can really understand. Looks like we're in the same boat. Do I take it we have a truce?"
"Sure."
She glanced back as another record dropped onto the turntable. "This is one of my favorites. 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.' " She was smiling again when she looked back at him. "You never asked me to dance."
"No, I didn't."
"Miss Millie claims you're very smooth." She held out a hand in a gesture that was as much a peace offering as an invitation. Unable to resist, he took it in his. Their eyes stayed locked as he drew her slowly toward him.
A fire simmered in the grate. Rain pattered against the windows. The record was old and scratchy, the tune hauntingly sad. Whether they wanted it or not, their bodies fitted. Her hand slid gently over his shoulder, his around her waist. With their faces close, they began to dance.
The added height from her heels brought her eyes level with his. He could smell the light fragrance that seemed so much a part of her. Seduced by it, he brought her closer, slowly. Their thighs brushed. Still closer. Her body melted against his.
It was so quiet. There was only the music, the rain, the hissing of the fire. Gloomy light swirled into the room. He could feel her heart beating against his, quick now, and not too steady.
His wasn't any too steady now, either.
Was that all it took? he wondered. Did he only have to touch her to think that she was the beginning and the end of everything? And to wish ... His hand slid up her back, fingers spreading until they tangled in her hair. To wish she could belong to him.
He wasn't sure when that thought had sunk its roots in him. Perhaps it had begun the first moment he had seen her. She was---should have been---unattainable for him. But when she was in his arms, warm, just bordering on pliant, dozens of possibilities flashed through his head.
She wanted to smile, to make some light, easy comment. But she couldn't push the words out. Her throat was locked. The way he was looking at her now, as if she were the only woman he had ever seen or ever wanted to see, made her forget that the dance was supposed to be a gesture of friendship.
She might never be his friend, she knew, no matter how hard she tried. But with his eyes on hers she understood how easily she could be his lover.
Maybe it was wrong, but it didn't seem to matter as they glided across the floor. The song spoke of love betrayed, but she heard only poetry. She felt her will ebb away even as the music swelled inside her head. No, it didn't seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter as long as she went on swaying in his arms.
She didn't even try to think, never attempted to reason. Following her heart, she pressed her lips to his.
Instant. Irresistible. Irrevocable. Emotions funneled from one to the other, then merged in a torrent of need. She didn't expect him to be gentle, though her kiss had offered comfort, as well as passion. He dived into it, into her, with a speed and force that left her reeling, then fretting for more.
So this was what drove people to do mad, desperate acts, she thought as their tongues tangled. This wild, painful pleasure, once tasted, would never be forgotten, would always be craved. She wrapped her arms around his neck as she gave herself to it.
With quick, rough kisses he drove them both to the edge. It was more than desire, he knew. Desire had never hurt, not deeply. It was like a scratch, soon forgotten, easily healed. This was a raw, deep wound.
Lust had never erased every coherent thought from his mind. Still, he could only think of her. Those thoughts were jumbled, and all of them were forbidden. Desperate, he ran his lips over her face, while wild fantasies of touching, of tasting every inch of her whirled in his head. It wouldn't be enough. It would never be enough. No matter how much he took from her, she would draw him back. And she could make him beg. The certainty of it terrified him.
She was trembling again, even as she strained against him. Her soft gasps and sighs pushed him toward the brink of reason. He found her mouth again and feasted on it.
He hardly recognized the change, could find no reason for it. All at once she was like glass in his arms, something precious, something fragile, something he needed to protect and defend. He lifted his hands to her face, his fingers light and cautiously caressing. His mouth, ravenous only a moment before, gentled.
Stunned, she swayed. New, vibrant emotions poured into her. Weak from the onslaught, she let her head fall back. Her arms slipped, boneless, to her sides. There was beauty here, a soft, shimmering beauty she had never known existed. Tenderness did what passion had not yet accomplished. As freely as a bird taking wing, her heart flew out to him.
Love, first experienced, was devastating. She felt tears burn the back of her eyes, heard her own quiet moan of surrender. And she tasted the glory of it as his lips played gently with hers.
She would always remember that one instant when the world changed---the music, the rain, the scent of fresh flowers. Nothing would ever be quite the same again. Nor would she ever want it to be.
Shaken, she drew back to lift a hand to her spinning head. "Roman---"
"Come with me." Unwilling to think, he pulled her against him again. "I want to know what it's like to be with you, to undress you, to touch you."
With a moan, she surrendered to his mouth again.
"Charity, Mae wants to---" Lori stopped on a dime at the top of the stairs. After clearing her throat, she stared at the painting on the opposite wall as if it fascinated her. "Excuse me. I didn't mean to ..."
Charity had jerked back like a spring and was searching for composure. "It's all right. What is it, Lori?"
"It's, well ... Mae and Dolores ... Maybe you could come down to the kitchen when you get a minute." She rushed down the stairs, grinning to herself.
"I should ..." Charity paused to draw in a steadying breath but managed only a shaky one. "I should go down." She retreated a step. "Once they get started, they need---" She broke off when Roman took her arm. He waited until she lifted her head and looked at him again.
"Things have changed."
It sounded so simple when he said it. "Yes. Yes, they have."
"Right or wrong, Charity, we'll finish this."
"No." She was far from calm, but she was very determined. "If it's right, we'll finish it. I'm not going to pretend I don't want you, but you're right when you say things have changed, Roman. You see, I know what I'm feeling now, and I have to get used to it."
He tightened his grip when she turned to go. "What are you feeling?"
She couldn't have lied if she'd wanted to. Dishonesty was abhorrent to her. When it came to feelings, she had neither the ability nor the desire to suppress them. "I'm in love with you."
His fingers uncurled from her arm. Very slowly, very carefully, as if he were retreating from some dangerous beast, he released her.
She read the shock on his face. That was understandable. And she read the distrust. That was painful. She gave him a last unsmiling look before she turned away.
"Apparently we both have to get used to it."
She was lying. Roman told himself that over and over as he paced the floor in his room. If not to him, then certainly to herself. People seemed to find love easy to lie about.
He stopped by the window and stared out into the dark. The rain had stopped, and the moon was cruising in and out of the clouds. He jerked the window open and breathed in the damp, cool air. He needed something to clear his head.
She was working on him. Annoyed, he turned away from the view of trees and flowers and started pacing again. The easy smiles, the openhanded welcome, the casual friendliness ... then the passion, the uninhibited response, the seduction. He wanted to believe it was a trap, even though his well-trained mind found the idea absurd.
She had no reason to suspect him. His cover was solid. Charity thought of him as a drifter, passing through long enough to take in some sights and pick up a little loose change. It was he who was setting the trap.
He dropped down on the bed and lit a cigarette, more out of habit than because he wanted one. Lies were part of his job, a part he was very good at. She hadn't lied to him, he reflected as he inhaled. But she was mistaken. He had made her want, and she had justified her desire for a relative stranger by telling herself she was in love.
But if it was true ...
He couldn't allow himself to think that way. Leaning back against the headboard, he stared at the blank wall. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of wondering what it would be like to be loved, and especially not what it would be like to be loved by a woman to whom love would mean a lifetime. He couldn't afford any daydreams about belonging, about having someone belong to him. Even if she hadn't been part of his assignment he would have to sidestep Charity Ford.
She would think of love, then of white picket fences, Sunday dinners and evenings by the fire. He was no good for her. He would never be any good for her. Roman DeWinter, he thought with a mirthless smile. Always on the wrong side of the tracks. A questionable past, an uncertain future. There was nothing he could offer a woman like Charity.
But God, he wanted her. The need was eating away at his insides. He knew she was upstairs now. He imagined her curled up in the big four-poster, under white blankets, perhaps with a white candle burning low on the table.
He had only to climb the stairs and walk through the door. She wouldn't send him away. If she tried, it would take him only moments to break down her resistance. Believing herself in love, she would yield, then open her arms to him. He ached to be in them, to sink into that bed, into her, and let oblivion take them both.
But she had asked for time. He wasn't going to deny her what he needed himself. In the time he gave her he would use all his skill to do the one thing he knew how to do for her. He would prove her innocence.
Roman watched the tour group check out the following morning. Perched on a stepladder in the center of the lobby, he took his time changing bulbs in the ceiling fixture. The sun was out now, full and bright, bathing the lobby in light as a few members of the tour loitered after breakfast.
At the front desk, Charity was chatting with Block. He was wearing a fresh white shirt and his perpetual smile. Taking a calculator from his briefcase, he checked to see if Charity's tallies matched his own.
Bob poked his head out of the office and handed her a computer printout. Roman didn't miss the quick, uncertain look Bob sent in his direction before he shut himself away again.
Charity and Block compared lists. Still smiling, he took a stack of bills out of his briefcase. He paid in Canadian, cash. Having already adjusted the bill to take the exchange rate into account, Charity locked the cash away in a drawer, then handed Block his receipt.
"Always a pleasure, Roger."
"Your little party saved the day," he told her. "My people consider this the highlight of the tour."
Pleased, she smiled at him. "They haven't seen Mount Rainier yet."
"You're going to get some repeaters out of this." He patted her hand, then checked his watch. "Time to move them out. See you next week."
"Safe trip, Roger." She turned to make change for a departing guest, then sold a few postcards and a few souvenir key chains with miniature whales on them.
Roman replaced the globe on the ceiling fixture, taking his time until the lobby was clear again. "Isn't it strange for a company like that to pay cash?"
Distracted from her reservations list, Charity glanced up at him. "We never turn down cash." She smiled at him as she had promised herself she would. Her feelings, her problem, she reminded herself as he climbed down from the ladder. She only wished the hours she'd spent soul-searching the night before had resulted in a solution.
"It seems like they'd charge, or pay by check."
"It's their company policy. Believe me, with a small, independent hotel, a cash-paying customer like Vision can make all the difference."
"I'll bet. You've been dealing with them for a while?"
"A couple of years. Why?"
"Just curious. Block doesn't look much like a tour guide."
"Roger? No, I guess he looks more like a wrestler." She went back to her papers. It was difficult to make small talk when her feelings were so close to the surface. "He does a good job."
"Yeah. I'll be upstairs."
"Roman." There was so much she wanted to say, but she could feel, though they were standing only a few feet apart, that he had distanced himself from her. "We never discussed a day off," she began. "You're welcome to take Sunday, if you like."
"Maybe I will."
"And if you'd give Bob your hours at the end of the week, he generally takes care of payroll."
"All right. Thanks."
A young couple with a toddler walked out of the dining room. Roman left her to answer their questions on renting a boat.
It wasn't going to be easy to talk to him, Charity decided later. But she had to do it. She'd spent all morning on business, she'd double-checked the housekeeping in the cabins, she'd made every phone call on her list, and if Mae's comments were anything to go on she'd made a nuisance of herself in the kitchen.
She was stalling.
That wasn't like her. All her life she'd made a habit of facing her problems head-on and plowing through them. Not only with business, she thought now. Personal problems had always been given the same kind of direct approach. She had handled being parentless. Even as a child she had never evaded the sometimes painful questions about her background.
But then, she'd had her grandfather. He'd been so solid, so loving. He'd helped her understand that she was her own person. Just as he'd helped her through her first high-school crush, Charity remembered.
He wasn't here now, and she wasn't a fifteen-year-old mooning over the captain of the debating team. But if he had taught her anything, it was that honest feelings were nothing to be ashamed of.
Armed with a thermos full of coffee, she walked into the west wing. She wished it didn't feel so much like bearding the lion in his den.
He'd finished the parlor. The scent of fresh paint was strong, though he'd left a window open to air it out. The doors still had to be hung and the floors varnished, but she could already imagine the room with sheer, billowy curtains and the faded floral-print rug she'd stored in the attic.
From the bedroom beyond, she could hear the buzz of an electric saw. A good, constructive sound, she thought as she pushed the door open to peek inside.
His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he bent over the wood he had laid across a pair of sawhorses. Wood dust flew, dancing gold in the sunlight. His hands, and his arms where he'd rolled his sleeves up past the elbow, were covered with it. He'd used a bandanna to keep the hair out of his eyes. He didn't hum while he worked, as she did. Or talk to himself, she mused, as George had. But, watching him, she thought she detected a simple pleasure in doing a job and doing it well.
He could do things, she thought as she watched him measure the wood for the next cut. Good things, even important things. She was sure of it. Not just because she loved him, she realized. Because it was in him. When a woman spent all her life entertaining strangers in her home, she learned to judge, and to see.
She waited until he put the saw down before she pushed the door open. Before she could speak he whirled around. Her step backward was instinctive, defensive. It was ridiculous, she told herself, but she thought that if he'd had a weapon he'd have drawn it.
"I'm sorry." The nerves she had managed to get under control were shot to hell. "I should have realized I'd startle you."
"It's all right." He settled quickly, though it annoyed him to have been caught off guard. Perhaps if he hadn't been thinking of her he would have sensed her.
"I needed to do some things upstairs, so I thought I'd bring you some coffee on my way." She set the thermos on the stepladder, then wished she'd kept it, as her empty hands made her feel foolish. "And I wanted to check how things were going. The parlor looks great."
"It's coming along. Did you label the paint?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Because it was all done in this tidy printing on the lid of each can in the color of the paint. That seemed like something you'd do."
"Obsessively organized?" She made a face. "I can't seem to help it."
"I liked the way you had the paintbrushes arranged according to size."
She lifted a brow. "Are you making fun of me?"
"Yeah."
"Well, as long as I know." Her nerves were calmer now. "Want some of this coffee?"
"Yeah. I'll get it."
"You've got sawdust all over your hands." Waving him aside, she unscrewed the top. "I take it our truce is back on."
"I didn't realize it had been off."
She glanced back over her shoulder, then looked around and poured the coffee into the plastic cup. "I made you uncomfortable yesterday. I'm sorry."
He accepted the cup and sat down on a sawhorse. "You're putting words in my mouth again, Charity."
"I don't have to this time. You looked as if I'd hit you with a brick." Restless, she moved her shoulders. "I suppose I might have reacted the same way if someone had said they loved me out of the blue like that. It must have been pretty startling, seeing as we haven't known each other for long."
Finding he had no taste for it, he set the coffee aside. "You were reacting to the moment."
"No." She turned back to him, knowing it was important to talk face-to-face. "I thought you might think that. In fact, I even considered playing it safe and letting you. I'm lousy at deception. It seemed more fair to tell you that I'm not in the habit of ... what I mean is, I don't throw myself at men as a rule. The truth is, you're the first."
"Charity." He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling out the bandanna and sending more wood dust scattering. "I don't know what to say to you."
"You don't have to say anything. The fact is, I came in here with my little speech all worked out. It was a pretty good one, too ... calm, understanding, a couple of dashes of humor to keep it light. I'm screwing it up."
She kicked a scrap of wood into the corner before she paced to the window. Columbine and bluebells grew just below in a bed where poppies were waiting to burst into color. On impulse, she pushed up the window to breathe in their faint, fragile scents.
"The point is," she began, hating herself for keeping her back to him, "we can't pretend I didn't say it. I can't pretend I don't feel it. That doesn't mean I expect you to feel the same way, because I don't."
"What do you expect?"
He was right behind her. She jumped when his hand gripped her shoulder. Gathering her courage, she turned around. "For you to be honest with me." She was speaking quickly now, and she didn't notice his slight, automatic retreat. "I appreciate the fact that you don't pretend to love me. I may be simple, Roman, but I'm not stupid. I know it might be easier to lie, to say what you think I want to hear."
"You're not simple," he murmured, lifting a hand and brushing it against her cheek. "I've never met a more confusing, complicated woman."
Shock came first, then pleasure. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. No one's ever accused me of being complicated."
He'd meant to lower his hand, but she had already lifted hers and clasped it. "I didn't mean it as a compliment."
That made her grin. Relaxed again, she sat back on the windowsill. "Even better. I hope this means we're finished feeling awkward around each other."
"I don't know what I feel around you." He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders, then down to the elbows again. "But awkward isn't the word for it."
Touched---much too deeply---she rose. "I have to go."
"Why?"
"Because it's the middle of the day, and if you kiss me I might forget that."
Already aroused, he eased her forward. "Always organized."
"Yes." She put a hand to his chest to keep some distance between them. "I have some invoices I have to go over upstairs." Holding her breath, she backed toward the door. "I do want you, Roman. I'm just not sure I can handle that part of it."
Neither was he, he thought after she shut the door. With another woman he would have been certain that physical release would end the tension. With Charity he knew that making love with her would only add another layer to the hold she had on him.
And she did have a hold on him. It was time to admit that, and to deal with it.
Perhaps he'd reacted so strongly to her declaration of love because he was afraid, as he'd never been afraid of anything in his life, that he was falling in love with her.
"Roman!" He heard the delight in Charity's voice when she called to him. He swung open the door and saw her standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. "Come up. Hurry. I want you to see them."
She disappeared, leaving him wishing she'd called him anyplace but that innocently seductive bedroom.
When he walked into her sitting room, she called again, impatience in her tone now. "Hurry. I don't know how long they'll stay."
She was sitting on the windowsill, her upper body out the opening, her long legs hooked just above the ankles. There was music playing, something vibrant, passionate. How was it he had never thought of classical music as passionate?
"Damn it, Roman, you're going to miss them. Don't just stand in the doorway. I didn't call you up to tie you to the bedposts."
Because he felt like a fool, he crossed to her. "There goes my night."
"Very funny. Look." She was holding a brass spy glass, and she pointed with it now, out to sea. "Orcas."
He leaned out the window and followed her guiding hand. He could see a pair of shapes in the distance, rippling the water as they swam. Fascinated, he took the spyglass from Charity's hand.
"There are three of them," he said. Delighted, he joined her on the windowsill. Their legs were aligned now, and he rested his hand absently on her knee. This time, instead of fire, there was simple warmth.
"Yes, there's a calf. I think it might be the same pod I spotted a few days ago." She closed a hand over his as they both stared out to sea. "Great, aren't they?"
"Yeah, they are." He focused on the calf, which was just visible between the two larger whales. "I never really expected to see any."
"Why? The island's named after them." She narrowed her eyes, trying to follow their path. She didn't have the heart to ask Roman for the glass. "My first clear memory of seeing one was when I was about four. Pop had me out on this little excuse for a fishing boat. One shot up out of the water no more than eight or ten yards away. I screamed my lungs out." Laughing, she leaned back against the windowframe. "I thought it was going to swallow us whole, like Jonah or maybe Pinocchio."
Roman lowered the glass for a moment. "Pinocchio?"
"Yes, you know the puppet who wanted to be a real boy. Jiminy Cricket, the Blue Fairy. Anyway, Pop finally calmed me down. It followed us for ten or fifteen minutes. After that, I nagged him mercilessly to take me out again."
"Did he?"
"Every Monday afternoon that summer. We didn't always see something, but they were great days, the best days. I guess we were a pod, too, Pop and I." She turned her face into the breeze. "I was lucky to have him as long as I did, but there are times---like this---when I can't help wishing he were here."
"Like this?"
"He loved to watch them," she said quietly. "Even when he was ill, really ill, he would sit for hours at the window. One afternoon I found him sitting there with the spyglass on his lap. I thought he'd fallen asleep, but he was gone." There was a catch in her breath when she slowly let it out. "He would have wanted that, to just slip away while watching for his whales. I haven't been able to take the boat out since he died." She shook her head. "Stupid."
"No." He reached for her hand for the first time and linked his fingers with hers. "It's not."
She turned her face to his again. "You can be a nice man!" The phone rang, and she groaned but slipped dutifully from the windowsill to answer it.
"Hello. Yes, Bob. What does he mean he won't deliver them? New management be damned, we've been dealing with that company for ten years. Yes, all right. I'll be right there. Oh, wait." She glanced up from the phone. "Roman, are they still there?"
"Yes. Heading south. I don't know if they're feeding or just taking an afternoon stroll."
She laughed and put the receiver at her ear again. "Bob--- What? Yes, that was Roman." Her brow lifted. "That's right. We're in my room. I called Roman up here because I spotted a pod out my bedroom window. You might want to tell any of the guests you see around. No, there's no reason for you to be concerned. Why should there be? I'll be right down."
She hung up, shaking her head. "It's like having a houseful of chaperons," she muttered.
"Problem?"
"No. Bob realized that you were in my bedroom---or rather that we were alone in my bedroom---and got very big-brotherly. Typical." She opened a drawer and pulled out a fabric-covered band. In a few quick movements she had her hair caught back from her face. "Last year Mae threatened to poison a guest who made a pass at me. You'd think I was fifteen."
He turned to study her. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a silk-screened map of the island. "Yes, you would."
"I don't take that as a compliment." But she didn't have time to argue. "I have to deal with a small crisis downstairs. You're welcome to stay and watch the whales." She started toward the door, but then she stopped. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Can you build shelves?"
"Probably."
"Great. I think the parlor in the family suite could use them. We'll talk about it."
He heard her jog down the stairs. Whatever crisis there might be at the other end of the inn, he was sure she would handle it. In the meantime, she had left him alone in her room. It would be a simple matter to go through her desk again, to see if she'd left anything that would help him move his investigation forward.
It should be simple, anyway. Roman looked out to sea again. It should be something he could do without hesitation. But he couldn't. She trusted him. Sometime during the past twenty-four hours he reached the point where he couldn't violate that trust.
That made him useless. Swearing, Roman leaned back against the windowframe. She had, without even being aware of it, totally undermined his ability to do his job. It would be best for him to call Conby and have himself taken off the case. It would simply be a matter of him turning in his resignation now, rather than at the end of the assignment. It was a question of duty.
He wasn't going to do that, either.
He needed to stay. It had nothing to do with being loved, with feeling at home. He needed to believe that. He also needed to finish his job and prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Charity's innocence. That was a question of loyalty.
Conby would have said that his loyalty belonged to the Bureau, not to a woman he had known for less than a week. And Conby would have been wrong, Roman thought as he set aside the spyglass. There were times, rare times, when you had a chance to do something good, something right. Something that proved you gave a damn. That had never mattered to him before, but it mattered now.
If the only thing he could give Charity was a clear name, he intended to give it to her. And then get out of her life.
Rising, he looked around the room. He wished he were nothing more than the out-of-work drifter Charity had taken into her home. If he were maybe he would have the right to love her. As it was, all he could do was save her.
The weather was warming. Spring was busting loose, full of glory and color and scent. The island was a treasure trove of wildflowers, leafy trees and birdsong. At dawn, with thin fingers of fog over the water, it was a mystical, timeless place.
