Protecting Peggy

by Maggie Price

  “You’re always so polite while you’re trying to get rid of me.” He smiled, a slow curving of the lips that gave his strong-featured face a devastating appeal. “What’s it going to take for you to call me Rory?”

  She slid her tongue along her bottom lip. She didn’t want to picture herself in his arms, breathing his name against his heated flesh, but she did. “I think…” Her voice hitched, and she cleared her throat. “It would be wise for us to keep things between us on a business level, Mr. Sinclair.”

  He said nothing for a moment, just stared down at her with those off-the-chart blue eyes until she had to fight the urge to squirm.

  “You’re right, Ireland,” he said softly. “That would probably be the wise thing to do.”

  Three

  His appetite sated from a breakfast of melt-in-the-mouth pecan pancakes and apple cinnamon sausage, Rory stood in the gravel parking lot that bordered Honeywell House, a hip leaned against the front fender of his rental car. For the past hour he’d been telling himself that he couldn’t argue with what Peggy had said before she left him in the foyer. Keeping their dealings on a business level would be wise.

  He just wasn’t sure that wise was the course he wanted to follow.

  After all, wise wouldn’t get the woman into his arms. Wouldn’t have him feeling her ripe, sexy mouth softening and heating under his. Wise wouldn’t get her into his bed.

  Which would definitely put an enjoyable twist on his stay in Prosperino.

  Ireland. Why the hell had he called her that? He’d never before even thought about giving any female a nickname, especially a woman he had known less than twenty-four hours. It was those eyes, he decided. Cool jade that sparked liquid fire when her temper kicked in. Eyes that he suspected would go dark and smoky when she stepped into a man’s arms.

  His arms.

  Frowning, he jerked up the collar of his battered leather jacket. It did little to block the bite of the wind that blustered off the sea churning at the base of the cliff. A thin, damp fog crawled over the gravel parking lot, creeping up the steps that led to the inn’s wraparound porch. The gray morning gloom nearly obscured the small greenhouse that sat only a few yards from the parking lot.

  In his mind, Rory pictured again how Peggy had looked when he first walked into the kitchen where the scents of baking had started his mouth watering. Standing there at the work island, dressed in a gray sweater and slacks, her dark hair pulled loosely back with a red ribbon, she had looked outrageously sexy. She’d been stirring pancake batter, for Christ’s sake, but that didn’t stop a kick of lust from heating his blood.

  “Dammit,” he muttered.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, he gazed at the inn’s front porch with a stare as brooding as the gray clouds overhead. When he arrived last night, he hadn’t noticed the chairs there, fashioned out of rustic wood or the table covered with a floral, lace-edged cloth. It had been too dark to see the orange and yellow mums that spilled from colorful pots lining the porch’s rail. And the pink bicycle with training wheels that nosed into an alcove away from the front door.

  The woman over whom he was currently obsessing had created that welcoming scene. Not only had she made herself and her young daughter a home that apparently kept body and soul anchored, she made a point to create a temporary home for those who passed her way.

  A home—even a temporary one—was something he’d never had and he didn’t want one now. What he did want—on a short-term basis—was her.

  “Not going to happen.” Even as he spoke the words, the wind snatched them away.

  That he was intensely attracted to a woman so unlike those he habitually sought out caused a feeling of unease to creep over him. For months he had been trying to understand the source of a restless discontent that had settled around him. A feeling that his life had somehow gotten a half beat out of synch. This added disquiet over Peggy Honeywell didn’t help.

  He did, however, understand what it was that drew him to her.

  In the world of science, like charges repelled each other. Unlike charges attracted. He was one of the nomads of the world with no roots, no family, no woman waiting for him to return. Just looking at the inn told him Peggy had dug in and was there to stay. She had a daughter to raise, and he would bet that more than a few of Prosperino’s male residents had their eye on the innkeeper and their thoughts on a future with her.

  Rory knew he couldn’t have found a woman more his opposite if he’d run an ad listing the qualities he preferred to avoid in the opposite sex.