Roman stood at the side of the road and watched the sun come up as he had only days before. He didn't know the names of the flowers that grew in tangles on the roadside. He didn't know the song of a jay from that of a sparrow. But he knew Charity was out running with her dog and that she would pass the place he stood on her return.
He needed to see her, to talk to her, to be with her.
The night before, he had broken into her cash drawer and examined the bills she had neatly stacked and marked for today's deposit. There had been over two thousand dollars in counterfeit Canadian currency. His first impulse had been to tell her, to lay everything he knew and needed to know out in front of her. But he had quashed that. Telling her wouldn't prove her innocence to men like Conby.
He had enough to get Block. And nearly enough, he thought, to hang Bob along with him. But he couldn't get them without casting shadows on Charity. By her own admission, and according to the statements of her loyal staff, a pin couldn't drop in the inn without her knowing it.
If that was so, how could he prove that there had been a counterfeiting and smuggling ring going on under her nose for nearly two years?
He believed it, as firmly as he had ever believed anything. Conby and the others at the Bureau wanted facts. Roman drew on his cigarette and watched the fog melt away with the rising of the sun. He had to give them facts. Until he could, he would give them nothing.
He could wait and make sure Conby dropped the ax on Block on the guide's next trip to the inn. That would give Roman time. Time enough, he promised himself, to make certain Charity wasn't caught in the middle. When it went down, she would be stunned and hurt. She'd get over it. When it was over, and she knew his part in it, she would hate him. He would get over that. He would have to.
He heard a car and glanced over, then returned his gaze to the water. He wondered if he could come back someday and stand in this same spot and wait for Charity to run down the road toward him.
Fantasies, he told himself, pitching his half-finished cigarette into the dirt. He was wasting too much time on fantasies.
The car was coming fast, its engine protesting, its muffler rattling. He looked over again, annoyed at having his morning and his thoughts disturbed.
His annoyance saved his life.
It took him only an instant to realize what was happening, and a heartbeat more to evade it. As the car barreled toward him, he leaped aside, tucking and rolling into the brush. A wave of displaced air flattened the grass before the car's rear tires gripped the roadbed again. Roman's gun was in his hand even as he scrambled to his feet. He caught a glimpse of the car's rear end as it sped around a curve. There wasn't even time to swear before he heard Charity's scream.
He ran, unaware of the fire in his thigh where the car had grazed him and the blood on his arm where he had rolled into a rock. He had faced death. He had killed. But he had never understood terror until this moment, with her scream still echoing in his head. He hadn't understood agony until he'd seen Charity sprawled beside the road.
The dog was curled beside her, whimpering, nuzzling her face with her nose. He turned at Roman's approach and began to growl, then stood, barking.
"Charity." Roman crouched beside her, and felt for a pulse, his hand shaking. "Okay, baby. You're going to be okay," he murmured to her as he checked for broken bones.
Had she been hit? A sickening vision of her being tossed into the air as the car slammed into her pulsed through his head. Using every ounce of control he possessed, he blocked it out. She was breathing. He held on to that. The dog whined as he turned her head and examined the gash on her temple. It was the only spot of color on her face. He stanched the blood with his bandanna, cursing when he felt its warmth on his fingers.
Grimly he replaced his weapon, then lifted her into his arms. Her body seemed boneless. Roman tightened his grip, half afraid she might melt through his arms. He talked to her throughout the half-mile walk back to the inn, though she remained pale and still.
Bob raced out the front door of the inn. "My God! What happened? What the hell did you do to her?"
Roman paused just long enough to aim a dark, furious look at him. "I think you know better. Get me the keys to the van. She needs a hospital."
"What's all this?" Mae came through the door, wiping her hands on her apron. "Lori said she saw---" She went pale, but then she began to move with surprising speed, elbowing Bob aside to reach Charity. "Get her upstairs."
"I'm taking her to the hospital."
"Upstairs," Mae repeated, moving back to open the door for him. "We'll call Dr. Mertens. It'll be faster. Come on, boy. Call the doctor, Bob. Tell him to hurry."
Roman passed through the door, the dog at his heels. "And call the police," he added. "Tell them they've got a hit-and-run."
Wasting no time on words, Mae led the way upstairs. She was puffing a bit by the time she reached the second floor, but she never slowed down. When they moved into Charity's room, her color had returned.
"Set her on the bed, and be careful about it." She yanked the lacy coverlet aside and then just as efficiently, brushed Roman aside. "There, little girl, you'll be just fine. Go in the bathroom," she told Roman. "Get me a fresh towel." Easing a hip onto the bed, she cupped Charity's face with a broad hand and examined her head wound. "Looks worse than it is." She let out a long breath. After taking the towel Roman offered, she pressed it against Charity's temple. "Head wounds bleed heavy, make a mess. But it's not too deep."
He only knew that her blood was still on his hands. "She should be coming around."
"Give her time. I want you to tell me what happened later, but I'm going to undress her now, see if she's hurt anywhere else. You go on and wait downstairs."
"I'm not leaving her."
Mae glanced up. Her lips were pursed, and lines of worry fanned out from her eyes. After a moment, she simply nodded. "All right, then, but you'll be of some use. Get me the scissors out of her desk. I want to cut this shirt off."
So that was the way of it, Mae mused as she untied Charity's shoes. She knew a man who was scared to death and fighting his heart when she saw one. Well, she'd just have to get her girl back on her feet. She didn't doubt for a moment that Charity could deal with the likes of Roman DeWinter.
"You can stay," she told him when he handed her the scissors. "But whatever's been going on between the two of you, you'll turn your back till I make her decent."
He balled his hands into impotent fists and shoved them into his pockets as he spun around. "I want to know where she's hurt."
"Just hold your horses." Mae peeled the shirt away and put her emotions on hold as she examined the scrapes and bruises. "Look in that top right-hand drawer and get me out a nightshirt. One with buttons. And keep your eyes to yourself," she added, "or I'll throw you out of here."
In answer, he tossed a thin white nightshirt onto the bed. "I don't care what she's wearing. I want to know how badly she's hurt."
"I know, boy." Mae's voice softened as she slipped Charity's limp arm into a sleeve. "She's got some bruises and scrapes, that's all. Nothing broken. The cut on her head's going to need some tending, but cuts heal. Why, she hurt herself worse when she fell out of a tree some time back. There's my girl. She's coming around."
He turned to look then, shirt or no shirt. But Mae had already done up the buttons. He controlled the urge to go to her---barely---and, keeping his distance, watched Charity's lashes flutter. The sinking in his stomach was pure relief. When she moaned, he wiped his clammy hands on his thighs.
"Mae?" As she struggled to focus her eyes, Charity reached out a hand. She could see the solid bulk of her cook, but little else. "What--- Oh, God, my head."
"Thumping pretty good, is it?" Mae's voice was brisk, but she cradled Charity's hand in hers. She would have kissed it if she'd thought no one would notice. "The doc'll fix that up."
"Doctor?" Baffled, Charity tried to sit up, but the pain exploded in her head. "I don't want the doctor."
"Never did, but you're having him just the same."
"I'm not going to ..." Arguing took too much effort. Instead, she closed her eyes and concentrated on clearing her mind. It was fairly obvious that she was in bed---but how the devil had she gotten there?
She'd been walking the dog, she remembered, and Ludwig had found a tree beside the road irresistible. Then ...
"There was a car," she said, opening her eyes again. "They must have been drunk or crazy. It seemed like they came right at me. If Ludwig hadn't already been pulling me off the road, I---" She wasn't quite ready to consider that. "I stumbled, I think. I don't know."
"It doesn't matter now," Mae assured her. "We'll figure it all out later."
After a brisk knock, the outside door opened. A short, spry little man with a shock of white hair hustled in. He carried a black bag and was wearing grubby overalls and muddy boots. Charity took one look, then closed her eyes again.
"Go away, Dr. Mertens. I'm not feeling well."
"She never changes." Mertens nodded to Roman, then walked over to examine his patient.
Roman slipped quietly out into the sitting room. He needed a moment to pull himself together, to quiet the rage that was building now that he knew she would be all right. He had lost his parents, he had buried his best friend, but he had never, never felt the kind of panic he had experienced when he had seen Charity bleeding and unconscious beside the road.
Taking out a cigarette, he went to the open window. He thought about the driver of the old, rusted Chevy that had run her down. Even as his rage cooled, Roman understood one thing with perfect clarity. It would be his pleasure to kill whoever had hurt her.
"Excuse me." Lori was standing in the hall doorway, wringing her hands. "The sheriff's here. He wants to talk to you, so I brought him up." She tugged at her apron and stared at the closed door on the other side of the room. "Charity?"
"The doctor's with her," Roman said. "She'll be fine."
Lori closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'll tell the others. Go on in, sheriff."
Roman studied the paunchy man, who had obviously been called out of bed. His shirttail was only partially tucked into his pants, and he was sipping a cup of coffee as he came into the room.
"You Roman DeWinter?"
"That's right."
"Sheriff Royce." He sat, with a sigh, on the arm of Charity's rose-colored Queen Anne chair. "What's this about a hit-and-run?"
"About twenty minutes ago somebody tried to run down Miss Ford."
Royce turned to stare at the closed door just the way Lori had done. "How is she?"
"Banged up. She's got a gash on her head and some bruises."
"Were you with her?" He pulled out a pad and a stubby pencil.
"No. I was about a quarter mile away. The car swerved at me, then kept going. I heard Charity scream. When I got to her, she was unconscious."
"Don't suppose you got a good look at the car?"
"Dark blue Chevy. Sedan, '67, '68. Muffler was bad. Right front fender was rusted through. Washington plates Alpha Foxtrot Juliet 847."
Royce lifted both brows as he took down the description. "You got a good eye."
"That's right."
"Good enough for you to guess if he ran you down on purpose?"
"I don't have to guess. He was aiming."
Without a flicker of an eye, Royce continued taking notes. He added a reminder to himself to do a routine check on Roman DeWinter. "He? Did you see the driver?"
"No," Roman said shortly. He was still cursing himself for that.
"How long have you been on the island, Mr. DeWinter?"
"Almost a week."
"A short time to make enemies."
"I don't have any---here---that I know of."
"That makes your theory pretty strange." Still scribbling, Royce glanced up. "There's nobody on the island who knows Charity and has a thing against her. If what you're saying's true, we'd be talking attempted murder."
Roman pitched his cigarette out the window. "That's just what we're talking about. I want to know who owns that car."
"I'll check it out."
"You already know."
Royce tapped his pad on his knee. "Yes, sir, you do have a good eye. I'll say this. Maybe I do know somebody who owns a car that fits your description. If I do, I know that that person wouldn't run over a rabbit on purpose, much less a woman. Then again, there's no saying you have to own a car to drive it."
Mae opened the connecting door, and he glanced up. "Well, now, Maeflower."
Mae's lips twitched slightly before she thinned them. "If you can't sit in a chair proper you can stand on your feet, Jack Royce."
Royce rose, grinning. "Mae and I went to school together," he explained. "She liked to bully me then, too. I don't suppose you've got any waffles on the menu today, Maeflower."
"Maybe I do. You find out who hurt my girl and I'll see you get some."
"I'm working on it." His face sobered again as he nodded toward the door. "Is she up to talking to me?"
"Done nothing but talk since she came around." Mae blinked back a flood of relieved tears. "Go ahead in."
Royce turned to Roman. "I'll be in touch."
"Doc said she could have some tea and toast." Mae sniffled, then made a production out of blowing her nose. "Hay fever," she said roughly. "I'm grateful you were close by when she was hurt."
"If I'd been closer she wouldn't have been hurt."
"And if she hadn't been walking that dog she'd have been in bed." She paused and gave Roman a level look. "I guess we could shoot him."
She surprised a little laugh out of him. "Charity might object to that."
"She wouldn't care to know you're out here brooding, either. Your arm's bleeding, boy."
He looked down dispassionately at the torn, bloodstained sleeve of his shirt. "Some."
"Can't have you bleeding all over the floor." She walked to the door, waving a hand. "Well, come on downstairs. I'll clean you up. Then you can bring the girl up some breakfast. I haven't got time to run up and down these steps all morning."
After the doctor had finished his poking and the sheriff had finished his questioning, Charity stared at the ceiling. She hurt everywhere there was to hurt. Her head especially, but the rest of her was throbbing right along in time.
The medication would take the edge off, but she wanted to keep her mind clear until she'd worked everything out. That was why she had tucked the pill Dr. Mertens had given her under her tongue until she'd been alone. As soon as she'd organized her thoughts she would swallow it and check into oblivion for a few hours.
She'd only caught a flash of the car, but it had seemed familiar. While she'd spoken with the sheriff she'd remembered. The car that had nearly run her over belonged to Mrs. Norton, a sweet, flighty lady who crocheted doilies and doll clothes for the local craft shops. Charity didn't think Mrs. Norton had ever driven over twenty-five miles an hour. That was a great deal less than the car had been doing when it had swerved at her that morning.
She hadn't seen the driver, not really, but she had the definite impression it had been a man. Mrs. Norton had been widowed for six years.
Then it was simple, Charity decided. Someone had gotten drunk, stolen Mrs. Norton's car, and taken it for a wild joyride around the island. They probably hadn't even seen her at the side of the road.
Satisfied, she eased herself up in the bed. The rest was for the sheriff to worry about. She had problems of her own.
The breakfast shift was probably in chaos. She thought she could rely on Lori to keep everyone calm. Then there was the butcher. She still had her list to complete for tomorrow's order. And she had yet to choose the photographs she wanted to use for the ad in the travel brochure. The deposit hadn't been paid, and the fireplace in cabin 3 was smoking.
What she needed was a pad, a pencil and a telephone. That was simple enough. She'd find all three at the desk in the sitting room. Carefully she eased her legs over the side of the bed. Not too bad, she decided, but she gave herself a moment to adjust before she tried to stand.
Annoyed with herself, she braced a hand on one of the bedposts. Her legs felt as though they were filled with Mae's whipped cream rather than muscle and bone.
"What the hell are you doing?"
She winced at the sound of Roman's voice, then gingerly turned her head toward the doorway. "Nothing," she said, and tried to smile.
"Get back in bed."
"I just have a few things to do."
She was swaying on her feet, as pale as the nightshirt that buttoned modestly high at the neck and skimmed seductively high on her thighs. Without a word, he set down the tray he was carrying, crossed to her and scooped her up in his arms.
"Roman, don't. I---"
"Shut up."
"I was going to lie back down in a minute," she began. "Right after---"
"Shut up," he repeated. He laid her on the bed, then gave up. Keeping his arms around her, he buried his face against her throat. "Oh, God, baby."
"It's all right." She stroked a hand through his hair. "Don't worry."
"I thought you were dead. When I found you I thought you were dead."
"Oh, I'm sorry." She rubbed at the tension at the back of his neck, trying to imagine how he must have felt. "It must have been awful, Roman. But it's only some bumps and bruises. In a couple of days they'll be gone and we'll forget all about it."
"I won't forget." He pulled himself away from her. "Ever."
The violence she saw in his eyes had her heart fluttering. "Roman, it was an accident. Sheriff Royce will take care of it."
He bit back the words he wanted to say. It was best that she believe it had been an accident. For now. He got up to get her tray. "Mae said you could eat."
She thought of the lists she had to make and decided she had a better chance getting around him if she cooperated. "I'll try. How's Ludwig?"
"Okay. Mae put him out and gave him a hambone."
"Ah, his favorite." She bit into the toast and pretended she had an appetite.
"How's your head?"
"Not too bad." It wasn't really a lie, she thought. She was sure a blow with a sledgehammer would have been worse. "No stitches." She pulled back her hair to show him a pair of butterfly bandages. A bruise was darkening around them. "You want to hold up some fingers and ask me how many I see?"
"No." He turned away, afraid he would explode. The last thing she needed was another outburst from him, he reminded himself. He wasn't the kind to fall apart---at least he hadn't been until he'd met her.
He began fiddling with bottles and bowls set around the room. She loved useless little things, he thought as he picked up a wand-shaped amethyst crystal. Feeling clumsy, he set it down again.
"The sheriff said the car swerved at you." She drank the soothing chamomile tea, feeling almost human again. "I'm glad you weren't hurt."
"Damn it, Charity." He whirled, then made an effort to get a handle on his temper. "No, I wasn't hurt." And he was going to see to it that she wasn't hurt again. "I'm sorry. This whole business has made me edgy."
"I know what you mean. Want some tea? Mae sent up two cups."
He glanced at the pretty flowered pot. "Not unless you've got some whiskey to go in it."
"Sorry, fresh out." Smiling again, she patted the bed. "Why don't you come sit down?"
"Because I'm trying to keep my hands off you."
"Oh." Her smile curved wider. It pleased her that she was resilient enough to feel a quick curl of desire. "I like your hands on me, Roman."
"Bad timing." Because he couldn't resist, he crossed to the bed to take her hand in his. "I care about you, Charity. I want you to believe that."
"I do."
"No." His fingers tightened insistently on hers. He knew he wasn't clever with words, but he needed her to understand. "It's different with you than it's ever been with anyone." Fighting a fresh wave of frustration, he relaxed his grip. "I can't give you anything else."
She felt her heart rise up in her throat. "If I had known I could get that much out of you I might have bashed my head on a rock before."
"You deserve more." He sat down and ran a gentle finger under the bruise on her temple.
"I agree." She brought his hand to her lips and watched his eyes darken. "I'm patient."
Something was moving inside him, and he was helpless to prevent it. "You don't know enough about me. You don't know anything about me."
"I know I love you. I figured you'd tell me the rest eventually."
"Don't trust me, Charity. Not so much."
There was trouble here. She wanted to smooth it from his face, but she didn't know how. "Have you done something so unforgivable, Roman?"
"I hope not. You should rest." Knowing he'd already said too much, he set her tray aside.
"I was going to, really. Right after I take care of a few things."
"The only thing you have to take care of today is yourself."
"That's very sweet of you, and as soon as I---"
"You're not getting out of bed for at least twenty-four hours."
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. What possible difference does it make whether I'm lying down or sitting down?"
"According to the doctor, quite a bit." He picked up a tablet from the nightstand. "Is this the medication he gave you?"
"Yes."
"The same medication that you were supposed to take before he left?"
She struggled to keep from pouting. "I'm going to take it after I make a few phone calls."
"No phone calls today."
"Now listen, Roman, I appreciate your concern, but I don't take orders from you."
"I know. You give them to me."
Before she could respond, he lowered his lips to hers. Here was gentleness again, whisper-soft, achingly warm. With a little sound of pleasure, she sank into it.
He'd thought it would be easy to take one, only one, fleeting taste. But his hand curled into a fist as he fought the need to demand more. She was so fragile now. He wanted to soothe, not arouse ... to comfort, not seduce. But in seconds he was both aroused and seduced.
When he started to pull back, she gave a murmur of protest and pressed him close again. She needed this sweetness from him, needed it more than any medication.
"Easy," he told her, clawing for his self-control. "I'm a little low on willpower, and you need rest."
"I'd rather have you."
She smiled at him, and his stomach twisted into knots. "Do you drive all men crazy?"
"I don't think so." Feeling on top of the world, she brushed his hair back from his brow. "Anyway, you're the first to ask."
"We'll talk about it later." Determined to do his best for her, he held out the pill. "Take this."
"Later."
"Uh-uh. Now."
With a sound of disgust, she popped the pill into her mouth, then picked up her cooling tea and sipped it. "There. Satisfied?"
He had to grin. "I've been a long way from satisfied since I first laid eyes on you, baby. Lift up your tongue."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. You're pretty good." He put a hand under her chin. "But I'm better. Let's have the pill."
She knew she was beaten. She took the pill out of her mouth, then made a production out of swallowing it. She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. "It might still be in there. Want to search me for it?"
"What I want---" he kissed her lightly "---is for you to stay in bed." He shifted his lips to her throat. "No calls, no paperwork, no sneaking downstairs." He caught her earlobe between his teeth and felt her shudder, and his own. "Promise."
"Yes." Her lips parted as his brushed over them. "I promise."
"Good." He sat back and picked up the tray. "I'll see you later."
"But---" She set her teeth as he walked to the door. "You play dirty, DeWinter."
"Yeah." He glanced back at her. "And to win."
He left her, knowing she would no more break her word than she would fly out of the window. He had business of his own to attend to.
An important part of Roman's training had been learning how to pursue an assignment in a thorough and objective manner. He had always found it second nature to do both. Until now. Still, for very personal reasons, he fully intended to be thorough.
When he left Charity, Roman expected to find Bob in the office, and he hoped to find him alone. He wasn't disappointed. Bob had the phone receiver at his ear and the computer monitor blinking above his fingers. After waving a distracted hand in Roman's direction, he went on with his conversation.
"I'll be happy to set that up for you and your wife, Mr. Parkington. That's a double room for the nights of the fifteenth and sixteenth of July."
"Hang up," Roman told him. Bob merely held up a finger, signaling a short wait.
"Yes, that's available with a private bath and includes breakfast. We'd be happy to help you arrange the rentals of kayaks during your stay. Your confirmation number is---"
Roman slammed a hand down on the phone, breaking the connection.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Wondering if I should bother to talk to you or just kill you."
Bob sprang out of his chair and managed to put the desk between him and Roman. "Look, I know you've had an upsetting morning---"
"Do you?" Roman didn't bother to try to outmaneuver. He simply stood where he was and watched Bob sweat. "Upsetting. That's a nice, polite word for it. But you're a nice, polite man, aren't you, Bob?"
Bob glanced at the door and wondered if he had a chance of getting that far. "We're all a bit edgy because of Charity's accident. You could probably use a drink."
Roman moved over to a stack of computer manuals and unearthed a small silver flask. "Yours?" he said. Bob stared at him. "I imagine you keep this in here for those long nights when you're working late---and alone. Wondering how I knew where to find it?" He set it aside. "I came across it when I broke in here a couple of nights ago and went through the books."
"You broke in?" Bob wiped the back of his hand over suddenly dry lips. "That's a hell of a way to pay Charity back for giving you a job."
"Yeah, you're right about that. Almost as bad as using her inn to pass counterfeit bills and slip undesirables in and out of the country."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Bob took one cautious sideways step toward the door. "I want you out of here, DeWinter. When I tell Charity what you've done---"
"But you're not going to tell her. You're not going to tell her a damn thing---yet. But you're going to tell me." One look stopped Bob's careful movement cold. "Try for the door and I'll break your leg." Roman tapped a cigarette out of his pack. "Sit down."
"I don't have to take this." But he took a step back, away from the door, and away from Roman. "I'll call the police."
"Go ahead." Roman lit the cigarette and watched him through a veil of smoke. It was a pity Bob was so easily cowed. He'd have liked an excuse to damage him. "I was tempted to tell Royce everything I knew this morning. The problem with that was that it would have spoiled the satisfaction of dealing with you and the people you're with personally. But go ahead and call him." Roman shoved the phone across the desk in Bob's direction. "I can find a way of finishing my business with you once you're inside."
Bob didn't ask him to explain. He had heard the cell door slam the moment Roman had walked into the room. "Listen, I know you're upset ..."
"Do I look upset?" Roman murmured.
No, Bob thought, his stomach clenched. He looked cold---cold enough to kill. Or worse. But there had to be a way out. There always was. "You said something about counterfeiting. Why don't you tell me what this is all about, and we'll try to settle this calm---?" Before he got the last word out he was choking as Roman hauled him out of the chair by the collar.
"Do you want to die?"
"No." Bob's fingers slid helplessly off Roman's wrists.
"Then cut the crap." Disgusted, Roman tossed him back into the chair. "There are two things Charity doesn't do around here. Only two. She doesn't cook, and she doesn't work the computer. Can't would be a better word. She can't cook because Mae didn't teach her. Pretty easy to figure why. Mae wanted to rule in the kitchen, and Charity wanted to let her."
He moved to the window and casually lowered the shades so that the room was dim and private. "It's just as simple to figure why she can't work a basic office computer. You didn't teach her, or you made the lessons so complicated and contradictory she never caught on. You want me to tell you why you did that?"
"She was never really interested." Bob swallowed, his throat raw. "She can do the basics when she has to, but you know Charity---she's more interested in people than machines. I show her all the printouts."
"All? You and I know you haven't shown her all of them. Should I tell you what I think is on those disks you've got hidden in the file drawer?"
Bob pulled out a handkerchief with fumbling fingers and mopped at his brow. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You keep the books for the inn, and for the little business you and your friends have on the side. I figure a man like you would keep backups, a little insurance in case the people you work for decided to cut you out." He opened a file drawer and dug out a disk. "We'll take a look at this later," he said, and tossed it onto the desk. "Two to three thousand a week washes through this place. Fifty-two weeks a year makes that a pretty good haul. Add that to the fee you charge to get someone back and forth across the border mixed with the tour group and you've got a nice, tidy sum."
"That's crazy." Barely breathing, Bob tugged at his collar. "You've got to know that's crazy."
"Did you know your references were still on file here?" Roman asked conversationally. "The problem is, they don't check out. You never worked for a hotel back in Ft. Worth, or in San Francisco."
"So I padded my chances a bit. That doesn't prove anything."
"I think we'll turn up something more interesting when we run your prints."
Bob stared down at the disk. Sometimes you could bluff, and sometimes you had to fold. "Can I have a drink?"
Roman picked up the flask, tossed it to him and waited while he twisted off the cap. "You made me for a cop, didn't you? Or you were worried enough to keep your ear to the ground. You heard me asking the wrong questions, were afraid I'd told Charity about the operation and passed it along to your friends."
"It didn't feel right." Bob wiped the vodka from his lips, then drank again. "I know a scam when I see one, and you made me nervous the minute I saw you."
"Why?"
"When you're in my business you get so you can spot cops. In the supermarket, on the street, buying underwear at a department store. It doesn't matter where, you get so you can make them."
Roman thought of himself and of the years he'd spent on the other side of the street. He'd made his share of cops, and he still could. "Okay. So what did you do?"
"I told Block I thought you were a plant, but he figured I was going loopy. I wanted to back off until you'd gone, but he wouldn't listen. Last night, when you went down for dinner, I looked through your room. I found a box of shells. No gun, just the shells. That meant you were wearing it. I called Block and told him I was sure you were a cop. You'd been spending a lot of time with Charity, so I figured she was working with you on it."
"So you tried to kill her."
"No, not me." Panicked, Bob pressed back in his chair. "I swear. I'm not a violent man, DeWinter. Hell, I like Charity. I wanted to pull out, take a breather. We'd already set up, another place, in the Olympic Mountains. I figured we could take a few weeks, run legit, then move on it. Block just said he'd take care of it, and I thought he meant we'd handle next week's tour on the level. That would give me time to fix everything here and get out. If I'd known what he was planning ..."
"What? Would you have warned her?"
"I don't know." Bob drained the flask, but the liquor did little to calm his nerves. "Look, I do scams, I do cons. I don't kill people."
"Who was driving the car?"
"I don't know. I swear it," he said. Roman took a step toward him, and he gripped the arms of his chair. "Listen, I got in touch with Block the minute this happened. He said he'd hired somebody. He couldn't have done it himself, because he was on the mainland. He said the guy wasn't trying to kill her. Block just wanted her out of the way for a few days. We've got a big shipment coming in and---" He broke off, knowing he was digging himself in deeper.
Roman merely nodded. "You're going to find out who was driving the car."
"Okay, sure." He made the promise without knowing if he could keep it. "I'll find out."
"You and I are going to work together for the next few days, Bob."
"But ... aren't you going to call Royce?"
"Let me worry about Royce. You're going to go on doing what you do best. Lying. Only now you're going to lie to Block. You do exactly what you're told and you'll stay alive. If you do a good job I'll put in a word for you with my superior. Maybe you can make a deal, turn state's evidence."
After resting a hip on the desk, Roman leaned closer. "If you try to check out, I'll hunt you down. I'll find you wherever you hide, and when I'm finished you'll wish I'd killed you."
Bob looked into Roman's eyes. He believed him. "What do you want me to do?"
"Tell me about the next shipment."
Charity was sick of it. It was bad enough that she'd given her word to Roman and had to stay in bed all day. She couldn't even use the phone to call the office and see what was going on in the world.
She'd tried to be good-humored about it, poking through the books and magazines that Lori had brought up to her. She'd even admitted---to herself---that there had been times, when things had gotten crazy at the inn, that she'd imagined having the luxury of an idle day in bed.
Now she had it, and she hated it.
The pill Roman had insisted she swallow had made her groggy. She drifted off periodically, only to wake later, annoyed that she didn't have enough control to stay awake and be bored. Because reading made her headache worse, she tried to work up some interest in the small portable television perched on the shelf across the room.
When she'd found The Maltese Falcon flickering in black and white she'd felt both pleasure and relief. If she had to be trapped in bed, it might as well be with Bogart. Even as Sam Spade succumbed to the Fat Man's drug, Charity's own medication sent her under. She awoke in a very poor temper to a rerun of a sitcom.
He'd made her promise to stay in bed, she thought, jabbing an elbow at her pillow. And he didn't even have the decency to spend five minutes keeping her company. Apparently he was too busy to fit a sickroom call into his schedule. That was fine for him, she decided, running around doing something useful while she was moldering between the sheets. It wasn't in her nature to do nothing, and if she had to do it for five minutes longer she was going to scream.
Charity smiled a bit as she considered that. Just what would he do if she let out one long bloodcurdling scream? It might be interesting to find out. Certainly more interesting, she decided, than watching a blond airhead jiggle around a set to the beat of a laugh track. Nodding, she sucked in her breath.
"What are you doing?"
She let it out again in a long huff as Roman pushed open the door. Pleasure came first, but she quickly buried it in resentment. "You're always asking me that."
"Am I?" He was carrying another tray. Charity distinctly caught the scent of Mae's prize chicken soup and her biscuits. "Well, what were you doing?"
"Dying of boredom. I think I'd rather be shot." After eyeing the tray, she decided to be marginally friendly. But not because she was glad to see him, she thought. It was dusk, and she hadn't eaten for hours. "Is that for me?"
"Possibly." He set the tray over her lap, then stayed close and took a long, hard look at her. There was no way for him to describe the fury he felt when he saw the bruises and the bandages. Just as there was no way for him to describe the sense of pleasure and relief he experienced when he saw the annoyance in her eyes and the color in her cheeks.
"I think you're wrong, Charity. You're going to live."
"No thanks to you." She dived into the soup. "First you trick a promise out of me, then you leave me to rot for the next twelve hours. You might have come up for a minute to see if I had lapsed into a coma."
He had come up, about the time Sam Spade had been unwrapping the mysterious bird, but she'd been sleeping. Nonetheless, he'd stayed for nearly half an hour, just watching her.
"I've been a little busy," he told her, and broke off half of her biscuit for himself.
"I'll bet." Feeling far from generous, she snatched it back. "Well, since you're here, you might tell me how things are going downstairs."
"They're under control," he murmured, thinking of Bob and the phone calls that had already been made.
"It's only Bonnie's second day. She hasn't---"
"She's doing fine," he said, interrupting her. "Mae's watching her like a hawk. Where'd all these come from?" He gestured toward half a dozen vases of fresh flowers.
"Oh, Lori brought up the daisies with the magazines. Then the ladies came up. They really shouldn't have climbed all those stairs. They brought the wood violets." She rattled off more names of people who had brought or sent flowers.
He should have brought her some, Roman thought, rising and thrusting his hands into his pockets. It had never crossed his mind. Things like that didn't, he admitted. Not the small, romantic things a woman like Charity was entitled to.
"Roman?"
"What?"
"Did you come all the way up here to scowl at my peonies?"
"No." He hadn't even known the name for them. He turned away from the fat pink blossoms. "Do you want any more to eat?"
"No." She tapped the spoon against the side of her empty bowl. "I don't want any more to eat, I don't want any more magazines, and I don't want anyone else to come in here, pat my hand and tell me to get plenty of rest. So if that's what you've got in mind you can leave."
"You're a charming patient, Charity." Checking his own temper, he removed the tray.
"No, I'm a miserable patient." Furiously, she tossed aside her self-control, and just as furiously tossed a paperback at his head. Fortunately for them both, her aim was off. "And I'm tired of being stuck in here as though I had some communicable disease. I have a bump on the head, damn it, not a brain tumor."
"I don't think a brain tumor's contagious."
"Don't be clever with me." Glaring at him, she folded her arms and dropped them over her chest. "I'm sick of being here, and sicker yet of being told what to do."
"You don't take that well, do you? No matter how good it is for you?"
When she was being unreasonable there was nothing she wanted to hear less than the truth. "I have an inn to run, and I can't do it from bed."
"Not tonight you don't."
"It's my inn, just like it's my body and my head." She tossed the covers aside. Even as she started to scramble out of bed her promise weighed on her like a chain. Swinging her legs up again, she fell back against the pillows.
Thumbs hooked in his pockets, he measured her. "Why don't you get up?"
"Because I promised. Now get out, damn it. Just get out and leave me alone."
"Fine. I'll tell Mae and the rest that you're feeling more like yourself. They've been worried about you."
She threw another book---harder---but had only the small satisfaction of hearing it slap against the closing door.
The hell with him, she thought as she dropped her chin on her knees. The hell with everything.
The hell with her. He hadn't gone up there to pick a fight, and he didn't have to tolerate a bad-tempered woman throwing things at him, especially when he couldn't throw them back. Roman got halfway down the stairs, turned around and stalked back up again.
Charity was moping when he pushed open the door. She knew it, she hated it, and she wished everyone would leave her in peace to get on with it.
"What now?"
"Get up."
Charity straightened her spine against the headboard. "Why?"
"Get up," Roman repeated. "Get dressed. There must be a floor to mop or a trash can to empty around here."
"I said I wouldn't get up---" she set her chin "---and I won't."
"You can get out of bed on your own, or I can drag you out."
Temper had her eyes darkening and her chin thrusting out even farther. "You wouldn't dare." She regretted the words even as she spoke them. She'd already decided he was a man who would dare anything.
She was right. Roman crossed to the bed and grabbed her arm. Charity gripped one of the posts. Despite her hold, he managed to pull her up on her knees before she dug in. Before the tug-of-war could get much further she began to giggle.
"This is stupid." She felt her grip slipping and hooked her arm around the bedpost. "Really stupid. Roman, stop. I'm going to end up falling on my face and putting another hole in my head."
"You wanted to get up. So get up."
"No, I wanted to feel sorry for myself. And I was doing a pretty good job of it, too. Roman, you're about to dislocate my shoulder."
"You're the most stubborn, hardheaded, unreasonable woman I've ever met," he said. But he released her.
"I have to go along with the first two, but I'm not usually unreasonable." Offering him a smile, she folded her legs Indian-style. The storm was over. At least hers was, she thought. She recognized the anger that was still darkening his eyes. She let out a long sigh. "I guess you could say I was having a really terrific pity party for myself when you came in. I'm sorry I took it out on you."
"I don't need an apology."
"Yes, you do." She would have offered him a hand, but he didn't look ready to sign any peace treaties. "I'm not used to being cut off from what's going on. I'm hardly ever sick, so I haven't had much practice in taking it like a good little soldier." She idly pleated the sheet between her fingers as she slanted a look at him. "I really am sorry, Roman. Are you going to stay mad at me?"
"That might be the best solution." Anger had nothing to do with what he was feeling at the moment. She looked so appealing with that half smile on her face, her hair tousled, the nightshirt buttoned to her chin and skimming her thighs.
"Want to slug me?"
"Maybe." It was hopeless. He smiled and sat down beside her. He balled his hand into a fist and skimmed it lightly over her chin. "When you're back on your feet again I'll take another shot."
"It was nice of you to bring me dinner. I didn't even thank you."
"No, you didn't."
She leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
After blowing the hair out of her eyes, she decided to start over. "Did we have a good crowd tonight?"
"I bused thirty tables."
"I'm going to have to give you a raise. I guess Mae made her chocolate mousse torte."
"Yeah." Roman found his lips twitching again.
"I don't suppose there was any left over."
"Not a crumb. It was great."
"You had some?"
"Meals are part of my pay."
Feeling deprived, Charity leaned back against the pillows. "Right."
"Are you going to sulk again?"
"Just for a minute. I wanted to ask you if the sheriff had any news about the car."
"Not much. He found it about ten miles from here, abandoned." He reached over to smooth away a line between her brows. "Don't worry about it."
"I'm not. Not really. I'm just glad the driver didn't hurt anyone else. Lori said you'd cut your arm."
"A little." Their hands were linked. He didn't know whether he had taken hers or she had taken his.
"Were you taking a walk?"
"I was waiting for you."
"Oh." She smiled again.
"You'd better get some rest." He was feeling awkward again, awkward and clumsy. No other woman had ever drawn either reaction from him.
Reluctantly she released his hand. "Are we friends again?"
"I guess you could say that. Good night, Charity."
"Good night."
He crossed to the door and opened it. But he couldn't step across the threshold. He stood there, struggling with himself. Though it was only a matter of seconds, it seemed like hours to both of them.
"I can't." He turned back, shutting the door quietly behind him.
"Can't what?"
"I can't leave."
Her smile bloomed, in her eyes, on her lips. She opened her arms to him, as he had known she would. Walking back to her was nearly as difficult as walking away. He took her hands and held them hard in his.
"I'm no good for you, Charity."
"I think you're very good for me." She brought their joined hands to her cheek. "That means one of us is wrong."
"If I could, I'd walk out the door and keep going."
She felt the sting and accepted it. She'd never expected loving Roman to be painless. "Why?"
"For reasons I can't begin to explain to you." He stared down at their linked hands. "But I can't walk away. Sooner or later you're going to wish I had."
"No." She drew him down onto the bed. "Whatever happens, I'll always be glad you stayed." This time she smoothed the lines from his brow. "I told you before that this wouldn't happen unless it was right. I meant that." Lifting her hands, she linked them behind his neck. "I love you, Roman. Tonight is something I want, something I've chosen."
Kissing her was like sinking into a dream. Soft, drugging, and too impossibly beautiful to be real. He wanted to take care, such complete, such tender care, not to hurt her now, knowing that he would have no choice but to hurt her eventually.
But tonight, for a few precious hours, there would be no future. With her he could be what he had never tried to be before. Gentle, loving, kind. With her he could believe it was possible for love to be enough.
He loved her. Though he'd never known he was capable of that strong and fragile emotion, he felt it with her. It streamed through him, painless and sweet, healing wounds he'd forgotten he had, soothing aches he'd lived with forever. How could he have known when he'd walked into her life that she would be his salvation? In the short time he had left he would show her. And in showing her he would give himself something he had never expected to have.
He made her feel beautiful. And delicate, Charity thought as his mouth whispered over hers. It was as though he knew that this first time together was to be savored and remembered. She heard her own sigh, then his, as her hands slid up his back. Whatever she had wished they could have together was nothing compared to this.
He laid her back gently, barely touching her, as the kiss lengthened. Even loving him as she did, she hadn't known he'd possessed such tenderness. Nor could she know that he had just discovered it in himself.
The lamplight glowed amber. He hadn't thought to light the candles. But he could see her in the brilliance of it, her eyes dark and on his, her lips curved as he brought his to meet them. He hadn't thought to set the music. But her nightshirt whispered as she brought her arms around him. It was a sound he would remember always. Air drifted in through the open window, stirring the scent of the flowers others had brought to her. But it was the fragrance of her skin that filled his head. It was the taste of it that he yearned for.
Lightly, almost afraid he might bruise her with a touch, he cupped her breasts in his hands. Her breath caught, then released on a moan against the side of his neck. He knew that nothing had ever excited him more.
Then her hands were on his shirt, her fingers undoing his buttons as her eyes remained on his. They were as dark, as deep, as vibrant, as the water that surrounded her home. He could read everything she felt in them.
"I want to touch you," she said as she drew the shirt from his shoulders. Her heart began to sprint as she looked at him, the taut muscles, the taut skin.
There was a strength in him that excited, perhaps because she understood that he could be ruthless. There was a toughness to his body, a toughness that made her realize he was a man who had fought, a man who would fight. But his hands were gentle on her now, almost hesitant. Her excitement leaped higher, and there was no fear in it.
"It seems I've wanted to touch you like this all my life." She ran her fingertips lightly over the bandage on his arm. "Does it hurt?"
"No." Every muscle in his body tensed when she trailed her hands from his waist to his chest. It was impossible for him to understand how anyone could bring him peace and torment at the same time. "Charity ..."
"Just kiss me again, Roman," she murmured.
He was helpless to refuse. He wondered what she would ask him for if she knew that he was powerless to deny her anything at this moment. Fighting back a flood of desperation, he kept his hands easy, sliding and stroking them over her until he felt the tremors begin.
He knew he could give her pleasure. The need to do so pulsed heavily inside him. He could ignite her passions. The drive to fan them roared through him like a brushfire. As he touched her he knew he could make her weak or strong, wild or limp. But it wasn't power that filled him at the knowledge. It was awe.
She would give him whatever he asked, without questions, without restrictions. This strong, beautiful, exciting woman was his. This wasn't a dream that would awaken him to frustration in the middle of the night. This wasn't a wish that he'd have to pretend he'd never made. It was real. She was real, and she was waiting for him.
He could have torn the nightshirt from her with one pull of his hand. Instead he released button after tiny button, hearing her breath quicken, following the narrow path with soft, lingering kisses. Her fingers dug into his back, then went limp as her system churned. She could only groan as his tongue moistened her flesh, teasing and heating it. The night air whispered over her as he undressed her. Then he was lifting her, cradling her in his arms.
She was twined around him, her heart thudding frantically against his lips. He needed a moment to drag himself back, to find the control he wanted so that he could take her up, take her over. Murmuring to her, he used what skills he had to drive her past the edge of reason.
Her body was rigid against his. He watched her dazed eyes fly open. She gasped his name, and then he covered her mouth with his to capture her long, low moan as her body went limp.
She seemed to slide like water through his hands when he laid her down again. To his delight, her arousal burst free again at his lightest touch.
It was impossible. It was impossible to feel so much and still need more. Blindly she reached for him. Fresh pleasure poured into her until her arms felt too heavy to move. She was a prisoner, a gloriously willing prisoner, of the frantic sensations he sent tearing through her. She wanted to lock herself around him, to keep him there, always there. He was taking her on a long, slow journey to places she had never seen, places she never wanted to leave.
When he slid inside her she heard his low, breathless moan. So he was as much a captive as she.
With his face pressed against her neck, he fought the need to sprint toward release. He was trapped between heaven and hell, and he gloried in it. In her. In them. He heard her sob out his name, felt the strength pour into her. She was with him as no one had ever been.
\*
Charity wrapped her arms around Roman to keep him from shifting away. "Don't move."
"I'm hurting you."
"No." She let out a long, long sigh. "No, you're not."
"I'm too heavy," he insisted, and compromised by gathering her close and rolling so that their positions were reversed.
"Okay." Satisfied, she rested her head on his shoulder. "You are," she said, "the most incredible lover."
He didn't even try to prevent the smile. "Thanks." He stroked a possessive hand down to her hip. "Have you had many?"
It was her turn to smile. The little trace of jealousy in his voice was a tremendous addition to an already-glorious night. "Define many."
Ignoring the quick tug of annoyance he felt, he played the game. "More than three. Three is a few. Anything more than three is many."
"Ah. Well, in that case." She almost wished she could lie and invent a horde. "I guess I've had less than a few. That doesn't mean I don't know an incredible one when I find him."
He lifted her head to stare at her. "I've done nothing in my life to deserve you."
"Don't be stupid." She inched up to kiss him briefly. "And don't change the subject."
"What subject?"
"You're clever, DeWinter, but not that clever." She lifted a brow and studied him in the lamplight. "It's my turn to ask you if you've had many lovers."
He didn't smile this time. "Too many. But only one who's meant anything."
The amusement faded from her eyes before she closed them. "You'll make me cry," she murmured, lowering her head to his chest again.
Not yet, he thought, stroking her hair. Soon enough, but not yet. "Why haven't you ever gotten married?" he wondered aloud. "Had babies?"
"What a strange question. I haven't loved anyone enough before." She winced at her own words, then made herself smile as she lifted her head. "That wasn't a hint."
But it was exactly what he'd wanted to hear. He knew he was crazy to let himself think that way, even for a few hours, but he wanted to imagine her loving him enough to forgive, to accept and to promise.
"How about the traveling you said you wanted to do? Shouldn't that come first?"
She shrugged and settled against him again. "Maybe I haven't traveled because I know deep down I'd hate to go all those places alone. What good is Venice if you don't have someone to ride in a gondola with? Or Paris if there's no one to hold hands with?"
"You could go with me."
Already half asleep, she laughed. She imagined Roman had little more than the price of a ferry ticket to his name. "Okay. Let me know when to pack."
"Would you?" He lifted her chin to look into her drowsy eyes.