  The uneasiness churning inside him hitched up a notch when he thought about the unpleasant consequences of having to disentangle himself from an affair with a woman who put stock in permanence. Common sense told him it would be best for everyone involved if he simply avoided Peggy Honeywell. So, avoid her, he would.

  That shouldn’t be too difficult since he had plenty on his plate to deal with. Like identifying what substance had contaminated the water on Hopechest Ranch. That unknown substance had sent innocent kids to the hospital and put fear in the hearts of young pregnant girls.

  The sobering reality shifted Rory’s thoughts to the reason he was now in Prosperino.

  Glancing at his watch, he calculated he had a few minutes before he needed to leave for his meeting with Blake Fallon. At breakfast he’d overheard Charlie O’Connell mention to one of the art judges that he had an appointment this morning. Rory figured now was as good a time as any to chat.

  Just then, the inn’s front door swung open and the EPA inspector stepped onto the porch.

  “Bingo,” Rory said softly. He narrowed his eyes against the wind and watched O’Connell make his way along the cobblestone walk, his slight limp the apparent aftereffect of his tumble down the stairs. His tan gabardine overcoat hung open over his crimson sweater and khaki slacks. Gusts of wind picked up strands of his brown hair.

  Rory waited until his quarry reached the gravel lot before pushing away from the car’s fender. “Got a minute, O’Connell?”

  The EPA inspector flicked him a look as he walked to a black sedan that displayed the logo of a rental car company on its back bumper. “A minute’s about all I have. I’m running late for an appointment.”

  “I want to talk to you about the water on Hopechest Ranch.”

  O’Connell twisted the key in the lock, pulled the door open, then turned and met Rory’s gaze. “What about it?”

  Rory raised a brow. “I don’t guess I need to remind you it’s contaminated. I’d like to know what your findings are so far.”

  “I bet you would.”

  “Meaning?”

  Resting a forearm along the top of the car’s door, O’Connell pursed his lips. “I don’t have time to beat around the bush, Sinclair, so I’ll lay this out for you. I’ve worked a lot of cases where private consultants were involved. It’s my opinion you’re all alike. You get hired by your client after an investigation is in full swing. You show up in your nice clothes and leather jackets with your state-of-the-art instruments, and expect us government drones to hand over the results of the work we’ve already done. That isn’t going to happen here.”

  Rory wondered what the man would say if he knew he was talking to a fellow government drone. “I don’t expect you to do my work for me, O’Connell. All I’m asking is that you discuss with me what you’ve found out so far.”

  O’Connell flicked an impatient glance at his watch. “Like what?”

  “Hopechest Ranch gets its drinking water from an underground source. Have you made any headway figuring out how the water became contaminated?”

  “Not yet.”

  Rory took a deep breath. It was clear the man wasn’t inclined to share information. Still, he had to try. “From talking to Blake Fallon on the phone, it sounds like all the victims came down with acute bacterial infections. Has the EPA’s lab ruled out the vibrio cholerae bacteria? If not, we might be looking at a potential cholera epidemic.”

  “We ruled out cholera t
wo days ago.”

  “What about traces of mercury in the water? Lead, cadmium, arsenic or beryllium? Find any of that?”

  “When I issue my final report, I’ll make sure you get a copy.”

  “Your final report is considered public record. I can get a copy for myself.”

  “I’ve got to go, Sinclair.”

  Rory watched as O’Connell slid into his car, then slammed the door shut. The engine coughed once, then hummed to life.

  Despite Blake’s suspicions, Rory knew just because the man wasn’t forthcoming with information didn’t mean he was involved in anything nefarious. In truth, O’Connell sounded like a disgruntled government worker—the FBI’s lab had a few of those, too. If, on the other hand, Blake was on target and O’Connell was up to no good, Rory had no clue what the hell that might be. Or what O’Connell might stand to gain.

  Shaking his head, Rory slid into his own rental car. He knew, like in any other investigation, the answers would come in their own time.