"Of course." She kissed him, snuggled her head against his shoulder and went to sleep.
Roman switched off the lamp beside the bed. For a long time he held her and stared into the dark.
Charity opened her eyes slowly, wondering why she couldn't move. Groggy, she stared into Roman's face. It was only inches from hers. He had pulled her close in his sleep, effectively pinning her arms and legs with his. Though his grip on her was somewhat guardlike, she found it unbearably sweet.
Ignoring the discomfort, she lay still and took advantage of the moment by looking her fill.
She'd always thought that people looked softer, more vulnerable, in sleep. Not Roman. He had the body of a fighter and the eyes of a man accustomed to facing trouble head-on. His eyes were closed now, and his body was relaxed. Almost.
Still, studying him, she decided that, asleep or awake, he looked tough as nails. Had he always been? she wondered. Had he had to be? It was true that smiling lent a certain charm to his face. It lightened the wariness in his eyes. In Charity's opinion, Roman smiled much too seldom.
She would fix that. Her own lips curved as she watched him. In time she would, gently, teach him to relax, to enjoy, to trust. She would make him happy. It wasn't possible to love as she had loved and not have it returned. And it wasn't possible to share what they had shared during the night without his heart being as lost as hers.
Sooner or later---sooner, if she had her way---he would come to accept how good they were together. And how much better they would become in all the years to follow. Then there would be time for promises and families and futures.
I'm not letting you go, she told him silently. You don't realize it yet, but I've got a hold on you, and it's going to be mighty hard to break it.
He had such a capacity for giving, she thought. Not just physically, though she wasn't ashamed to admit that his skill there had dazed and delighted her. He was a man full of emotions, too many of them strapped down. What had happened to him, she wondered, that had made him so wary of love, and so afraid to give it?
She loved him too much to demand an answer. It was a question he had to answer on his own ... a question she knew he would answer as soon as he trusted her enough. When he did, all she had to do was show him that none of it mattered. All that counted, from this moment on, was what they felt for each other.
Inching over, she brushed a light kiss on his mouth. His eyes opened instantly. It took only a heartbeat longer for them to clear. Fascinated, Charity watched their expression change from one of suspicion to one of desire.
"You're a light sleeper," she began. "I just---"
Before she could complete the thought, his mouth, hungry and insistent, was on hers. She managed a quiet moan as she melted into his kiss.
It was the only way he knew to tell her what it meant to him to wake and find her close and warm and willing. Too many mornings he had woken alone in strange beds in empty rooms.
That was what he expected. For years he had deliberately separated himself from anyone who had tried to get close. The job. He'd told himself it was because of the job. But that was a lie, one of many. He'd chosen to remain alone because he hadn't wanted to risk losing again. Grieving again. Now, overnight, everything had changed.
He would remember it all, the pale fingers of light creeping into the room, the high echoing sound of the first birds calling to the rising sun, the scent of her skin as it heated against his. And her mouth ... he would remember the taste of her mouth as it opened eagerly under his.
There were such deep, dark needs in him. She felt them, understood them, and met them unquestioningly. As dawn swept the night aside, he stirred her own until their needs mirrored each other's.
Slowly, easily, while his lips cruised over her face, he slipped inside her. With a sigh and a murmur, she welcomed him.
She felt as strong as an ox and as content as a cat with cream on its whiskers. With her eyes closed, Charity stretched her arms to the ceiling.
"And to think I used to consider jogging the best way to start the day." Laughing, she curled over against him again. "I have to thank you for showing me how very wrong I was."
"My pleasure." He could still feel his own heart thudding like a jackhammer against his ribs. "Give me a minute and I'll show you the best reason for staying in bed in the morning."
Lord, it was tempting. Before her blood could begin to heat she shook her head. She took a quick nip at his chin before she sat up. "Maybe if you've got some time when I get back."
He took her wrist but kept his fingers light. "From where?"
"From taking Ludwig for his run."
"No."
The hand that had lifted to push back her hair paused. Deliberately she continued to lift it to finger-comb the hair away from her face. "No, what?"
He recognized that tone. She was the boss again, despite the fact that her face was still glowing from lovemaking and she was naked to where the sheets pooled at her waist. This was the woman who didn't take orders. Roman decided he would have to show her again that she was wrong.
"No, you're not taking the dog out for a run."
Because she wanted to be reasonable, she added a smile.
"Of course I am. I kept my promise and stayed in bed all day yesterday. And all night, for that matter. Now I'm going to get back to work."
Around the inn, that was fine. In fact, the sooner everything got back to normal the better it would be. But there was no way he was having her walking down a deserted road by herself. "You're in no shape to go for a mile hike."
"Three miles, and yes, I am."
"Three?" Lifting a brow, he stroked a hand over her thigh. "No wonder you've got such great muscle tone."
"That's not the point." She shifted away before his touch could weaken her.
"You have the most incredible body."
She shoved at his seeking hands. "Roman ... I do?"
His lips curved. This was the way she liked them best. "Absolutely. Let me show you."
"No, I ..." She caught his hands as they stroked her thighs. "We'll probably kill each other if we try this again."
"I'll risk it."
"Roman, I mean it." Her head fell back and she gasped when he scraped his teeth over her skin. It was impossible, she thought, impossible, for this deep, dark craving to take over again. "Roman---"
"Fabulous legs," he murmured, skimming his tongue behind her knee. "I didn't pay nearly enough attention to them last night."
"Yes, you---" She braced a hand against the mattress as she swayed. "You're trying to distract me."
"Yeah."
"You can't." She closed her eyes. He could, and he was. "Ludwig needs the run," she managed. "He enjoys it."
"Fine." He sat up and circled her waist with his hands. "I'll take him."
"You?" Wanting to catch her breath, she turned her head to avoid his kiss, then shuddered as his lips trailed down her throat. "It's not necessary. I'm perfectly ... Roman." She said his name weakly as his thumbs circled her breasts.
"Yes, a truly incredible body," he murmured. "Long and lean and incredibly responsive. I can't seem to touch you and not want you."
She came up on her knees as he dragged another gasp out of her. "You're trying to seduce me."
"Nothing gets by you, does it?"
She was losing, weakening shamelessly. She knew it would infuriate her later, but for now all she could do was cling to him and let him have his way. "Is this your answer for everything?"
"No." He lifted her hips and brought her to him. "But it'll do."
Unable to resist, she wrapped her limbs around him and let passion take them both. When it was spent, she slid bonelessly down in the bed. She didn't argue when he drew the sheets over her shoulders.
"Stay here," he told her, kissing her hair. "I'll be back."
"His leash is on a hook under the steps," Charity murmured. "He gets two scoops of dog food when he gets back. And fresh water."
"I think I can handle a dog, Charity."
She yawned and tugged the blankets higher. "He likes to chase the Fitzsimmonses' cat. But don't worry, he can't catch her."
"That makes me breathe easier." He laced up his shoes. "Anything else I should know?"
"Mmm." She snuggled into the pillow. "I love you."
As always, it knocked him backward to hear her say it, to know she meant it. In silence, he stepped outside.
She wasn't tired, Charity thought as she stretched under the sheets. But Roman was right. Sleep wasn't the best reason for staying in bed in the morning. Despite her bumps and bruises, she knew she'd never felt better in her life.
Still, she indulged herself, lingering in bed, half dreaming, until guilt finally prodded her out.
Moving automatically, she turned on the stereo, then tidied the bed. In the parlor she glanced over the notes she'd left for herself, made a few more. Then she headed for the shower.
She was humming along to Tchaikovsky's violin concerto when the curtain swished open.
"Roman!" She pressed both hands to her heart and leaned back against the tile. "You might as well shoot me as scare me to death. Didn't you ever hear of the Bates Motel?"
"I left my butcher knife in my other pants." She had her hair piled on top of her head and a cake of some feminine scented soap in her hand. Her skin was gleaming wet and already soapy. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. "Did you ever consider teaching that dog to heel?"
"No." She grinned as she watched Roman unfasten his jeans. "I guess you could use a shower." Saying nothing, he tossed his jeans on top of his shirt. Charity took a moment to make a long, thorough survey. "Well, apparently that run didn't ... tire you out." She was laughing when he stepped in with her.
It was nearly an hour later when Charity made it down to the lobby. "I could eat one of everything." She pressed a hand to her stomach. "Good morning, Bob." She paused at the front desk to smile at him.
"Charity." Bob felt the sweat spring onto his palms when he spotted Roman behind her. "How are you feeling? It's awfully soon for you to be up and around."
"I'm fine." Idly she glanced at the papers on the desk. "Sorry I left you in the lurch yesterday."
"Don't be silly." Fear ground in his stomach as he eyed the wound on her temple. "We were worried about you."
"I appreciate that, but there's no need to worry anymore." She slanted a smile at Roman. "I've never felt better in my life."
Bob caught the look, and his stomach sank. If the cop was in love with her, he thought, things were going to be even stickier. "Glad to hear it. But---"
She stopped his protest by raising a hand. "Is there anything urgent?"
"No." He glanced at Roman again. "No, nothing."
"Good." After setting the papers aside again, Charity studied his face. "What's wrong, Bob?"
"Nothing. What could be wrong?"
"You look a little pale. You're not coming down with anything, are you?"
"No, everything's fine. Just fine. We got some new reservations. July's almost booked solid."
"Great. I'll look things over after breakfast. Get yourself some coffee." She patted his hand and walked into the dining room.
Three tables were already occupied, the patrons enjoying Mae's coffee cake before their meal was served. Bonnie was busy taking orders. The breakfast menu was neatly listed on the board, and music was playing in the background, soft and soothing. The flowers were fresh, and the coffee was hot.
"Something wrong?" Roman asked her.
"No." Charity smoothed down the collar of her shirt. "What could be wrong? It looks like everything's just dandy." Feeling useless, she walked into the kitchen.
There was no bickering to referee. Mae and Dolores were working side by side, and Lori loaded up a tray with her first order.
"We need more butter for the French toast," Mae called out.
"Coming right up." Cheerful as a bird, Dolores began to scoop up neat balls of butter. As she offered the newly filled bowl to Lori, she spotted Charity standing inside the door. "Well, good morning." Her thin face creased with a smile. "Didn't expect to see you up."
"I'm fine."
"Sit down, girl." Hardly glancing around, Mae continued to sprinkle shredded cheese into an omelet. "Dolores will get you some tea."
Charity smiled with clenched teeth. "I don't want any tea."
"Want and need's two different things."
"Glad to see you're feeling better," Lori said as she rushed out with her tray.
Bonnie came in, pad in hand. "Oh, hi, Charity, we thought you'd rest another day. Feeling better?"
"I'm fine," Charity said tightly. "Just fine."
"Great. Two omelets with bacon, Mae. And an order of French toast with sausage. Two herb teas, an English muffin---crisp. And we're running low on coffee." After punching her order sheet on a hook by the stove, she took the fresh pot Dolores handed her and hurried out.
Charity walked over to get an apron, only to have Mae smack her hand away. "I told you to sit."
"And I told you I'm fine. That's f-i-n-e. I'm going to help take orders."
"The only orders you're taking today are from me. Now sit." She ran a hand up and down Charity's arm. Nobody recognized or knew how to deal with that stubborn look better than Mae. "Be a good girl, now. I won't worry so much if I know you've had a good breakfast. You don't want me to worry, do you?"
"No, of course not, but---"
"That's right. Now take a seat. I'll fix you some French toast. It's your favorite."
She sat down. Dolores set a cup of tea in front of her and patted her head. "You sure did give us all a fright yesterday. Have a seat, Roman. I'll get your coffee."
"Thanks. You're sulking," he murmured to Charity.
"I am not."
"Doc's coming by this morning to take another look at you."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mae---"
"You're not doing nothing till he gives the okay." With a nod, she began preparing Bonnie's order. "Fat lot of good you'll do if you're not a hundred percent. Things were hard enough yesterday."
Charity stopped staring into her tea and looked up. "Were they?"
"Everybody asking questions nobody had the answer to. Whole stacks of linens lost."
"Lost? But---"
"Found them." Mae made room at the stove for Dolores. "But it sure was confusing for a while. Then the dinner shift ... Could have used an extra pair of hands for sure." Mae winked at Roman over Charity's head. "We'll all be mighty glad when the doc gives you his okay. Let that bacon crisp, Dolores."
"It is crisp."
"Not enough."
"Want me to burn it?"
Charity smiled and sipped her tea. It was good to be back.
It was midafternoon before she saw Roman again. She had a pencil behind her ear, a pad in one pocket and a dustcloth in another, and she was dashing down the hallway toward her rooms.
"In a hurry?"
"Oh." She stopped long enough to smile at him. "Yes. I have some papers up in my room that should be in the office."
"What's this?" He tugged at the dustcloth.
"One of the housekeepers came down with a virus. I sent her home." She looked at her watch and frowned. She thought she could spare about two minutes for conversation. "I really hope that's not what's wrong with Bob."
"What's wrong with Bob?"
"I don't know. He just doesn't look well." She tossed her hair back, causing the slender gold spirals in her ears to dance. "Anyway, we're short a housekeeper, and we've got guests checking into units 3 and 5 today. The Garsons checked out of 5 this morning. They won't win any awards for neatness."
"The doctor said you were supposed to rest an hour this afternoon."
"Yes, but--- How did you know?"
"I asked him." Roman pulled the dustcloth out of her pocket. "I'll clean 5."
"Don't be ridiculous. It's not your job."
"My job's to fix things. I'll fix 5." He took her chin in his hand before she could protest. "When I'm finished I'm going to go upstairs. If you aren't in bed I'm coming after you."
"Sounds like a threat."
He bent down and kissed her, hard. "It is."
"I'm terrified," she said, and dashed up the stairs.
\*
It wasn't that she meant to ignore the doctor's orders. Not really. It was only that a nap came far down on her list of things to be done. Every phone call she made had to include a five-minute explanation of her injuries.
No, she was really quite well. Yes, it was terrible that someone had stolen poor Mrs. Norton's car and driven it so recklessly. Yes, she was sure the sheriff would get to the bottom of it. No, she had not broken her legs ... her arm ... her shoulder ... Yes, she intended to take good care of herself, thank you very much.
The goodwill and concern would have warmed her if she hadn't been so far behind in her work. To make it worse, Bob was distracted and disorganized. Worried that he was ill or dealing with a personal problem, Charity took on the brunt of his work.
Twice she'd fully intended to take a break and go up to her rooms, and twice she'd been delayed by guests checking in. Taking it on faith that Roman had spruced up unit 5, she showed a young pair of newlyweds inside.
"You have a lovely view of the garden from here," Charity said as a cover while she made sure there were fresh towels. Roman had hung them on the rack, exactly where they belonged. The bed, with its heart-shaped white wicker headboard, was made up with a military precision she couldn't have faulted. It cost her, but she resisted the temptation to turn up the coverlet and check sheets.
"We serve complimentary wine in the gathering room every evening at five. We recommend that you make a reservation for dinner if you plan to join us, particularly since it's Saturday night. Breakfast is served between seven-thirty and ten. If you'd like to---" She broke off when Roman stepped into the room. "I'll be with you in a minute," she told him, and started to turn back to the newlyweds.
"Excuse me." Roman gave them both a friendly nod before he scooped Charity up in his arms. "Miss Ford is needed elsewhere. Enjoy your stay."
As the first shock wore off she began to struggle. "Are you out of your mind? Put me down."
"I intend to---when I get you to bed."
"You can't just ..." The words trailed off into a groan as he carried her through the gathering room.
Two men sitting on the sofa stopped telling fish stories. A family coming in from a hike gawked from the doorway. Miss Millie and Miss Lucy halted their daily game of Scrabble by the window.
"Isn't that the most romantic thing?" Miss Millie said when they disappeared into the west wing.
"You have totally embarrassed me."
Roman shifted her weight in his arms and carried her upstairs. "You're lucky that's all I did."
"You had no right interrupting me when I was welcoming guests. Then, to make matters worse, you decide to play Rhett Butler."
"As I recall, he had something entirely different in mind when he carried another stubborn woman up to bed." He dropped her, none too gently, on the mattress. "You're going to rest."
"I'm tempted to tell you to go to hell."
He leaned down to cage her head between his hands. "Be my guest."
She'd be damned if she'd smile. "My manners are too ingrained to permit it."
"Aren't I the lucky one?" He leaned a little closer. There was amusement in his eyes now, enough of it so she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "I don't want you to get out of this bed for sixty minutes."
"Or?"
"Or ... I'll sic Mae on you."
"A low blow, DeWinter."
He brushed a kiss just below the fresh bandage on her temple. "Tune out for an hour, baby. It won't kill you."
She reached up to toy with the top button of his shirt. "I'd like it better if you got in with me."
"I said tuned out, not turned on." When the phone in the parlor rang, he held her down with one hand. "Not a chance. Stay here and I'll get it."
She rolled her eyes behind his back as he walked into the adjoining room.
"Yes? She's resting. Tell him she'll get back to him in an hour. Hold her calls until four. That's right." He glanced down idly at a catalog she'd left open on her desk. She had circled a carved gold bracelet with a square-cut purple stone. "You handle whatever needs to be handled for the next hour. That's right."
"What was it?" Charity called from the next room.
"I'll tell you in an hour."
"Damn it, Roman."
He stopped in the doorway. "You want the message, I'll give it to you in an hour."
"But if it's important---"
"It's not."
She sent him a smoldering look. "How do you know?"
"I know it's not more important than you. Nothing is." He closed the door on her astonished expression.
He needed to keep Bob on a tight leash, he thought as he headed downstairs. As long as he was more afraid of him than of Block, things would be fine. He only had to keep the pressure on for a few more days. Block and Vision Tours would be checking in on Tuesday. When they checked out on Thursday morning he would lock the cage.
Roman pushed open the door of the office to find Bob staring at the computer screen and gulping coffee. "For somebody who's made his living from scams you're a mess."
Bob gulped more coffee. "I never worked with a cop looking over my shoulder before."
"Just think of me as your new partner," Roman advised him. He took the mug out of his hand and sniffed at it. "And lay off the booze."
"Give me a break."
"I'm giving you more of one than you deserve. Charity's worried that you're coming down with something---something other than a stretch in federal prison. I don't want her worrying."
"Look, you want me to carry on like it's business as usual. I'm lying to Block, setting him up." His hand shook as he passed it over his hair. "You don't know what he's capable of. I don't know what he's capable of." He looked at the mug, which Roman had set out of reach. "I need a little something to help me through the next few days."
"Let this get you through." Roman calmly lit a cigarette. "You pull this off and I'll go to bat for you. Screw up and I'll see to it that you're in a cage for a long time. Now take a break."
"What?"
"I said, take a break, go for a walk, get some real coffee." Roman tapped the ash from his cigarette into a little mosaic bowl.
"Sure." As he rose, Bob rubbed his palms on his thighs. "Look, DeWinter, I'm playing it straight with you. When this goes down, I expect you to keep Block off me."
"I'll take care of Block." That was a promise he intended to keep. When the door closed behind Bob, he picked up the phone. "DeWinter," he said when the connection was made.
"Make it quick," Conby told him. "I'm entertaining friends."
"I'll try not to let your martini get warm. I want to know if you've located the driver."
"DeWinter, an underling is hardly important at this point."
"It's important to me. Have you found him?"
"A man answering the description your informant gave you was detained in Tacoma this morning. He's being held for questioning by the local police." Conby put his hand over the receiver. Roman heard him murmur something that was answered by light laughter.
"We're using our influence to lengthen the procedure," Conby continued. "I'll be flying out there on Monday. By Tuesday afternoon I should be checked into the inn. I'm told I'll have a room overlooking a fish pond. It sounds very quaint."
"I want your word that Charity will be left out of this."
"As I explained before, if she's innocent she has nothing to worry about."
"It's not a matter of if." Struggling to hold his temper, Roman crushed out his cigarette. "She is innocent. We've got it on record."
"On the word of a whimpering little bookkeeper."
"She was damn near killed, and she doesn't even know why."
"Then keep a closer eye on her. We have no desire to see Miss Ford harmed, or to involve her any more deeply than necessary. There's a police officer out there who shares the same passionate opinion of Miss Ford as you do. Sheriff Royce managed to trace you to us."
"How?"
"He's a smart cop with connections. He has a cousin or brother-in-law or some such thing with the Bureau. He wasn't at all pleased at being left in the dark."
"I'll bet."
"I imagine he'll be paying you a visit before long. Handle him carefully, DeWinter, but handle him."
Just as Roman heard the phone click in his ear the office door opened. For once, Roman thought, Conby was right on target. He replaced the receiver before settling back in his chair.
"Sheriff."
"I want to know what the hell's going on around here, Agent DeWinter."
"Close the door." Roman pushed back in the chair and considered half a dozen different ways of handling Royce. "I'd appreciate it if you'd drop the 'Agent' for now."
Royce just laid both palms on the surface of the desk. "I want to know what a federal agent is doing undercover in my territory."
"Following orders. Sit down?" He indicated a chair.
"I want to know what case you're working on."
"What did they tell you?"
Royce snorted disgustedly. "It got to the point where even my cousin started giving me the runaround, DeWinter, but I've got to figure that your being here had something to do with Charity being damn near run down yesterday."
"I'm here because I was assigned here." Roman waited a moment, sending Royce a long, direct look. "But my first priority is keeping Charity safe."
Royce hadn't been in law enforcement for nearly twenty years without being able to take the measure of a man. He took Roman's now, and was satisfied. "I got a load of bull from Washington about her being under investigation."
"She was. Now she's not. But she could be in trouble. Are you willing to help?"
"I've known that girl all her life." Royce took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. "Why don't you stop asking fool questions and tell me what's going on?"
Roman briefed him, pausing only once or twice to allow Royce to ask questions. "I don't have time to get into any more specifics. I want to know how many of your men you can spare Thursday morning."
"All of them," Royce said immediately.
"I only want your most experienced. I have information that Block will not only be bringing the counterfeit money, but also a man who'll register as Jack Marshall. His real name is Vincent Dupont. A week ago he robbed two banks in Ontario, killed a guard and wounded a civilian. Block will smuggle him out of Canada in the tour group, keep him here for a couple of days, then send him by short routes to South America. For his travel service to men like Dupont he takes a nice stiff fee. Both Dupont and Block are dangerous men. We'll have agents here at the inn, but we also have civilians. There's no way we can clear the place without tipping them off."
"It's a chancy game you're playing."
"I know." He thought of Charity dozing upstairs. "It's the only way I know how to play it."
Charity drove back to the inn after dropping a trio of guests at the ferry. She was certain it was the most beautiful morning she'd ever seen. After the most wonderful night of her life, she thought. No, two of the most wonderful nights of her life.
Though she'd never considered herself terribly romantic, she'd always imagined what it would be like to really be in love. Her daydreams hadn't come close to what she was feeling now. This was solid and bewildering. It was simple and staggering. He filled her thoughts just as completely as he filled her heart. She couldn't wait to walk back into the inn, just knowing Roman would be there.
It seemed that every hour they spent together brought them closer. Gradually, step by step, she could feel the barriers he had placed around him lowering. She wanted to be there when they finally dropped completely.
He was in love with her. She was sure he was, whether he knew it or not. She could tell by the way he looked at her, by the way he touched her hair when he thought she was sleeping. By the way he held her so tightly all through the night, as if he were afraid she might somehow slip away from him. In time she would show him that she wasn't going anywhere---and that he wasn't going anywhere, either.
Something was troubling him. That was another thing she was sure of. Her eyes clouded as she drove along the water. There were times when she could feel the tension pulsing in him even when he was across the room. He seemed to be watching, waiting. But for what?
Since the accident he'd barely let her out of his sight. It was sweet, she mused. But it had to stop. She might love him, but she wouldn't be pampered. She was certain that if he had known she planned to drive to the ferry that morning he would have found a way to stop her.
She was right again. It had taken Roman some time to calm down after he had learned Charity wasn't in the office or the kitchen or anywhere else in the inn.
"She's driven up to drop some guests at the ferry," Mae told him, then watched in fascination as he let his temper loose.
"My, my," she said when the air was clear again. "You've got it bad, boy."
"Why did you let her go?"
"Let her go?" Mae let out a rich, appreciative laugh. "I haven't let that girl do anything since she could walk. She just does it." She stopped stirring custard to study him. "Any reason she shouldn't drive to the ferry?"
"No."
"All right, then. Just cool your britches. She'll be back in half an hour."
He sweated and paced, nearly the whole time she was away. Mae and Dolores exchanged glances across the room. There would be plenty of gossip to pass around once they had the kitchen to themselves.
Mae thought of the way Charity had been smiling that morning. Why, the girl had practically danced into the kitchen. She kept her eye on Roman as he brooded over a cup of coffee and watched the clock. Yes, indeed, she thought, the boy had it bad.
"You got today off, don't you?" Mae asked him.
"What?"
"It's Sunday," she said patiently. "You got the day off?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Nice day, too. Good weather for a picnic." She began slicing roast beef for sandwiches. "Got any plans?"
"No."
"Charity loves picnics. Yes, sir, she's mighty partial to them. You know, I don't think that girl's had a day away from this place in better than a month."
"Got any dynamite?"
Dolores piped up. "What's that?"
"I figure it would take dynamite to blast Charity out of the inn for a day."
It took her a minute, but Dolores finally got the joke. She chuckled. "Hear that, Mae? He wants dynamite."
"Pair of fools," Mae muttered as she cut generous pieces of chocolate cheesecake. "You don't move that girl with dynamite or threats or orders. Might as well bash your head against a brick wall all day." She tried not to sound pleased about it, and failed. "You want her to do something, you make her think she's doing you a favor. Make her think it's important to you. Dolores, you go on in that back room and get me the big wicker hamper. Boy, if you keep walking back and forth you're going to wear out my floor."
"She should have been back by now."
"She'll be back when she's back. You know how to run a boat?"
"Yes, why?"
"Charity always loved to picnic on the water. She hasn't been out in a boat in a long time. Too long."
"I know. She told me."
Mae turned around. Her face was set. "Do you want to make my girl happy?"
He tried to shrug it off, but he couldn't. "Yes. Yes, I do."
"Then you take her out on the boat for the day. Don't let her say no."
"All right."
Satisfied, she turned around again. "Go down in the cellar and get a bottle of wine. French. She likes the French stuff."
"She's lucky to have you."
Her wide face colored a bit, but she kept her voice brisk.
"Around here, we got each other. You're all right," she added. "I wasn't sure of it when you first came around, but you're all right."
He was ready for her when she came back. Even as she stepped out of the van he was walking across the gravel lot, the wicker hamper in his hand.
"Hi."
"Hi." She greeted him with a smile and a quick kiss. Despite the two teenagers shooting hoops on the nearby court, Roman wrapped an arm around her and brought her hard against him for a longer, more satisfying embrace. "Well ..." She had to take a deep breath and steady herself against the van. "Hello again." She noted then that he had pulled a loose black sweater over his jeans and was carrying a hamper. "What's this?"
"It's a basket," he told her. "Mae put a few things in it for me. It's my day off."
"Oh." She tossed her braid behind her back. "That's right. Where are you off to?"
"Out on the water, if I can use the boat."
"Sure." She glanced up at the sky, a bit wistfully. "It's a great day for it. Light wind, hardly a cloud."
"Then let's go."
"Let's?" He was already pulling her toward the pier. "Oh, Roman, I can't. I have dozens of things to do this afternoon. And I ..." She didn't want to admit she wasn't ready to go out on the water again. "I can't."
"I'll have you back before the dinner shift." He laid a hand on her cheek. "I need you with me, Charity. I need to spend some time with you, alone."
"Maybe we could go for a drive. You haven't seen the mountains."
"Please." He set the hamper down to take both of her arms. "Do this for me."
Had he ever said "Please" before? she wondered. She didn't think so. With a sigh, she looked out at the boat rocking gently against the pier. "All right. Maybe for an hour. I'll go in and change."
The red sweater and jeans would keep her warm enough on the water, he decided. She would know that, too. She was stalling. "You look fine." He kept her hand in his as they walked down the pier. "This could use a little maintenance."
"I know. I keep meaning to." She waited until Roman stepped down into the boat. When he held up a hand, she hesitated, then forced herself to join him. "I have a key on my ring."
"Mae already gave me one."
"Oh." Charity sat down in the stern. "I see. A conspiracy."
It took him only two pulls to start the engine. Mae had told him Charity kept the boat for the staff to use. "From what you said to me the other day, I don't think he'd want you to grieve forever."
"No." As her eyes filled, she looked back toward the inn. "No, he wouldn't. But I loved him so much." She took a deep breath. "I'll cast off."
Before he sent the boat forward, Roman took her hand and drew her down beside him. After a moment she rested her head on his shoulder.
"Have you done much boating?"
"From time to time. When I was a kid we used to rent a boat a couple times each summer and take it on the river."
"Who's we?" She watched the shutters come down over his face. "What river?" she asked instead.
"The Mississippi." He smiled and slipped an arm over her shoulders. "I come from St. Louis, remember?"
"The Mississippi." Her mind was immediately filled with visions of steamboats and boys on wooden rafts. "I'd love to see it. You know what would be great? Taking a cruise all the way down, from St. Louis to New Orleans. I'll have to put that in my file."
"Your file?"
"The file I'm going to make on things I want to do." With a laugh, she waved to a passing sailboat before leaning over to kiss Roman's cheek. "Thanks."
"For what?"
"For talking me into this. I've always loved spending an afternoon out here, watching the other boats, looking at the houses. I've missed it."
"Have you ever considered that you give too much to the inn?"
"No. You can't give too much to something you love." She turned. If she shielded her eyes with her hand she could just see it in the distance. "If I didn't have such strong feelings for it, I would have sold it, taken a job in some modern hotel in Seattle or Miami or ... or anywhere. Eight hours a day, sick leave, two weeks paid vacation." Just the idea made her laugh. "I'd wear a nice neat business suit and sensible shoes, have my own office and quietly go out of my mind." She dug into her bag for her sunglasses. "You should understand that. You have good hands and a sharp mind. Why aren't you head carpenter for some big construction firm?"
"Maybe when the time came I made the wrong choices."
With her head tilted, she studied him, her eyes narrowed and thoughtful behind the tinted lenses. "No, I don't think so. Not for you."
"You don't know enough about me, Charity."
"Of course I do. I've lived with you for a week. That probably compares with knowing someone on a casual basis for six months. I know you're very intense and internal. You have a wicked temper that you seldom lose. You're an excellent carpenter who likes to finish the job he starts. You can be gallant with little old ladies." She laughed a little and turned her face into the wind. "You like your coffee black, you're not afraid of hard work ... and you're a wonderful lover."
"And that's enough for you?"
She lifted her shoulders. "I don't imagine you know too much more about me. I'm starving," she said abruptly. "Do you want to eat?"
"Pick a spot."
"Head over that way," she told him. "See that little jut of land? We can anchor the boat there."
The land she'd indicated was hardly more than a jumble of big, smooth rocks that fell into the water. As they neared it he could see a narrow stretch of sand crowded by trees. Cutting back the engine, he maneuvered toward the beach, Charity guiding him in with hand signals. As the current lapped at the sides of the boat, she pulled off her shoes and began to roll up her jeans.
"You'll have to give me a hand." As she said it she plunged into the knee-high water. "God, it's cold!" Then she was laughing and securing the line. "Come on."
The water was icy on his bare calves. Together they pulled the boat up onto a narrow spit of sand.
"I don't suppose you brought a blanket."
He reached into the boat and took out the faded red blanket Mae had given him. "This do?"
"Great. Grab the basket." She splashed through the shallows and onto the shore. After spreading the blanket at the base of the sheltering rocks she rolled down the damp legs of her jeans. "Lori and I used to come here when we were kids. To eat peanut butter sandwiches and talk about boys." Kneeling on the blanket, she looked around.
There were pines at her back, deep and green and thick all the way up the slope. A few feet away the water frothed at the rock, which had been worn smooth by wind and time. A single boat cruised in the distance, its sails full and white.
"It hasn't changed much." Smiling, she reached for the basket. "I guess the best things don't." She threw back the top and spotted a bottle of champagne. "Well." With a brow arched, she pulled it out. "Apparently we're going to have some picnic."
"Mae said you liked the French stuff."
"I do. I've never had champagne on a picnic."
"Then it's time you did." He took the bottle and walked back to dunk it in the water, screwing it down in the wet sand. "We'll let it chill a little more." He came back to her, taking her hand before she could explore deeper in the basket. He knelt. When they were thigh to thigh, he gathered her close and closed his mouth over hers.
Her quiet sound of pleasure came first, followed by a gasp as he took the kiss deeper. Her arms came around him, then slid up until her hands gripped his shoulders. Desire was like a flood, rising fast to drag her under.
He needed ... needed to hold her close like this, to taste the heat of passion on his lips, to feel her heart thud against him. He dragged his hands through her hair, impatiently tugging it free of the braids. All the while his mouth ravaged hers, gentleness forgotten.
There was a restlessness in him, and an anger that she couldn't understand. Responding to both, she pressed against him, unhesitatingly offering whatever he needed. Perhaps it would be enough. Slowly his mouth gentled. Then he was only holding her.
"That's a very nice way to start a picnic," Charity managed when she found her voice again.
"I can't seem to get enough of you."
"That's okay. I don't mind."
He drew away to frame her face in his hands. The crystal drops at her ears swung and shot out light. But her eyes were calm and deep and full of understanding. It would be better, he thought, and certainly safer, if he simply let her pull out the sandwiches. They could talk about the weather, the water, the people at the inn. There was so much he couldn't tell her. But when he looked into her eyes he knew he had to tell her enough about Roman DeWinter that she would be able to make a choice.
"Sit down."
Something in his tone sent a frisson of alarm down her spine. He was going to tell her he was leaving, she thought. "All right." She clasped her hands together, promising herself she'd find a way to make him stay.
"I haven't been fair with you." He leaned back against a rock. "Fairness hasn't been one of my priorities. There are things about me you should know, that you should have known before things got this far."
"Roman---"
"It won't take long. I did come from St. Louis. I lived in a kind of neighborhood you wouldn't even understand. Drugs, whores, Saturday night specials." He looked out at the water. The spiffy little sailboat had caught the wind. "A long way from here, baby."
So the trust had come, she thought. She wouldn't let him regret it. "It doesn't matter where you came from, Roman. It's where you are now."
"That's not always true. Part of where you come from stays with you." He closed a hand over hers briefly, then released it. It would be better, he thought, to break the contact now. "When he was sober enough, my father drove a cab. When he wasn't sober enough, he sat around the apartment with his head in his hands. One of my first memories is waking up at night hearing my mother screaming at him. Every couple of months she'd threaten to leave. Then he'd straighten up. We'd live in the eye of the hurricane until he'd stop off at the bar to have a drink. So she finally stopped threatening and did it."
"Where did you go?"
"I said she left."
"But ... didn't she take you with her?"
"I guess she figured she was going to have it rough enough without dealing with a ten-year-old."
Charity shook her head and struggled with a deep, churning anger. It was hard for her to understand how a mother could desert her child. "She must have been very confused and frightened. Once she---"
"I never saw her again," Roman said. "You have to understand that not everyone loves unconditionally. Not everyone loves at all."
"Oh, Roman." She wanted to gather him close then, but he held her away from him.
"I stayed with my father another three years. One night he hit the gin before he got in the cab. He killed himself and his passenger."
"Oh, God." She reached for him, but he shook his head.
"That made me a ward of the court. I didn't much care for that, so I took off, hit the streets."
She was reeling from what he'd already told her, and she could barely take it all in. "At thirteen?"
"I'd been living there most of my life anyway."
"But how?"
He shook a cigarette out of his pack, lighting it and drawing deep before he spoke again. "I took odd jobs when I could find them. I stole when I couldn't. After a couple of years I got good enough at the stealing that I didn't bother much with straight jobs. I broke into houses, hot-wired cars, snatched purses. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
"Yes. You were alone and desperate."
"I was a thief. Damn it, Charity, I wasn't some poor misguided youth. I stopped being a kid when I came home and found my father passed out and my mother gone. I knew what I was doing. I chose to do it."
She kept her eyes level with his, battling the need to take him in her arms. "If you expect me to condemn a child for finding a way to survive, I'll have to disappoint you."
She was romanticizing, he told himself, pitching his cigarette into the water.
"Do you still steal?"
"What if I told you I did?"
"I'd have to say you were stupid. You don't seem stupid to me, Roman."
He paused for a moment before he decided to tell her the rest. "I was in Chicago. I'd just turned sixteen. It was January, so cold your eyes couldn't water. I decided I needed to score enough to take a bus south. Thought I'd winter in Florida and fleece the rich tourists. That's when I met John Brody. I broke into his apartment and ended up with a .45 in my face. He was a cop." The memory of that moment still made him laugh. "I don't know who was more surprised. He gave me three choices. One, he could turn me over to Juvie. Two, he could beat the hell out of me. Three, he could give me something to eat."
"What did you do?"
"It's hard to play it tough when a two-hundred-pound man's pointing a .45 at your belt. I ate a can of soup. He let me sleep on the couch." Looking back, he could still see himself, skinny and full of bitterness, lying wakeful on the lumpy sofa.
"I kept telling myself I was going to rip off whatever I could and take off. But I never did. I used to tell myself he was a stupid bleeding heart, and that once it warmed up I'd split with whatever I could carry. The next thing I knew I was going to school." Roman paused a moment to look up at the sky. "He used to build things down in the basement of the building. He taught me how to use a hammer."
"He must have been quite a man."
"He was only twenty-five when I met him. He'd grown up on the South Side, running with the gangs. At some point he turned it around. Then he decided to turn me around. In some ways he did. When he got married a couple of years later he bought this old run-down house in the suburbs. We fixed it up room by room. He used to tell me there was nothing he liked better than living in a construction zone. We were adding on another room---it was going to be his workshop---when he was killed. Line of duty. He was thirty-two. He left a three-year-old son and a pregnant widow."
"Roman, I'm sorry." She moved to him and took his hands.
"It killed something in me, Charity. I've never been able to get it back."
"I understand." He started to pull away, but she held him fast. "I do. When you lose someone who was that much a part of your life, something's always going to be missing. I still think about Pop all the time. It still makes me sad. Sometimes it just makes me angry, because there was so much more I wanted to say to him."
"You're leaving out pieces. Look at what I was, where I came from. I was a thief."
"You were a child."
He took her shoulders and shook her. "My father was a drunk."
"I don't even know who my father was. Should I be ashamed of that?"
"It doesn't matter to you, does it? Where I've been, what I've done?"
"Not very much. I'm more interested in what you are now."
He couldn't tell her what he was. Not yet. For her own safety, he had to continue the deception for a few more days. But there was something he could tell her. Like the story he had just recounted, it was something he had never told anyone else.
"I love you."
Her hands went slack on his. Her eyes grew huge. "Would you---" She paused long enough to take a deep breath. "Would you say that again?"
"I love you."
With a muffled sob, she launched herself into his arms. She wasn't going to cry, she told herself, squeezing her eyes tight against the threatening tears. She wouldn't be red-eyed and weepy at this, the most beautiful and exciting moment of her life.
"Just hold me a moment, okay?" Overwhelmed, she pressed her face into his shoulder. "I can't believe this is happening."
"That makes two of us." But he was smiling. He could feel the stunned delight coil through him as he stroked her hair. It hadn't been so hard to say, he realized. In fact, he could easily get used to saying it several times a day.
"A week ago I didn't even know you." She tilted her head back until her lips met his. "Now I can't imagine my life without you."
"Don't. You might change your mind."
"Not a chance."
"Promise." Overwhelmed by a sudden sense of urgency, he gripped her hands. "I want you to make that a promise."
"All right. I promise. I won't change my mind about being in love with you."
"I'm holding you to that, Charity." He swooped her against him, then drained even happy thoughts from her mind. "Will you marry me?"
She jerked back, gaped, then sat down hard. "What? What?"
"I want you to marry me---now, today." It was crazy, and he knew it. It was wrong. Yet, as he pulled her up again, he knew he had to find a way to keep her. "You must know somebody, a minister, a justice of the peace, who could do it."
"Well, yes, but ..." She held a hand to her spinning head. "There's paperwork, and licenses. God, I can't think."
"Don't think. Just say you will."
"Of course I will, but---"
"No buts." He crushed his mouth to hers. "I want you to belong to me. God, I need to belong to you. Do you believe that?"
"Yes." Breathless, she touched a hand to his cheek. "Roman, we're talking about marriage, a lifetime. I only intend to do this once." She dragged a hand through her hair and sat down again. "I guess everyone says that, but I need to believe it. It has to start off with more than a few words in front of an official. Wait, please," she said before he could speak again. "You've really thrown me off here, and I want to make you understand. I love you, and I can't think of anything I want more than to belong to you. When I marry you it has to be more than rushing to the J.P. and saying I do. I don't have to have a big, splashy wedding, either. It's not a matter of long white trains and engraved invitations."
"Then what is it?"
"I want flowers and music, Roman. And friends." She took his face in her hands, willing him to understand. "I want to stand beside you knowing I look beautiful, so that everyone can see how proud I am to be your wife. If that sounds overly romantic, well, it should be."
"How long do you need?"
"Can I have two weeks?"
He was afraid to give her two days. But it was for the best, he told himself. He would never be able to hold her if there were still lies between them. "I'll give you two weeks, if you'll go away with me afterward."
"Where?"
"Leave it to me."
"I love surprises." Her lips curved against his. "And you ... you're the biggest surprise so far."
"Two weeks." He took her hands firmly in his. "No matter what happens."
"You make it sound as though we might have to overcome a natural disaster in the meantime. I'm only going to take a few days to make it right." She brushed a kiss over his cheek and smiled again. "It will be right, Roman, for both of us. That's another promise. I'd like that champagne now."
She took out the glasses while he retrieved the bottle from the water. As they sat together on the blanket, he released the cork with a pop and a hiss.
"To new beginnings," she said, touching her glass to his.
He wanted to believe it could happen. "I'll make you happy, Charity."
"You already have." She shifted so that she was cuddled against him, her head on his shoulder. "This is the best picnic I've ever had."
He kissed the top of her head. "You haven't eaten anything yet."
"Who needs food?" With a sigh, she reached up. He linked his hand with hers, and they both looked out toward the horizon.
Checkin on Tuesday was as chaotic as it came. Charity barreled her way through it, assigning rooms and cabins, answering questions, finding a spare cookie for a cranky toddler, and waited for the first rush to pass.
She was the first to admit that she usually thrived on the noise, the problems and the healthy press of people that proved the inn's success. At the moment, though, she would have liked nothing better than having everyone, and everything settled.
It was hard to keep her mind on the business at hand when her head was full of plans for her wedding.
Should she have Chopin or Beethoven? She'd barely begun her list of possible selections. Would the weather hold so that they could have the ceremony in the gardens, or would it be best to plan an intimate and cozy wedding in the gathering room?
"Yes, sir, I'll be glad to give you information on renting bikes." She snatched up a pamphlet.
When was she going to find an afternoon free so that she could choose the right dress? It had to be the right dress, the perfect dress. Something ankle-length, with some romantic touches of lace. There was a boutique in Eastsound that specialized in antique clothing. If she could just---
"Aren't you going to sign that?"
"Sorry, Roger." Charity pulled herself back and offered him an apologetic smile. "I don't seem to be all here this morning."
"No problem." He patted her hand as she signed his roster. "Spring fever?"
"You could call it that." She tossed back her hair, annoyed that she hadn't remembered to braid it that morning. As long as she was smelling orange blossoms she'd be lucky to remember her own name. "We're a little behind. The computer's acting up again. Poor Bob's been fighting with it since yesterday."
"Looks like you've been in a fight yourself."
She lifted a hand to the healing cut on her temple. "I had a little accident last week."
"Nothing serious?"
"No, just inconvenient, really. Some idiot joyriding nearly ran me down."
"That's terrible." Watching her carefully, he pulled his face into stern lines. "Were you badly hurt?"
"No, only a few stitches and a medley of bruises. Scared me more than anything."
"I can imagine. You don't expect something like that around here. I hope they caught him."
"No, not yet." Because she'd already put the incident behind her, she gave a careless shrug. "To tell you the truth, I doubt they ever will. I imagine he got off the island as soon as he sobered up."
"Drunk drivers." Block made a sound of disgust. "Well, you've got a right to be distracted after something like that."
"Actually, I've got a much more pleasant reason. I'm getting married in a couple of weeks."
"You don't say!" His face split into a wide grin. "Who's the lucky man?"
"Roman DeWinter. I don't know if you met him. He's doing some remodeling upstairs."
"That's handy now, isn't it?" He continued to grin. The romance explained a lot. One look at Charity's face settled any lingering doubts. Block decided he'd have to have a nice long talk with Bob about jumping the gun. "Is he from around here?"