  With Blake Fallon’s faxed map on the seat beside him, Rory steered his car over a narrow bridge that spanned the rushing Noyo River. He had driven far enough inland that the fog had dissipated. A heavy cover of grim, gray clouds still obscured the January sky, but at least he could now see the countryside.

  A neat, white-railed fence lined the curving road that skirted Hopechest Ranch property; beyond the fence were rolling hills covered with a thick blanket of grass where cattle grazed. In the distance, towering redwoods speared, straight and strong, into the clouds.

  Peaceful was the word that slid into Rory’s mind as he glanced at the serene landscape. He frowned, wondering again what it was that compelled him to notice the scenery when he’d taken so little notice of it for years.

  A sign pointed him toward the turnoff for the ranch’s main entrance; in the distance, several barns, a stable adjoined by neat, white-railed paddocks and what looked like a handful of long bunkhouses huddled beneath the gray sky. From his conversation with Blake, Rory knew that Hopechest Ranch was not only a haven for kids from troubled homes, but also a full working ranch with a permanent staff. The thirty to forty kids who lived there at any given time were all assigned chores that allowed them to experience the challenges and triumphs of hard work. In addition to the operation of a nationally known counseling program, Hopechest Ranch was home to a school, state-of-the-art gymnasium, archery range and art studio.

  Impressive operation, Rory decided as he pulled his car to a halt beside a sign that identified the administration building. Blake had told him the ranch had once belonged to a private family. The structure in which Blake both lived and worked had been the family’s dwelling.

  That was what it looked like, Rory thought as he took in the two-story wood-frame house with a porch that wrapped around two sides and part of a third. The structure was old, but well-maintained with what looked to be a fresh coat of white paint and shiny white blinds in the windows. A thin curl of smoke rose from the chimney. Just like at Honeywell House, several chairs and a small table took up one corner of the front porch.

  Rory climbed out of his car and started up the brick walk. He noted several nearby oaks standing sentinel just outside the long hedge that bordered the yard. Two planters on either side of the front door held trimmed shrubs; beside the door was a discreet brass plaque: Hopechest.

  The reception area was done in gray-blue and ivory. Polished tables flanked a comfortable-looking couch upholstered in a dark fabric. The floor was hardwood and gleaming. A mantelpiece held an antique mirror and an arrangement of dried flowers. Below it a fire crackled eagerly.

  Behind an uncluttered desk sat a rather plain young woman who peered at a computer monitor through a pair of understated glasses. She had long, straight brown hair that nearly concealed the phone’s receiver she held tucked between one shoulder of her navy blazer and her ear. While she spoke into the phone, her fingers flew across a computer keyboard. The surface of the desk was neatly stacked with printouts and brown accordion files tied with string. The nameplate aligned with the front edge of the desk read Holly Lamb. She gave Rory an engaging smile and held up a finger to indicate she’d be with him in a moment.

  The smile that lit up her face had him rethinking his initial assessment. She wasn’t plain, he realized, not with that classical-shaped face, high cheekbones and perfectly shaped nose. But her skin was bare of makeup, her brownish-green eyes nearly lost behind the lenses of her glasses. He suspected, with the right makeup, the woman would be stunning.

  “Mr. Fallon has a meeting that morning,” she said into the phone, “but I can give you an appointment for two o’clock the same afternoon.” Her fingers paused over the keyboard, then started moving again. “Fine. He’ll see you in his office on Wednesday at two.”

  She smiled up at Rory as she replaced the receiver. “Good morning, may I help you?”

  “I’m Rory Sinclair—”

  “Oh, yes, Blake’s scientist.” She rose, tall and slender, moving around the desk with easy grace. The skirt that matched her navy blazer ended just above the knee; her navy shoes were low-heeled and sensible. “I’m Holly Lamb.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Lamb.” Rory returned her firm, brisk shake.

  “Holly. We’ve got our fingers crossed that you’ll be able to identify what got into our water.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Her gaze darted to the hallway behind her desk. “I don’t think Blake has gotten a good night’s sleep since this whole thing started.” She looked back at Rory. “It’s been awful with so many of the kids and staff getting sick.”

  “How about you? Has the water made you sick?”