"No, he's from St. Louis, actually."
"Well, I hope he's not going to take you away from us."
"You know I'd never leave the inn, Roger." Her smile faded a bit. That was something she and Roman had never spoken of. "In any case, I promise to keep my mind on my work. You've got six people who want to rent boats." She took a quick look at her watch. "I can have them taken to the marina by noon."
"I'll round them up."
The door to the inn opened, and Charity glanced over. She saw a small, spare man with well-cut auburn hair, wearing a crisp sport shirt. He carried one small leather bag.
"Good morning."
"Good morning." He took a brief study of the lobby as he crossed to the desk. "Conby, Richard Conby. I believe I have a reservation."
"Yes, Mr. Conby. We're expecting you." Charity shuffled through the papers on the desk and sent up a quick prayer that Bob would have the computer humming along by the end of the day. "How was your trip?"
"Uneventful." He signed the register, listing his address as Seattle. Charity found herself both amused and impressed by his careful manicure. "I was told your inn is quiet, restful. I'm looking forward to relaxing for a day or two."
"I'm sure you'll find the inn very relaxing." She opened a drawer to choose a key. "Either Roman or I will drive your group to the marina, Roger. Have them in the parking lot at noon."
"Will do." With a cheerful wave, he sauntered off.
"I'll be happy to show you to your room, Mr. Conby. If you have any questions about the inn, or the island, feel free to ask me or any of the staff." She came around the desk and led the way to the stairs.
"Oh, I will," Conby said, following her. "I certainly will."
\*
At precisely 12:05, Conby heard a knock and opened his door. "Prompt as always, DeWinter." He scanned down to Roman's tool belt. "Keeping busy, I see."
"Dupont's in cabin 3."
Conby decided to drop the sarcasm. This was a big one, much too big for him to let his personal feelings interfere. "You made a positive ID?"
"I helped him carry his bags."
"Very good." Satisfied, Conby finished arranging his ebony-handled clothes brush and shoe horn on the oak dresser. "We'll move in as planned on Thursday morning and take him before we close in on Block."
"What about the driver of the car who tried to kill Charity?"
Always fastidious, Conby walked into the adjoining bath to wash his hands. "You're inordinately interested in a small-time hood."
"Did you get a confession?"
"Yes." Conby unfolded a white hand towel bordered with flowers. "He admitted to meeting with Block last week and taking five thousand to---to put Miss Ford out of the picture. A very minor sum for a hit." His hands dry, Conby tossed the towel over the lip of the sink before walking back into the bedroom. "If Block had been more discerning, he might have had more success."
Taking him by the collar, Roman lifted Conby to his toes. "Watch your step," he said softly.
"It's more to the point for me to tell you to watch yours." Conby pulled himself free and straightened his shirt. In the five years since he had taken over as Roman's superior he had found Roman's methods crude and his attitude arrogant. The pity was, his results were invariably excellent. "You're losing your focus on this one, Agent DeWinter."
"No. It's taken me a while---maybe too long---but I'm focused just fine. You've got enough on Block to pin him with conspiracy to murder. Dupont's practically tied up with a bow. Why wait?"
"I won't bother to remind you who's in charge of this case."
"We both know who's in charge, Conby, but there's a difference between sitting behind a desk and calling the shots in the field. If we take them now, quietly, there's less risk of endangering innocent people."
"I have no intention of endangering any of the guests. Or the staff," he added, thinking he knew where Roman's mind was centered. "I have my orders on this, just as you do." He took a fresh handkerchief out of his drawer. "Since it's apparently so important to you, I'll tell you that we want to nail Block when he passes the money. We're working with the Canadian authorities on this, and that's the way we'll proceed. As for the conspiracy charges, we have the word of a bargain-basement hit man. It may take a bit more to make it stick."
"You'll make it stick. How many have we got?"
"We have two agents checking in tomorrow, and two more as backup. We'll take Dupont in his cabin, and Block in the lobby. Moving on Dupont any earlier would undoubtedly tip off Block. Agreed?"
"Yes."
"Since you've filled me in on the checkout procedures, it should go very smoothly."
"It better. If anything happens to her---anything---I'm holding you responsible."
Charity dashed into the kitchen with a loaded tray. "I don't know how things can get out of hand so fast. When have you ever known us to have a full house on a Wednesday night?" she asked the room at large, whipping out her pad. "Two specials with wild rice, one with baked potato, hold the sour cream, and one child's portion of ribs with fries." She rushed over to get the drinks herself.
"Take it easy, girl," Mae advised her. "They ain't going anywhere till they eat."
"That's the problem." She loaded up the tray. "What a time for Lori to get sick. The way this virus is bouncing around, we're lucky to have a waitress still standing. Whoops!" She backed up to keep from running into Roman. "Sorry."
"Need a hand?"
"I need two." She smiled and took the time to lean over the tray and kiss him. "You seem to have them. Those salads Dolores is fixing go to table 5."
"Girl makes me tired just looking at her," Mae commented as she filleted a trout. She lifted her head just long enough for her eyes to meet Roman's. "Seems to me she rushes into everything."
"Four house salads." Dolores was humming the "Wedding March" as she passed him a tray. "Looks like you didn't need that dynamite after all." Cackling, she went back to fill the next order.
Five minutes later he passed Charity in the doorway again. "Strange bunch tonight," she murmured.
"How so?"
"There's a man at table 2. He's so jumpy you'd think he'd robbed a bank or something. Then there's a couple at table 8, supposed to be on a second honeymoon. They're spending more time looking at everyone else than each other."
Roman said nothing. She'd made both Dupont and two of Conby's agents in less than thirty minutes.
"And then there's this little man in a three-piece suit sitting at 4. Suit and tie," she added with a glance over her shoulder. "Came here to relax, he says. Who can relax in a three-piece suit?" Shifting, she balanced the tray on her hip. "Claims to be from Seattle and has an Eastern accent that could cut Mae's apple pie. Looks like a weasel."
"You think so?" Roman allowed himself a small smile at her description of Conby.
"A very well-groomed weasel," she added. "Check it out for yourself." With a small shudder, she headed toward the dining room again. "Anyone that smooth gives me the creeps."
Duty was duty though, and the weasel was sitting at her station. "Are you ready to order?" she asked Conby with a bright smile.
He took a last sip of his vodka martini. It was passable, he supposed. "The menu claims the trout is fresh."
"Yes, sir." She was particularly proud of that. The stocked pond had been her idea. "It certainly is."
"Fresh when it was shipped in this morning, no doubt."
"No." Charity lowered her pad but kept her smile in place. "We stock our own right here at the inn."
Lifting a brow, he tapped a finger against his empty glass. "Your fish may be superior to your vodka, but I have my doubts as to whether it is indeed fresh. Nonetheless, it appears to be the most interesting item on your menu, so I shall have to make do."
"The fish," Charity repeated, with what she considered admirable calm, "is fresh."
"I'm sure you consider it so. However, your conception of fresh and mine may differ."
"Yes, sir." She shoved the pad into her pocket. "If you'll excuse me a moment."
She might be innocent, Conby thought, frowning at his empty glass, but she was hardly efficient.
"Where's the fire?" Mae wanted to know when Charity burst into the kitchen.
"In my brain." She stopped a moment, hands on hips. "That---that insulting pipsqueak out there tells me our vodka's below standard, our menu's dull and our fish isn't fresh."
"A dull menu." Mae bristled down to her crepe-soled shoes. "What did he eat?"
"He hasn't eaten anything yet. One drink and a couple of crackers with salmon dip and he's a restaurant critic."
Charity took a turn around the kitchen, struggling with her temper. No urban wonder was going to stroll into her inn and pick it apart. Her bar was as good as any on the island, her restaurant had a triple-A rating, and her fish---
"Guy at table 4 wants another vodka martini," Roman announced as he carried in a loaded tray.
"Does he?" Charity whirled around. "Does he really?"
He couldn't recall ever seeing quite that glint in her eye. "That's right," he said cautiously.
"Well, I have something else to get him first." So saying, she strode into the utility room and then out again.
"Uh-oh," Dolores mumbled.
"Did I miss something?" Roman asked.
"Man's got a nerve saying the food's dull before he's even had a taste of it." Scowling, Mae scooped a helping of wild asparagus onto a plate. "I've a mind to add some curry to his entrée. A nice fat handful of it. We'll see about dull."
They all turned around when Charity strolled back in. She was still carrying the platter. On it flopped a very confused trout.
"My." Dolores covered her mouth with both hands, giggling. "Oh, my."
Grinning, Mae went back to her stove.
"Charity." Roman made a grab for her arm, but she evaded him and glided through the doorway. Shaking his head, he followed her.
A few of the diners looked up and stared as she carried the thrashing fish across the room. Weaving through the tables, she crossed to table 4 and held the tray under Conby's nose.
"Your trout, sir." She dropped the platter unceremoniously in front of him. "Fresh enough?" she asked with a small, polite smile.
In the archway Roman tucked his hands into his pockets and roared. He would have traded a year's salary for a photo of the expression on Conby's face as he and the fish gaped at each other.
When Charity glided back into the kitchen, she handed the tray and its passenger to Dolores. "You can put this back," she said. "Table 4 decided on the stuffed pork chops. I wish I had a pig handy." She let out a laughing squeal as Roman scooped her off the floor.
"You're the best." He pressed his lips to hers and held them there long after he'd set her down again. "The absolute best." He was still laughing as he gathered her close for a hug. "Isn't she, Mae?"
"She has her moments." She wasn't about to let them know how much good it did her to see them smiling at each other. "Now the two of you stop pawing each other in my kitchen and get back to work."
Charity lifted her face for one last kiss. "I guess I'd better fix that martini now. He looked like he could use one."
Because she wasn't one to hold a grudge, Charity treated Conby to attentive and cheerful service throughout the meal. Noting that he hadn't unbent by dessert, she brought him a serving of Mae's Black Forest cake on the house.
"I hope you enjoyed your meal, Mr. Conby."
It was impossible for him to admit that he'd never had better, not even in Washington's toniest restaurants. "It was quite good, thank you."
She offered an easy smile as she poured his coffee. "Perhaps you'll come back another time and try the trout."
Even for Conby, her smile was hard to resist. "Perhaps. You run an interesting establishment, Miss Ford."
"We try. Have you lived in Seattle long, Mr. Conby."
He continued to add cream to his coffee, but he was very much on guard. "Why do you ask?"
"Your accent. It's very Eastern."
Conby deliberated only seconds. He knew that Dupont had already left the dining room, but Block was at a nearby table, entertaining part of his tour group with what Conby considered rather boring stories. "You have a good ear. I was transferred to Seattle eighteen months ago. From Maryland. I'm in marketing."
"Maryland." Deciding to forgive and forget, she topped off his coffee. "You're supposed to have the best crabs in the country."
"I assure you, we do." The rich cake and the smooth coffee had mellowed him. He actually smiled at her. "It's a pity I didn't bring one along with me."
Laughing, Charity laid a friendly hand on his arm. "You're a good sport, Mr. Conby. Enjoy your evening."
Lips pursed, Conby watched her go. He couldn't recall anyone having accused him of being a good sport before. He rather liked it.
"We're down to three tables of diehards," Charity announced as she entered the kitchen again. "And I'm starving." She opened the refrigerator and rooted around for something to eat, but Mae snapped it closed again.
"You haven't got time."
"Haven't got time?" Charity pressed a hand to her stomach. "Mae, the way tonight went, I wasn't able to grab more than a stray French fry."
"I'll fix you a sandwich, but you had a call. Something about tomorrow's delivery."
"The salmon. Damn." She tilted her watch forward. "They're closed by now."
"Left an emergency number, I think. Message is upstairs."
"All right, all right. I'll be back in ten minutes." She cast a last longing glance at the refrigerator. "Make that two sandwiches."
To save time, she raced out through the utility room, rounded the side of the building and climbed the outside steps. When she opened the door, she could only stop and stare.
The music was pitched low. There was candlelight, and there were flowers and a white cloth on a table at the foot of the bed. It was set for two. As she watched, Roman took a bottle of wine from a glass bucket and drew the cork.
"I thought you'd never get here."
She leaned back on the closed door. "If I'd known this was waiting, I'd have been here a lot sooner."
"You said you liked surprises."
"Yes." There was both surprise and delight in her eyes as she brushed her tumbled hair back from her forehead. "I like them a lot." Untying her apron, she walked to the table while he poured the wine. It glinted warm and gold in the candlelight. "Thanks," she murmured when he offered her a glass.
"I wanted to give you something." He gripped her hand, holding tight and trying not to remember that this was their last night together before all the questions had to be answered. "I'm not very good with romantic gestures."
"Oh, no, you're very good at them. Champagne picnics, late-night suppers." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Mozart."
"Picked at random," he admitted, feeling foolishly nervous. "I have something for you."
She looked at the table. "Something else?"
"Yes." He reached down to the seat of his chair and picked up a square box. "It just came today." It was the best he could do. He pushed the box into her hand.
"A present?" She'd always liked the anticipation as much as the gift itself, so she took a moment to study and shake the box. But the moment the lid was off she snatched the bracelet out. "Oh, Roman, it's gorgeous." Thoroughly stunned, she turned the etched gold, watching the light glint off the metal and the square-cut amethyst. "It's absolutely gorgeous," she said again. "I'd swear I'd seen this before. Last week," she remembered. "In one of the magazines Lori brought me."
"You had it on your desk."
Overwhelmed, she nodded. "Yes, I'd circled this. I do that with beautiful things I know I'll never buy." She took a deep breath. "Roman, this is a wonderful, sweet and very romantic thing to do, but---"
"Then don't spoil it." He took the bracelet from the box and clasped it on her wrist. "I need the practice."
"No." She slipped her arms around him and rested her cheek against his shoulder. "I think you've got the hang of it."
He held her, letting the music, her scent, the moment, wash over him. Things could be different with her. He could be different with her.
"Do you know when I fell in love with you, Roman?"
"No." He kissed the top of her head. "I've thought more about why than when."
With a soft laugh, she snuggled against him. "I'd thought it was when you danced with me and you kissed me until every bone in my body turned to water."
"Like this?"
He turned his head, meeting her lips with his. Gently he set her on fire.
"Yes." She swayed against him, eyes closed. "Just like that. But that wasn't when. That was when I realized it, but it wasn't when I fell in love with you. Do you remember when you asked me about the spare?"
"The what?"
"The spare." Sighing, she tilted her head to give him easier access to her throat. "You wanted to know where the spare was so you could fix my flat." She leaned back to smile at his stunned expression. "I guess I can't call it love at first sight, since I'd already known you two or three minutes."
He ran his hands over her cheeks, through her hair, down her neck. "Just like that?"
"I'd never thought as much about falling in love and getting married as I suppose most people might. Because of Pop's being sick, and the inn. I always figured if it happened it would happen without me doing a lot of worrying or preparing. And I was right." She linked hands with him. "All I had to do was have a flat tire. The rest was easy."
A flat, Roman remembered, that had been deliberately arranged, just as her sudden need for a handyman had been arranged. As everything had been arranged, he thought, his grip tightening on her fingers. Everything except his falling in love with her.
"Charity ..." He would have given anything to be able to tell her the truth, the whole truth. Anything but his knowledge that in ignorance there was safety. "I never meant for any of this to happen," he said carefully. "I never wanted to feel this way about anyone."
"Are you sorry?"
"About a lot of things, but not about being in love with you." He released her. "Your dinner's getting cold."
She tucked her tongue in her cheek. "If we found something else to do for an hour or so we could call it a midnight supper." She ran her hands up his chest to toy with the top button of his shirt. "Want to play Parcheesi?"
"No."
She flicked the button open and worked her way slowly, steadily down. "Scrabble?"
"Uh-uh."
"I know." She trailed a finger down the center of his body to the snap of his jeans. "How about a rip-roaring game of canasta?"
"I don't know how to play."
Grinning, she tugged the snap open. "Oh, I have a feeling you'd catch on." Her laugh was muffled against his mouth.
Her heated thoughts of seducing him spun away as he dragged her head back and plundered her mouth. Her hands, so confident an instant before, faltered, then fisted hard at the back of his shirt. This wasn't the gentle, persuasive passion he had shown her since the night they had become lovers. This was a raw, desperate need, and it held a trace of fury, and a hint of despair. Whirling from the feel of it, she strained against him, letting herself go.
He'd needed her before. Roman had already come to understand that he had needed her long before he'd ever met her. But tonight was different. He'd set the stage carefully---the wine, the candles, the music---wanting to give her the romance she made him capable of. Then he'd felt her cool fingertips on his skin. He'd seen the promising flicker of desire in her eyes. There was only tonight. In a matter of hours she would know everything. No matter how often he told himself he would set things right, he was very much afraid she wouldn't forgive him.
He had tonight.
Breathless, she clung to him as they tumbled onto the bed. Here was the restless, ruthless lover she had known existed alongside the gentle, patient one. And he excited her every bit as much. As frantic as he, she pulled the loosened shirt from his shoulders and gloried in the feel of his flesh under her hands.
He was as taut as wire, as explosive as gunpowder. She felt his muscles tense and tighten as his mouth raced hungrily over her face. With a throaty laugh she tugged at his jeans while they rolled over the bed. If this was a game they were playing, she was determined they would both win.
A broken moan escaped him as her seeking hands drove him toward delirium. With an oath, he snagged her wrists, yanking them over her head. Breath heaving, he watched her face as he hooked a hand in the top of her shirt and ripped it down the center.
She had only time for a gasp before his hot, open mouth lowered to her skin to torment and tantalize. Powerless against the onslaught, she arched against him. When her hands were free, she only pressed him closer, crying out as he sucked greedily at her breast.
There were sensations here, wild and exquisite, that trembled on but never crossed the thin line that separated pleasure from pain. She felt herself dragged under, deep, still deeper, to windmill helplessly down some dark, endless tunnel toward unreasonable pleasures.
She couldn't know what she was doing to him. He was skilled enough to be certain that she was trapped by her own senses. Yet her body wrapped around his, her hands sought, her lips hungered.
In the flickering light her skin was like white satin. Under his hands it flowed like lava, hot and dangerous. Passion heated her light floral scent and turned it into something secret and forbidden.
Impatient, he yanked her slacks down her hips, frantically tasting each new inch of exposed flesh. This new intimacy had her sobbing out his name, shuddering as climax slammed impossibly into climax.
She held on to him, her nails digging in, her palms sliding damply over his slick skin. Her mind was empty, wiped clear of all but sensation. His name formed on her lips again and again. She thought he spoke to her, some mad, frenzied words that barely penetrated her clouded brain. Perhaps they were promises, pleas, or prayers. She would have answered all of them if she could.
Then his mouth was on hers, swallowing her cry of release, smothering her groan of surrender, as he drove himself into her.
Fast, hot, reckless, they matched rhythms. Far beyond madness, they clung. Driven by love, locked in desire, they raced. Even when they tumbled back to earth, they held each other close.
With her eyes half closed, her lips curved, she gave a long, lazy sigh. "That was wonderful."
Roman topped off the wine in Charity's glass. "Are you talking about the meal or the preliminaries?"
She smiled. "Both." Before he could set the bottle down, she touched his hand. It was just a skimming of her fingertip over his skin. His pulse doubled. "I think we should make midnight suppers a regular event."
It was long past midnight. Even cold fish was delicious with wine and love. He hoped that if he held on hard enough it could always be like this. "The first time you looked at me like that I almost swallowed my tongue."
She kept her eyes on his. Even in candlelight they were the color of morning. "Like what?"
"Like you knew exactly what I was thinking, and was trying not to think. Exactly what I wanted not to think. Exactly what I wanted, and was trying not to want. You scare the hell out of me."
Her lazy smile faltered. "I do?"
"You make too much difference. All the difference." He took both of her hands, wishing that just this once he had smooth words, a little poetry. "Every time you walk into a room ..." But he didn't have smooth words, or poetry. "It makes a difference." He would have released her hands, but she turned them in his.
"I'm crazy about you. If I'd gone looking for someone to share my life, and my home, and my dreams, it would have been you."
She saw the shadow of concern in his eyes and willed it away. There was no room for worries in their lives tonight. With a quick, wicked smile, she nibbled on his fingers. "You know what I'd like?"
"More Black Forest cake."
"Besides that." Her eyes laughed at him over their joined hands. "I'd like to spend the night making love with you, talking with you, drinking wine and listening to music. I have a feeling I'd find it much more satisfying than the slumber parties I had as a girl."
She could, with a look and a smile, seduce him more utterly than any vision of black lace or white silk. "What would you like to do first?"
She had to laugh. It delighted her to see him so relaxed and happy. "Actually, there is something I want to talk with you about."
"I've already told you---I'll wear a suit, but no tuxedo."
"It's not about that." She smiled and traced a fingertip over the back of his hand. "Even though I know you'd look wonderful in a tux, I think a suit's more than adequate for an informal garden wedding. I'd like to talk to you about after the wedding."
"After-the-wedding plans aren't negotiable. I intend to make love with you for about twenty-four hours."
"Oh." As if she were thinking it through, she sipped her wine. "I guess I can go along with that. What I'd like to discuss is more long-range. It's something that Block said to me the other day."
"Block?" Alarm sprinted upward, then centered at the base of his neck.
"Just an offhand comment, but it made me think." She moved her shoulders in a quick, restless movement, then settled again. "I mentioned that we were getting married, and he said something about hoping you didn't take me away. It suddenly occurred to me that you might not want to spend your life here, on Orcas."
"That's it?" He felt the tension seep away.
"It's not such a little thing. I mean, I'm sure we can work it out, but you might not be crazy about the idea of living in a ... well, a public kind of place, with people coming and going, and interruptions, and ..." She let her words trail off, knowing she was rambling, as she did whenever she was nervous. "The point is, I need to know how you feel about staying on the island, living here, at the inn."
"How do you feel about it?"
"It isn't just a matter of what I feel any longer. It's what we feel."
It amazed him that she could so easily touch his heart. He supposed it always would. "It's been a long time since I've felt at home anywhere. I feel it here, with you."
She smiled and linked her fingers with his. "Are you tired?"
"No."
"Good." She rose and corked the wine. "Just let me get my keys."
"Keys to what?"
"The van," she told him as she walked into the next room.
"Are we going somewhere?"
"I know the best place on the island to watch the sun rise." She came back carrying a blanket and jiggling the keys. "Want to watch the sun come up with me, Roman?"
"You're only wearing a robe."
"Of course I am. It's nearly two in the morning. Don't forget the wine." With a laugh, she opened the door and crept down the steps. "Let's try not to wake anyone." She winced a little as she started across the gravel in her bare feet. With a muttered oath, Roman swung her up into his arms. "My hero," she murmured.
"Sure." He dumped her in the driver's seat of the van. "Where are we going, baby?"
"To the beach." She pushed her hair behind her shoulders as she started the van. Symphonic music blared from the radio before she twisted the knob. "I always play it too loud when I'm driving alone." She turned to look guiltily back at the inn. It remained dark and quiet. Slowly she drove out of the lot and onto the road. "It's a beautiful night."
"Morning."
"Whatever." She took a long, greedy gulp of air. "I haven't really had time for big adventures, so I have to take small ones whenever I get the chance."
"Is that what this is? An adventure?"
"Sure. We're going to drink the rest of the wine, make love under the stars and watch the sun come up over the water." She turned her head. "Is that all right with you?"
"I think I can live with it."
It was hours later when she curled up close to him. The bottle of wine was empty, and the stars were blinking out one by one.
"I'm going to be totally useless today." After a sleepy laugh, she nuzzled his neck. "And I don't even care."
He tugged the blanket over her. The mornings were still chilly. Though he hadn't planned it, the long night of loving had given him new hope. If he could convince her to sleep through the morning, he could complete his assignment, close the door on it and then explain everything. That would let him keep her out of harm's way and begin at the beginning.
"It's nearly dawn," she murmured.
They didn't speak as they watched day break. The sky paled. The night birds hushed. For an instant, time hung suspended. Then, slowly, regally, colors seeped into the horizon, bleeding up from the water, reflecting in it. Shadows faded, and the trees were tipped with gold. The first bird of the morning trumpeted the new day.
Roman gathered her to him to love her slowly under the lightening sky.
She dozed as he drove back to the inn. The sky was a pale, milky blue, but it was as quiet now as it had been when they'd left. When he lifted her out of the van, she sighed and nestled her head on his shoulder.
"I love you, Roman."
"I know." For the first time in his life he wanted to think about next week, next month, even next year---anything except the day ahead. He carried her up the stairs and into the inn. "I love you, Charity."
He had little trouble convincing her to snuggle between the sheets of the rumpled bed once he promised to take Ludwig for his habitual run.
Before he did, Roman went downstairs, strapped on his shoulder holster and shoved in his gun.
Taking Dupont was a study in well-oiled police work. By 7:45 his secluded cabin was surrounded by the best Sheriff Royce and the F.B.I. had to offer. Roman had ignored Conby's mutterings about bringing the locals into it and advised his superior to stay out of the way.
When the men were in position, Roman moved to the door himself, his gun in one hand, his shoulder snug against the frame. He rapped twice. When there was no response, he signaled for his men to draw their weapons and close in. Using the key he'd taken from Charity's ring, he unlocked the door.
Once inside, he scanned the room, legs spread, the gun held tight in both hands. The adrenaline was there, familiar, even welcome. With only a jerk of the head he signaled his backup. Guarding each other's flanks, they took a last circle.
Roman cautiously approached the bedroom. For the first time, a smile---a grim smile---moved across his face. Dupont was in the shower. And he was singing.
The singing ended abruptly when Roman yanked the curtain aside.
"Don't bother to put your hands up," Roman told him as he blinked water out of his eyes. Keeping the gun level, he tossed his first prize a towel. "You're busted, pal. Why don't you dry off and I'll read you your rights?"
"Well done," Conby commented when the prisoner was cuffed. "If you handle the rest of this as smoothly, I'll see that you get a commendation."
"Keep it." Roman holstered his weapon. There was only one more hurdle before he could finally separate past and future. "When this is done, I'm finished."
"You've been in law enforcement for over ten years, DeWinter. You won't walk away."
"Watch me." With that, he headed back to the inn to finish what he had started.
When Charity awoke, it was full morning and she was quite alone. She was grateful for that, because she couldn't stifle a moan. The moment she sat up, her head, unused to the generous doses of wine and stingy amounts of sleep, began to pound.
She had no one but herself to blame, she admitted as she crawled out of bed. Her feet tangled in what was left of the shirt she'd been wearing the night before.
It had been worth it, she thought, gathering up the torn cotton. Well worth it.
But, incredible night or not, it was morning and she had work to do. She downed some aspirin, allowed herself another groan, then dived into the shower.
Roman found Bob huddled in the office, anxiously gulping laced coffee. Without preamble, he yanked the mug away and emptied the contents into the trash can.
"I just needed a little something to get me through."
He'd had more than a little, Roman determined. His words were slurred, and his eyes were glazed. Even under the best of circumstances Roman found it difficult to drum up any sympathy for a drunk.
He dragged Bob out of his chair by the shirtfront. "You pull yourself together and do it fast. When Block comes in you're going to check him and his little group out. If you tip him off---if you so much as blink and tip him off---I'll hang you out to dry."
"Charity does the checkout," Bob managed through chattering teeth.
"Not today. You're going to go out to the desk and handle it. You're going to do a good job because you're going to know I'm in here and I'm watching you."
He stepped away from Bob just as the office door opened. "Sorry I'm late." Despite her heavy eyes, Charity beamed at Roman. "I overslept."
He felt his heart stop, then sink to his knees. "You didn't sleep enough."
"You're telling me." Her smile faded when she looked at Bob. "What's wrong?"
He grabbed at the thread of opportunity with both hands. "I was just telling Roman that I'm not feeling very well."
"You don't look well." Concerned, she walked over to feel his brow. It was clammy and deepened the worry in her eyes. "You're probably coming down with that virus."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"You shouldn't have come in at all today. Maybe Roman should drive you home."
"No, I can manage." He walked on shaking legs to the door. "Sorry about this, Charity." He turned to give her a last look. "Really sorry."
"Don't be silly. Just take care of yourself."
"I'll give him a hand," Roman muttered, and followed him out. They walked out into the lobby at the same time Block strolled in.
"Good morning." His face creased with his habitual smile, but his eyes were wary. "Is there a problem?"
"Virus." Bob's face was already turning a sickly green. Fear made a convincing cover. "Hit me pretty hard this morning."
"I called Dr. Mertens," Charity announced as she came in to stand behind the desk. "You go straight home, Bob. He'll meet you there."
"Thanks." But one of Conby's agents followed him out, and he knew he wouldn't be going home for quite a while.
"This virus has been a plague around here." She offered Block an apologetic smile. "I'm short a housekeeper, a waitress and now Bob. I hope none of your group had any complaints about the service."
"Not a one." Relaxed again, Block set his briefcase on the desk. "It's always a pleasure doing business with you, Charity."
Roman watched helplessly as they chatted and went through the routine of checking lists and figures. She was supposed to be safe upstairs, sleeping deeply and dreaming of the night they'd spent together. Frustrated, he balled his hands at his side. Now, no matter what he did, she'd be in the middle.
He heard her laugh when Block mentioned the fish she'd carried into the dining room. And he imagined how her face would look when the agents moved in and arrested the man she thought of as a tour guide and a friend.
Charity read off a total. Roman steadied himself.
"We seem to be off by ... $22.50." Block began laboriously running the numbers through his calculator again. Brow furrowed, Charity went over her list, item by item.
"Good morning, dear."
"Hmm." Distracted, Charity glanced up. "Oh, good morning, Miss Millie."
"I'm just on my way up to pack. I wanted you to know what a delightful time we've had."
"We're always sorry to see you go. We were all pleased that you and Miss Lucy extended your stay for a few days."
Miss Millie fluttered her eyelashes myopically at Roman before making her way toward the stairs. At the top, he thought, there would now be an officer posted to see that she and the other guests were kept out of the way.
"I get the same total again, Roger." Puzzled, she tapped the end of her pencil on the list. "I wish I could say I'd run it through the computer, but ..." She let her words trail off, ignoring her headache. "Ah, this might be it. Do you have the Wentworths in cabin 1 down for a bottle of wine? They charged it night before last."
"Wentworth, Wentworth ..." With grating slowness. Block ran down his list. "No, nothing here."
"Let me find the tab." After opening a drawer, she flipped her way efficiently through the folders. Roman felt a bead of sweat slide slowly down his back. One of the agents strolled over to browse through some postcards.
"I've got both copies," she said with a shake of her head. "This virus is really hanging us up." She filed her copy of the receipt and handed Block his.
"No problem." Cheerful as ever, he noted the new charge, then added up his figures again. "That seems to match."
With the ease of long habit, Charity calculated the amount in Canadian currency. "That's $2,330.00." She turned the receipt around for Block's approval.
He clicked open his briefcase. "As always, it's a pleasure." He counted out the money in twenties. The moment Charity marked the bill Paid, Roman moved in.
"Put your hands up. Slow." He pressed the barrel of his gun into the small of Block's back.
"Roman!" Charity gaped at him, the key to the cash drawer in her hand. "What on earth are you doing?"
"Go around the desk," he told her. "Way around, and walk outside."
"Are you crazy? Roman, for God's sake---"
"Do it!"
Block moistened his lips, keeping his hands carefully aloft. "Is this a robbery?"
"Haven't you figured it out by now?" With his free hand, Roman pulled out his ID. After tossing it on the desk, he reached for his cuffs. "You're under arrest."
"What's the charge?"
"Conspiracy to murder, counterfeiting, transporting known felons across international borders. That'll do for a start." He yanked one of Block's arms down and slipped the cuff over his wrist.
"How could you?" Charity's voice was a mere whisper. She held his badge in her hand.
He took his eyes off Block for only a second to look at her. One second changed everything.
"How silly of me," Miss Millie muttered as she waltzed back into the lobby. "I was nearly upstairs when I realized I'd left my---"
For a man of his bulk, Block moved quickly. He dragged Miss Millie against him and had a knife to her throat before anyone could react. The cuffs dangled from one wrist. "It'll only take a heartbeat," he said quietly, staring into Roman's eyes. The gun was trained in the center of Block's forehead, and Roman's finger was twitching on the trigger.
"Think about it." Block's gaze swept the lobby, where other guns had been drawn. "I'll slice this nice little lady's throat. Don't move," he said to Charity. Shifting slightly, he blocked her way.
Wide-eyed, Miss Millie could only cling to Block's arm and whimper.
"Don't hurt her." Charity stepped forward, but she stopped quickly when she saw Block's grip tighten. "Please, don't hurt her." It had to be a dream, she told herself. A nightmare. "Someone tell me what's happening here."
"The place is surrounded." Roman kept his eyes and his weapon on Block. He waited in vain for one of his men to move in from the rear. "Hurting her isn't going to do you any good."
"It isn't going to do you any good, either. Think about it. Want a dead grandmother on your hands?"
"You don't want to add murder to your list, Block," Roman said evenly. And Charity was much too close, he thought. Much too close.
"It makes no difference to me. Now take it outside. All of you!" His voice rose as he scanned the room. "Toss down the guns. Toss them down and get out before I start slicing into her. Do it." He nicked Miss Millie's fragile throat with the blade.
"Please!" Again Charity took a step forward. "Let her go. I'll stay with you."
"Damn it, Charity, get back."
She didn't spare Roman a glance. "Please, Roger," she said again, taking another careful step forward. "She's old and frail. She might get sick. Her heart." Desperate, she stepped between him and Roman's gun. "I won't give you any trouble."
The decision took Block only a moment. He grabbed Charity and dug the point of the blade into her throat. Miss Millie slid bonelessly to the floor.
"Drop the gun." He saw the fear in Roman's eyes and smiled. Apparently he'd made a much better bargain. "Two seconds and it's over. I don't have anything to lose."
Roman held his hands up, letting his weapon drop. "We'll talk."
"We'll talk when I'm ready." Block shifted the knife so that the length of the blade lay across Charity's neck. She shut her eyes and waited to die. "Get out, now. The first time somebody tries to get back in she dies."
"Out." Roman pointed to the door. "Keep them back, Conby. All of them. There's my weapon," he said to Block. "I'm clean." He lifted his jacket cautiously to show his empty holster. "Why don't I hang around in here? You can have two hostages for the price of one. A federal agent ought to give you some leverage."
"Just the woman. Take off, DeWinter, or I'll kill her before you can think how to get to me. Now."
"For God's sake, Roman. Get her out of here. She needs a doctor." Charity sucked in her breath when the point of the knife pierced her skin.
"Don't." Roman held up his hands again, palms out, as he moved toward the crumpled form near the desk. Keeping his movements slow, he gathered the sobbing woman in his arms. "If you hurt her, you won't live long enough to regret it."
With that last frustrated threat he left Charity alone.
"Stay back." After bundling Miss Millie into waiting arms, he rushed off the porch, fighting to keep his mind clear. "Nobody goes near the doors or any of the windows. Get me a weapon." Before anyone could oblige him, he was yanking a gun away from one of Royce's deputies. With the smallest of gestures Royce signaled to his man to be silent.
"What do you want us to do?"
Roman merely stared down at the gun in his hand. It was loaded. He was trained. And he was helpless.
"DeWinter ..." Conby began.
"Back off." When Conby started to speak again, Roman turned on him. "Back off."
He stared at the inn. He could hear Miss Millie crying softly as someone carried her to a car. The guests who had already been evacuated were being herded to safety. Roman imagined that Royce had arranged that. Charity would want to make sure they were well taken care of.
Charity.
Shoving the gun into his holster, he turned around. "Have the road blocked off a mile in each direction. Only official personnel in this area. We'll keep the inn surrounded from a distance of fifty feet. He'll be thinking again," Roman said slowly, "and when he starts thinking he's going to know he's blocked in."
He lifted both hands and rubbed them over his face. He'd been in hostage situations before. He was trained for them. With time and cool heads, the odds of getting a hostage out in a situation of this type were excellent. When the hostage was Charity, excellent wasn't nearly good enough.
"I want to talk to him."
"Agent DeWinter, under the circumstances I have serious reservations about you being in charge of this operation."
Roman rounded on him. "Get in my way, Conby, and I'll hang you up by your silk tie. Why the hell weren't there men positioned in the back, behind him?"
Because his palms were sweating, Conby's voice was only more frigid. "I thought it best to have them outside, prepared if he attempted to run."
Roman battled the red wave of fury that burst behind his eyes. "When I get her out," he said softly, "I'm going to deal with you, you bastard. I need communication," he said to Royce. "Can you handle it?"
"Give me twenty minutes."
With a nod, Roman turned back to study the inn. Systematically he considered and rejected points of entry.
Inside, Charity felt some measure of relief when the knife was removed from her throat. Somehow the gun Block was pointing at her now seemed less personal.
"Roger---"
"Shut up. Shut up and let me think." He swiped a beefy forearm over his brow to dry it. It had all happened so fast, too fast. Everything up to now he had done on instinct. As Roman had calculated, he was beginning to think.
"They've got me trapped in here. I should've used you to get to one of the cars, should've taken off." Then he laughed, looking wildly around the lobby. "We're on a damn island. Can't drive off an island."
"I think if we---"
"Shut up!" He shouted and had her holding her breath as he leveled the gun at her. "I'm the one who needs to think. Feds. That sniveling little wart was right all along," he muttered, thinking of Bob. "He made DeWinter days ago. Did you?" As he asked, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back to hold the barrel against her throat.
"No. I didn't know. I didn't. I still don't understand." She could only give a muffled cry when he slammed her back against the wall. She'd never seen murder in a man's eyes before, but she recognized it. "Roger, think. If you kill me you won't have anything to bargain with." She tasted fear on her tongue as she forced the words out. "You need me."
"Yeah." He relaxed his grip. "You've been handy so far. You'll just have to go on being handy. How many ways in and out of this place?"
"I---I don't really know." She sucked in her breath when he gave her hair another cruel twist.
"You know how many two-by-fours are in this place."
"Five. There are five exits, not counting the windows. The lobby, the gathering room, the outside steps running to my quarters and a family suite in the east wing, and the back, through the utility room off the kitchen."
"That's good." Panting a bit, he considered the possibilities. "The kitchen. We'll take the kitchen. I'll have water and food there in case this takes a while. Come on." He kept a hand in her hair and the gun at the base of her neck.
His eyes on the inn, Roman paced back and forth behind the barricade of police cars. She was smart, he told himself.
Charity was a smart, sensible woman. She wouldn't panic. She wouldn't do anything stupid.
Oh, God, she must be terrified. He lit a cigarette from the butt of another, but he didn't find himself soothed as the harsh smoke seared into him.
"Where's the goddamn phone?"
"Nearly ready." Royce pushed back his hat and straightened from where he'd been watching a lineman patch in a temporary line. "My nephew," he explained to Roman with a thin smile. "The boy knows his job."
"You got a lot of relatives."
"I'm lousy with them. Listen, I heard you and Charity were getting married. That part of the cover?"
"No." Roman thought of the picnic on the beach, that one clear moment in time. "No."
"In that case, I'm going to give you some advice. You're wrong," he said, before Roman could speak. "You do need it. You're going to have to get yourself calm, real calm, before you pick up that phone. A trapped animal reacts two ways. He either cowers back and gives up or he strikes out at anything in his way." Royce nodded toward the inn. "Block doesn't look like the type to give up easy, and Charity sure as hell's in his way. That line through yet, son?"
"Yes, sir." The young lineman's hands were sweaty with nerves and excitement. "You can dial right through." He passed the damp receiver to Roman.
"I don't know the number," Roman murmured. "I don't know the damn number."
"I know it."
Roman swung around to face Mae. In that one instant he saw everything he felt about himself mirrored in her eyes. There would be time for guilt later, he told himself. There would be a lifetime for it. "Royce, you were supposed to clear the area."
"Moving Maeflower's like moving a tank."
"I don't budge until I see Charity." Mae firmed her quivering lips. "She's going to need me when she comes out. Waste of time to argue," she added. "You want the number?"
"Yes."
She gave it to him. Tossing his cigarette aside, Roman dialed.
Charity jolted in the chair when the phone rang. Across the table, Block simply stared at it. He had had her pile everything she could drag or carry to block the two doors. Extra chairs, twenty-pound canisters of flour and sugar, the rolling butcher block, iron skillets, all sat in a jumble, braced against both entrances.
In the silent kitchen the phone sounded again and again, like a scream.
"Stay right where you are." Block moved across the room to answer it. "Yeah?"
"It's DeWinter. Thought you might be ready to talk about a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"That's what we have to talk about. First I have to know you've still got Charity."
"Have you seen her come out?" Block spit into the phone. "You know damn well I've got her or you wouldn't be talking to me."
"I have to make sure she's still alive. Let me talk to her."
"You can go to hell."
Threats, abuse, curses, rose like bile in his throat. Still, when he spoke, his voice was dispassionate. "I verify that you still have a hostage, Block, or we don't deal."
"You want to talk to her?" Block gestured with the gun. "Over here," he ordered. "Make it fast. It's your boyfriend," he told Charity when she stood beside him. "He wants to know how you're doing. You tell him you're just fine." He brushed the gun up her cheek to rest it at her temple. "Understand?"
With a nod, she leaned into the phone. "Roman?"
"Charity." Too many emotions slammed into him for him to measure. He wanted to reassure her, to make promises, to beg her to be careful. But he knew he would have only seconds and that Block would be listening to every word spoken. "Has he hurt you?"
"No." She closed her eyes and fought back a sob. "No, I'm fine. He's going to let me fix some food."
"Hear that, DeWinter? She's fine." Deliberately Block dragged her arm behind her back until she cried out. "That can change anytime."
Roman gripped the phone helplessly as he listened to the sound of Charity's sobs. It took every ounce of control he had left to keep the terror out of his voice. "You don't have to hurt her. I said we'd talk about terms."
"We'll talk about terms, all right. My terms." He released Charity's arm and ignored her as she slid to the floor. "You get me a car. I want safe passage to the airport, DeWinter. Charity drives. I want a plane fueled up and waiting. She'll be getting on it with me, so any tricks and we're back to square one. When I get where I'm going, I turn her loose."
"How big a plane?"
"Don't try to stall me."
"Wait. I have to know. It's a small airport, Block. You know that. If you're going any distance---"
"Just get me a plane."
"Okay." Roman wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and forced his voice to level. He couldn't hear her any longer, and the silence was as anguishing as her sobbing. "I'm going to have to go through channels on this. That's how it works."
"The hell with your channels."
"Look, I don't have the authority to get you what you want. I need to get approval. Then I'll have to clear the airport, get a pilot. You'll have to give me some time."
"Don't yank my chain, DeWinter. You got an hour."
"I've got to get through to Washington. You know how bureaucrats are. It'll take me three, maybe four."
"The hell with that. You got two. After two I'm going to start sending her out in pieces."
Charity closed her eyes, lowered her head to her folded arms and wept out her terror.
"We've got a couple of hours," Roman murmured, continuing to study the inn and the floor plan Royce had given him. "He's not as smart as I thought, or maybe he's too panicked to think it through."
"That could be to our advantage," Royce said when Roman shook his head at his offer of coffee. "Or it could work against us."
Two hours. Roman stared at the quiet clapboard building. He couldn't stand the idea of Charity being held at gunpoint for that long. "He wants a car, safe passage to the airport and a plane." He turned to Conby. "I want you to make sure he thinks he's going to get it."
"I'm aware of how to handle a hostage situation, DeWinter."
"Which one of your men is the best shot?" Roman asked Royce.
"I am." He kept his eyes steady on Roman's. "Where do you want me?"
"They're in the kitchen."
"He tell you that?"
"No, Charity. She told me he was going to let her fix some food. Since I doubt eating's on her mind, she was letting me know their position."
Royce glanced over to where Mae was pacing up and down the pier. "She's a tough girl. She's keeping her head."
"So far." But Roman remembered too well the sound of her muffled sobbing. "We need to shift two of the men around the back. I want them to keep their distance, stay out of sight. Let's see how close we can get." He turned to Conby again. "Give us five minutes, then call him again. Tell him who you are. You know how to make yourself sound important. Stall him, keep him on the phone as long as you can."
"You have two hours, DeWinter. We can call for a SWAT team from Seattle."
"We have two hours," Roman said grimly. "Charity may not."
"I can't take responsibility---"
Roman cut him off. "You'll damn well take it."
"Agent DeWinter, if this wasn't a crisis situation I would cite you for insubordination."
"Great. Just put it on my tab." He looked at the rifle Royce had picked up. It had a long-range telescopic sight. "Let's move."