  “No. I live in downtown Prosperino. The water there is fine. Well, so far it is, anyway. My saving grace is that I drink a lot of canned soda instead of water. Not the healthiest thing to do, but in this case my bad habit kept me from drinking the ranch’s water and getting sick. Maybe winding up in the hospital.”

  Using a hand that sported short, unpolished nails, she shoved her long brown hair behind her shoulder. “Blake asked me to bring you back to his office the minute you got here.” Turning, she led the way past her desk, Rory following. “I understand you and Blake were roommates in college.”

  “That’s right.”

  Her mouth curving at the edges, she slid Rory a sideways look. “I bet you could tell me some good stories about Blake.”

  Rory cocked his head. Although she kept her tone light, he picked up on a personal thread that had him wondering if there was more than just the job between Holly and her boss.

  “I could. Problem is, Blake knows some good stories about me, too. I’d better keep my mouth shut.”

  “I had to try.” She gave a brisk tap on a door at the end of the hallway. After a muffled “Come in,” she pushed the door open and stepped back for Rory to enter.

  “Blake, you have company.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Smiling, Blake rose from behind a wide expanse of polished desk and strode across the office. Gripping the hand Rory offered, Hopechest Ranch’s director delivered a resounding slap to his friend’s shoulder. “How many years has it been?”

  “Too many to count.”

  “I agree.”

  Blake Fallon had changed little since their college days, Rory decided. His tall, athletic build evidenced the frequent workouts Blake had stuck to when they’d shared a dorm room. The only difference seemed to be that he now wore his dark, thick hair shorter. His skin carried a healthy, golden tan that told Rory his friend didn’t spend all of his time behind the neat-as-a-pin desk where a single file folder lay open.

  Rory inclined his head toward the desk. “I see you’re still chronically neat, Fallon. You still polish your stapler every day?”

  Blake chuckled. “At least I can find my stapler. I bet you still keep a desk that looks like an avalanche hit it.”

  “Some things never change.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rory noted that H
olly’s gaze lingered on her boss for an extra beat before she shifted her attention. “Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Sinclair? Tea?”

  “Call me Rory, and I’ll pass. I had breakfast before I left the inn.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind. How about you, Blake?”

  “Nothing for me, Holly. I’ll let you know if we need anything.”

  Rory waited until the door clicked shut on Holly’s departing form. “Did you tell her I’m FBI?”

  “No. You and I are the only ones who know. Until we get to the bottom of things around here, I figured that was best.” All of a sudden, Blake’s voice sounded deathly tired.

  Rory glanced at the office’s far corner where two green leather wing chairs and a matching sofa angled around a low coffee table. “We going to stand the whole time I’m here, or are you going to offer me a place to sit?”

  Blake shoved a hand through his dark hair then gestured Rory toward the grouping of furniture. “Sorry. My hosting skills are a little off. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “More than just last night, I’d say,” Rory observed as he pulled off his leather jacket and tossed it over one of the visitors’ chairs that sat in front of the desk. The strain his friend felt showed in the dark circles under his eyes. “You look the same way you did during finals when we crammed a full semester of textbook reading into one week.”

  “That, in addition to working in a date or two,” Blake added as he and Rory settled into wing chairs.

  “Those were the days.”

  Focusing his thoughts on business, Rory rested one ankle on the opposite knee as he leaned back in the chair’s leathery softness. “On the phone you gave me an overview of what’s happened over the past weeks. I need you to start at the beginning and fill in the details.”

  “It all seems like a bad dream.” As he spoke, Blake rubbed a palm over his face. “Like I told you, back in late November a litter of kittens was born dead. A while later another barn cat and a dog dropped dead on the same day. The dog was old, he’d been around for years, so everyone thought it was age that got him. The cat was only about a year old. Neither did it show signs it’d gotten into a fight, no cuts, wounds or anything. One morning it was chasing mice in the stables, that afternoon it was dead. The ranch foreman found it and buried it. He told me he figured the cat had gotten hold of a mouse that carried some disease or had been poisoned, and that’s what killed it.”