She'd cried long enough, Charity decided, taking a long, deep breath. It wasn't doing her any good. Like her captor, she needed to think. Her world had whittled down to one room, with fear as her constant companion. This wouldn't do, she told herself, straightening her spine. Her life was being threatened, and she wasn't even sure why.
She rose from where she had been huddled on the floor. Block was still sitting at the table, holding the gun in one hand while the other tapped monotonously on the scrubbed wood. The dangling cuffs jangled. He was terrified, she realized. Perhaps every bit as much as she. There must be some way to use that to her advantage.
"Roger ... would you like some coffee?"
"Yeah. That's good, that's a good idea." He took a firmer grip on the gun. "But don't get cute. I'm watching every move."
"Are they going to give you a plane?" She turned the burner on low. The kitchen was full of weapons, she thought.
Knives, cleavers, mallets. Closing her eyes, she wondered if she had the courage to use one.
"They're going to give me anything I want as long as I have you."
"Why do they want you?" Stay calm, she told herself. She wanted to stay calm and alert and alive. "I don't understand." She poured the hot coffee into two cups. She didn't think she could swallow, but she hoped that sharing it would put him slightly more at ease. "They said something about counterfeiting."
It didn't matter what she knew. In any case, he had worked hard and was proud of it. "For over two years now I've been running a nice little game back and forth over the border. Twenties and tens in Canadian. I can stamp them out like bottle caps. But I'm careful, you know." He gulped at the coffee. "A couple thousand here, couple thousand there, with Vision as the front. We run a good tour, keep the clients happy."
"You've been paying me with counterfeit money?"
"You, and a couple other places. But you're the longest and most consistent." He smiled at her, as friendly as ever---if you didn't count the gun in his hand. "You have a special place here, Charity, quiet, remote, privately owned. You deal with a small local bank. It ran like a charm."
"Yes." She looked down at her cup, her stomach rolling. "I can see that." And Roman had come not to see the whales but to work on a case. That was all she had been to him.
"We were going to milk this route for a few more months," he continued. "Just lately Bob started getting antsy."
"Bob?" Her hand fisted on her lap. "Bob knew?"
"He was nothing but a nickel-and-dime con man before I took him on. Working scams and petty embezzlements. I set him up here and made him rich. Didn't do badly by you, either," he added with a grin. "You were on some shaky financial ground when I came along."
"All this time," she whispered.
"I'd decided to give it another six months, then move on, but Bob started getting real jumpy about your new handyman. The bastard set me up." He slammed the cup down. "Worked a deal with the feds. I should have caught it, the way he started falling apart after the hit-and-run."
"The accident---you tried to kill me."
"No." He patted her hand, and she cringed. "Truth is, I've always had a liking for you. But I wanted to get you out of the way for a while. Just testing the waters to see how DeWinter played it. He's good," Block mused. "Real good. Had me convinced he was only interested in you. The romance was a good touch. Threw me off."
"Yes." Devastated, she stared at the grain in the wood of the tabletop. "That was clever."
"Sucked me in," Block muttered. "I knew you weren't stringing me along. You haven't got it in you. But DeWinter ... They've probably already taken Dupont."
"Who?"
"We don't just run the money. There are people, people who need to leave the country quietly, who pay a lot for our services. Looks like I'm going to have to take myself on as a client." He laughed and drained his cup. "How about some food? One of the things I'll miss most about this place is the food."
She rose silently and went to the refrigerator. It had all been a lie, she thought. Everything Roman had said, everything he'd done ...
The pain cut deep and had her fighting back another bout of weeping. He'd made a fool of her, as surely and as completely as Roger Block had. They had used her, both of them, used her and her inn. She would never forgive. She rubbed her hands over her eyes to clear them. And she would never forget.
"How about that lemon meringue pie?" Relaxed, pleased with his own cleverness, Roger tapped the barrel of the gun on the table. "Mae outdid herself on that pie last night."
"Yes." Slowly Charity pulled it out. "There's a little left."
Block had ripped the frilly tiebacks from the sunny yellow curtains, but there was a space two inches wide at the center.
Silently Roman eased toward it. He could see Charity reach into a cupboard, take out a plate.
There were tears drying on her cheeks. It tore at him to see them. Her hands were steady. That was something, some small thing to hold on to. He couldn't see Block, though he shifted as much as he dared.
Then, suddenly, as if she had sensed him, their eyes met through the glass. She braced, and in that instant he saw a myriad of emotions run across her face. Then it was set again. She looked at him as she would have looked at a stranger and waited for instructions.
He held up a hand, palm out, doing his best to signal her to hold on, to keep calm. Then the phone rang and he watched her jolt.
"About time," Block said. He was almost swaggering as he walked to the phone. "Yeah? Who the hell's this?" After listening a moment, he gave a pleased laugh. "I like dealing with a title. Where's my plane, Inspector Conby?"
As quickly as she dared, Charity tugged the curtain open another inch.
"Over here," Block ordered.
She dropped her hand, and the plate rattled to the counter. "What?"
He gestured with the gun. "I said over here."
Roman swore as she moved between him and a clear shot.
"I want them to know I'm keeping up my end." Block took Charity by the arm, less roughly this time. "Tell the man I'm treating you fine."
"He hasn't hurt me," she said dully. She forced herself to keep her eyes away from the window. Roman was out there. He would do his best to get her out safely. That was his job.
"The plane'll be ready in a hour," Block told her after he hung up. "Just enough time for that pie and another cup of coffee."
"All right." She crossed to the counter again. Panic sprinted through her when she looked out the window and saw no one. He'd left. Because her fingers were unsteady, she fumbled with the pie. "Roger, are you going to let me go?"
He hesitated only an instant, but that was enough to tell her that his words were just another lie. "Sure. As soon as I'm clear."
So it came down to that. Her heart, her inn, and now her life. She set the pie in front of him and studied his face. He was pleased with himself, she thought, and she hated him for it. But he was still sweating.
"I'll get your coffee." She walked to the stove. One foot, then the other. There was a buzzing in her ears. It was more than fear now, she realized as she turned the burner up under the pot. It was rage and despair and a strong, irresistible need to survive. Mechanically she switched the stove off. Then, taking a cloth, she took the pot by the handle.
He was still holding the gun, and he was shoveling pie into his mouth with his left hand. He thought she was a fool, Charity mused. Someone who could be used and duped and manipulated. She took a deep breath.
"Roger?"
He glanced up. Charity looked directly into his eyes.
"You forgot your coffee," she said calmly, then tossed the steaming contents into his face.
He screamed. She didn't think she'd ever heard a man scream like that before. He was half out of his chair, groping blindly for the gun. It happened quickly. No matter how often she played back the scene in her mind, she would never be completely sure what happened first.
She grabbed for the gun herself. Block's flailing hand caught her across the cheekbone. Even as she staggered backward there was the sound of glass breaking.
Roman was through the window. Charity landed on the floor, stunned by the blow, as he burst through. There were men breaking through the barricaded doors and rushing into the room. Someone dragged her from the floor and pulled her out.
Roman held the gun to Block's temple. They were kneeling on the shattered glass---or rather Roman was kneeling and supporting the moaning Block. There were already welts rising up on his wide face. "Please," Roman murmured. "Give me a reason."
"Roman." Royce laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's over."
But the rage clogged his throat. It made his finger slippery on the trigger of the gun. He remembered the way Charity had looked at him when she had seen him outside the window. Slowly he drew back and holstered his gun.
"Yeah. It's over. Get him the hell out of here." He rose and went to find Charity.
He found her in the lobby, wrapped in Mae's arms.
"I'm all right," Charity murmured. "Really." When she saw Roman, her eyes frosted over. "Everything's going to be fine now. I need to speak with Roman for a minute."
"You say your piece." Mae kissed both of her cheeks. "Then you're going to get in a nice hot tub."
"Okay." She squeezed Mae's hand. Strange, but it felt more like a dream now, as if she were pushing her way through layers and layers of gauzy gray curtains. "I think we'll have more privacy upstairs," she said to Roman. Then she turned without looking at him and started up the stairs.
He wanted to hold her. His fingers curled tight into his palms. He needed to lift her against him, touch her hair, her skin, and convince himself that the nightmare was over.
Her knees were shaking. Reaction was struggling to set in, but she fought it off. When she was alone, Charity promised herself. When she was finally alone, she would let it all out.
In her sitting room she turned to face him. She would not, could not, speak to him in the intimacy of her bedroom. "I imagine you have reports to file," she began. Was that her voice? she wondered. It sounded so thin and cold, so foreign. Deliberately she cleared her throat. "I've been told I'll have to make a statement, but I thought we should get this out of the way first."
"Charity." He started toward her, only to be brought up short when her hands whipped out.
"Don't." Her eyes were as cold as her voice. It wasn't a dream, she told herself. It was as harsh and as brutal a reality as she had ever known. "Don't touch me. Not now, not ever again."
His hands fell uselessly to his sides. "I'm sorry."
"Why? You accomplished exactly what you came to do. From what I've been able to gather, Roger and Bob had quite a system going. I'm sure your superiors will be delighted with you."
"It doesn't matter."
She dug his badge out of her pocket, where she had shoved it. "Yes." She threw it at him. "Yes, it does."
Struggling for calm, he pushed it into his pocket. He noted dispassionately that his hands were bleeding. "I couldn't tell you."
"Didn't tell me."
There was a faint bruise on her cheekbone. For a moment all his guilt and impotent fury centered there. "He hit you."
She ran a fingertip lightly across the mark. "I don't break easily."
"I want to explain."
"Do you?" She turned away for a moment. She wanted to keep her anger cold. "I think I get the picture."
"Listen, baby---"
"No, you listen, baby." Her composure cracking, she whirled around again. "You lied to me, you used me from the first minute to the last. It was all one huge, incredible lie."
"Not all."
"No? Let's see, how can we separate one from the other? A convenient flat." She saw the anger in his eyes and shoved a chair out of her path. "And George, good old lucky George. I suppose it was worth a few thousand dollars to get him out of the way and leave you an opening. And Bob---you knew all about Bob, didn't you?"
"We couldn't be sure, not at first."
"Not at first," she repeated. As long as she kept her brain cold, she told herself, she could think. She could think and not feel. "I wonder, Roman, were you so sure of me? Or did you think I was part of it?" When he didn't answer, she spun around again. "You did. Oh, I see. I was under investigation all the time. And there you were, so conveniently on the scene. All you had to do was get close to me, and I made it so easy for you." With a laugh, she pressed her hands to her face. "My God, I threw myself at you."
"I wasn't supposed to get involved with you." Fighting desperation, he paced his words carefully. "It just happened. I fell in love with you."
"Don't say that to me." She lowered her hands. Her face was pale and cool behind them. "You don't even know what it means."
"I didn't, until you."
"You can't have love without trust, Roman. I trusted you. I didn't just give you my body. I gave you everything."
"I told you everything I could," he shot back. "Damn it, I couldn't tell you the rest. The things I told you about myself, about the way I grew up, the way I felt, they were all true."
"Do I have your word on that? Agent DeWinter?"
With an oath, he strode across the room and grabbed her arms. "I didn't know you when I took the assignment. I was doing a job. When things changed, the most important part of that job became proving your innocence and keeping you safe."
"If you had told me I would have proven my own innocence." She jerked out of his hold. "This is my inn, and these are my people. The only family I have left. Do you think I would risk it all for money?"
"No. I knew that, I trusted that, after the first twenty-four hours. I had orders, Charity, and my own instincts. If I had told you who I was and what was going on, you would never have been able to keep up a front."
"So I'm that stupid?"
"No. That honest." Digging deep, he found his control again. "You've been through a lot. Let me take you to the hospital."
"I've been through a lot," she repeated, and nearly laughed. "Do you know how it feels to know that for two years, two years, people I thought I knew were using me? I always thought I was such a good judge of character." Now she did laugh. She walked to the window. "They made a fool out of me week after week. I'm not sure I'll ever get over it. But that's nothing." She turned, wrapping her fingers around the windowsill. "That's nothing compared to what I feel when I think of how I let myself believe you were in love with me."
"If it was a lie, why am I here now, telling you that I do?"
"I don't know." Suddenly weary, she dragged her hair away from her face. "And it doesn't seem to matter. I'm wrung dry, Roman. For a while today I was sure he was going to kill me."
"Oh, Charity." He gathered her close, and when she didn't resist he buried his face in her hair.
"I thought he would kill me," she repeated, her arms held rigidly at her sides. "And I didn't want to die. In fact, nothing was quite so important to me as staying alive. When my mother fell in love and that love was betrayed, she gave up. I've never been much like her." She stepped stiffly out of his hold. "Maybe I'm gullible, but I've never been weak. I intend to pick up where I left off, before all of this. I'm going to keep the inn running. No matter what it takes, I'm going to erase you and these last weeks from my life."
"No." Furious, he took her face in his hands. "You won't, because you know I love you. And you made me a promise, Charity. No matter what happened, you wouldn't stop loving me."
"I made that promise to a man who doesn't exist." It hurt. She could feel the pain rip through her from one end to the other. "And I don't love the man who does." She took a small but significant step backward. "Leave me alone."
When he didn't move, she walked into the bedroom and flipped the lock.
Mae was busily sweeping up glass in the kitchen. For the first time in over twenty years the inn was closed. She figured it would open again soon enough, but for now she was content that her girl was safe upstairs in bed and the coffee-guzzling police were on their way out.
When Roman came in, she rested her arms on her broom. Mae had rocked Charity for nearly an hour while she'd cried over him. She'd been prepared to be cold and dismissive. It only took one look to change her mind.
"You look worn out."
"I ..." Feeling lost, he glanced around the room. "I wanted to ask how she was before I left."
"She's miserable." She nodded, content with the anguish she saw in his eyes. "And stubborn. You got a few cuts."
Automatically he lifted a hand to rub at the nick on his temple. "Will you give her this number?" He dropped a card on the table. "She can reach me there if--- She can reach me there."
"Sit down. Let me clean you up."
"No, it's all right."
"I said sit down." She went to a cupboard for a bottle of antiseptic. "She's had a bad shock."
He had a sudden mental image of Block holding the knife to her throat. "I know."
"She bounces back pretty quick from most things. She loves you."
Roman winced a little as she dabbed on the antiseptic, but not from the sting. "Did."
"Does," Mae said flatly. "She just doesn't want to right now. You been an agent for long?"
"Too long."
"Are you going to make sure that slimy worm Roger Block's put away?"
Roman's hands curled into fists. "Yes."
"Are you in love with Charity?"
He relaxed his hands. "Yes."
"I believe you, so I'm going to give you some advice." Puffing a bit, she sat down next to him. "She's hurt, real bad. Charity's the kind who likes to fix things herself. Give her a little time." She picked up the card and slipped it into her apron pocket. "I'll just hold on to this for now."
She was feeling stronger. And not just physically, Charity decided as she jogged along behind Ludwig. In every way.
The sweaty dreams that had woken her night after night were fading. It wasn't nearly as difficult to talk, or to smile, or to pretend that she was in control again. She had promised herself she would put her life back together, and she was doing it.
She rarely thought of Roman. On a sigh, she relented. She would never get strong again if she began to lie to herself.
She always thought of Roman. It was difficult not to, and it was especially difficult today.
They were to have been married today. Charity veered into the grass as Ludwig explored. The ache came, spread and was accepted. Just after noon, with the music swelling and the sun streaming down on the garden, she would have put her hand in his. And promised.
A fantasy, she told herself, and nudged her dog back onto the shoulder of the road. It had been fantasy then, and it was a fantasy now.
And yet ... With every day that passed she remembered more clearly the times they had spent together. His reluctance, and his anger. Then his tenderness and concern. She glanced down to where the bracelet shimmered on her wrist.
She'd tried to put it back in the box, to push it into some dark, rarely opened drawer. Every day she told herself she would. Tomorrow. And every day she remembered how sweet, how awkward and how wonderful he'd been when he'd given it to her.
If it had only been a job, why had he given her so much more than he had needed to? Not just the piece of jewelry, but everything the circle of gold had symbolized? He could have offered her friendship and respect, as Bob had, and she would have trusted him as much. He could have kept their relationship strictly physical. Her feelings would have remained the same.
But he had said he loved her. And at the end he had all but begged her to believe it.
She shook her head and increased her pace. She was being weak and sentimental. It was just the day ... the beautiful spring morning that was to have been her wedding day.
What she needed was to get back to the inn and keep busy. This day would pass, like all the others.
At first she thought she was imagining it when she saw him standing beside the road, looking out at the sunrise over the water. Her feet faltered. Before she could think to prevent it, her knees weakened. Fighting her heart, she walked to him.
He'd heard her coming. As he'd stood in the growing light he'd remembered wondering if he came back, if he would stand just there and wait for Charity to run to him.
She wasn't running now. She was walking very slowly, despite the eager dog. Could she know, he wondered, that she held his life in her hands?
Nerves swarmed through her, making her fingers clench and unclench on the leash. She prayed as she stopped in front of him that her voice would be steadier.
"What do you want?"
He bent down to pat the squirming dog's head. "We'll get to that. How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine."
"You've been having nightmares." There were shadows under her eyes. He wouldn't make it easy on her by ignoring them.
She stiffened. "They're passing. Mae talks too much."
"At least she talks to me."
"We've already said all there is to say."
He closed a hand over her arm as she started by him. "Not this time. You had your say last time, and I had a lot of it coming. Now it's my turn." Reaching down, he unhooked the leash. Free, Ludwig bounded toward home. "Mae's waiting for him," Roman explained before Charity could call the dog back.
"I see." She wrapped the leash around her fisted hand. "You two work all this out?"
"She cares about you. So do I."
"I have things to do."
"Yeah. This is first." He pulled her close and, ignoring her struggling, crushed his mouth to hers. It was like a drink after days in the desert, like a fire after a dozen long cold nights. He plundered, greedy, as though it were the first time. Or the last.
She couldn't fight him, or herself. Almost sobbing, she clung to him, hungry and hurting. No matter how strong she tried to be, she would never be strong enough to stand against her own heart.
Aching, she started to draw back, but he tightened his hold. "Give me a minute," he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. "Every night I wake up and see him holding a knife at your throat. And there's nothing I can do. I reach for you, and you're not there. For a minute, one horrible minute, I'm terrified. Then I remember that you're safe. You're not with me, but you're safe. It's almost enough."
"Roman." With a helpless sigh, she stroked soothing hands over his shoulders. "It doesn't do any good to think about it."
"Do you think I could forget?" He pulled back, keeping his hands firm on her arms. "For the rest of my life I'll remember every second of it. I was responsible for you."
"No." The anger came quickly enough to surprise both of them. She shoved at his chest. "I'm responsible for me. I was and I am and I always will be. And I took care of myself."
"Yeah." He ran his palm over her cheek. The bruise had faded, even if the memory hadn't. "It was a hell of a way to serve coffee."
"Let's forget it." She shrugged out of his grip and walked toward the water. "I'm not particularly proud of letting myself be duped, so I'd rather not dwell on it."
"They were pros, Charity. You're not the first person they've used."
She pressed her lips together. "And you?"
"When you're undercover you lie, and you use, and you take advantage of anything that's offered." Her eyes were closed when he turned her around to face him. "I came here to do a job. It had been a long time since I'd let myself think beyond anything but the next day. Look at me. Please."
Taking a steadying breath, she opened her eyes. "We've been through this already, Roman."
"No. I'd hurt you. I'd disappointed you. You weren't ready to listen." Gently he brushed a tear from her lashes. "I hope you are now, because I can't make it much longer without you."
"I was too hard on you before." It took almost everything she had, but she managed a smile. "I was hurt, and I was a lot shakier than I knew from being locked up with Roger. After I gave my statement, Inspector Conby explained everything to me, more clearly. About how the operation had been working, what my responsibilities were, what you had to do."
"What responsibilities?"
"About the money. It's put us in somewhat of a hole, but at least we only have to pay back a percentage."
"I see." Roman laughed and shook his head. "He always was a prince."
"The merchant's responsible for the loss." She tilted her head. "You didn't know about the arrangements I've made with him?"
"No."
"But you work for him."
"Not anymore. I turned in my resignation when I got back to D.C."
"Oh, Roman, that's ridiculous. It's like throwing out the baby with the bathwater."
He smiled appreciatively at her innate practicality. "I decided I like carpentry better. Got any openings?"
Running the leash through her hands, she looked over the water. "I haven't given much thought to remodeling lately."
"I work cheap." He tilted her face to his. "All you have to do is marry me."
"Don't."
"Charity." Calling on patience he hadn't been aware he possessed, he held her still. "One of the things I most admire about you is your mind. You're real sharp. Look at me, really look. I figure you've got to know that I'm not beating my head against this same wall for entertainment. I love you. You've got to believe that."
"I'm afraid to," she whispered.
He felt the first true spark of hope. "Believe this. You changed my life. Literally changed it. I can't go back to the way it was before. I can't go forward unless you're with me. How long do you want me to stand here, waiting to start living again?"
With her arms wrapped around her chest, she walked a short distance away. The high grass at the water's edge was still misted with dew. She could smell it, and the fragile fragrances of wildflowers. It occurred to her then that she had blocked such small things out of her life ever since she'd sent him away.
If it was honesty she was demanding from him, how could she give him anything less?
"I've missed you terribly." She shook her head quickly before he could touch her again. "I tried not to wonder if you'd come back. I told myself I didn't want you to. When I saw you standing in the road, all I wanted to do was run to you. No questions, no explanations. But it's not that simple."
"No."
"I do love you, Roman. I can't stop. I have tried," she said, looking back at him. "Not very hard, but I have tried. I think I knew under all the anger and the hurt that you weren't lying about loving me back. I haven't wanted to forgive you for lying about the rest, but--- That's just pride really." Perhaps it was simple after all, she thought. "If I have to make a choice, I'd rather take love." She smiled and opened her arms to him. "I guess you're hired."
She laughed when he caught her up in his arms and swung her around. "We'll make it work," he promised her, raining kisses all over her face. "Starting today."
"We were going to be married today."
"Are going to be." He hooked his arm under her legs to carry her.
"But we---"
"I have a license." Closing his mouth over hers, he swung her around again.
"A marriage license?"
"It's in my pocket, with two tickets to Venice."
"To---" Her hand slid limply from his shoulder. "To Venice? But how---?"
"And Mae bought you a dress yesterday. She wouldn't let me see it."
"Well." The thrill was too overwhelming to allow her to pretend annoyance. "You were awfully sure of yourself."
"No." He kissed her again, felt the curve of her lips, and the welcoming. "I was sure of you."
\*

