by Maggie Price
The jolting pleasure at hearing him voice that one word had been followed by a flash of heat that had shocked her by its intensity. She knew that kind of reaction, the depth and suddenness of it, held its own special danger. She had felt that same instant, flash-fire pull to Jay. Then, she had been unable to resist the attraction, powerless to fight it.
She knew, with every instinct she possessed, that if she didn’t keep her distance from Rory Sinclair, she would find herself helplessly drawn in by the aura of danger she sensed in him. The thought allured, and at the same time scared the hell out of her.
“Peggy?”
Her gaze whipped up to meet Suzanne’s. “I… What?”
“Something wrong?”
“No.” Clearing her throat, Peggy forced back images of the man who had consumed her thoughts since he’d walked into her life the previous night. She had to stop fantasizing over Rory Sinclair. She had to.
“I’m sorry, Suzanne, I’m a little distracted. What did you say?”
Her friend pursed her mouth as she watched Peggy stab two iris stalks into a cut-glass vase. “I said, at today’s city council meeting, Longstreet announced again that Prosperino’s water supply is safe. Says he’s sure of that because it’s being tested twice a day. The mayor had a couple of pitchers of ice water on the dais that he said came right from the tap. During the meeting, he and the council members all drank their fair share.”
“I don’t suppose that will stop people from stocking up on bottled water.”
“I agree. I think Longstreet is worried that history will repeat itself. Last week, when the delivery of bottled water was late getting to the grocery store, the police had a near riot on their hands.”
“I heard.” As she spoke, Peggy slid the last of the iris stems into the vase. The arrangement needed some sprigs of her homegrown baby’s breath as a finishing touch, she decided. “I won’t miss having to stand in the line at the store to buy my ration of bottled water.”
“You decide to put all your faith in Prosperino’s water testing abilities?”
“That, and Mr. Sinclair’s. He’s agreed to test the inn’s water twice a day.”
“Must be nice to have your own private chemist.”
“He’s not my chemist,” Peggy blurted, then snapped her jaw shut. Suzanne hadn’t meant anything by the remark, yet for reasons Peggy didn’t want to acknowledge, she’d found it necessary to make instant denials about her relationship with Rory. There is no relationship!
With embarrassment forming a hot ball in her stomach, Peggy met her friend’s gaze. “But you’re right, it is reassuring to have the inn’s water tested daily.”
Arching a dark brow, Suzanne leaned in. “Okay, Peg, spill it. What’s going on between you and the chemist?”
“Nothing. He just… Nothing.”
“Uh-huh.”
Peggy laid the shears aside. “He just…he reminds me of Jay, is all.”
“You mean, Sinclair looks like Jay?”
“No. I mean Rory…Mr. Sinclair resembles the cop side of Jay.”
“Cop side?”
“He’s observant. It’s like he takes in everything in one look and instantly sizes up a situation.”
“Think he might just be a scientist with the eyes of a microscope?”
“It’s more than that. He moves like a shadow. Soundless. Last night I didn’t hear a thing when he came through the front door—not even his footsteps on the wood floor. I had no idea he was in the foyer until I turned around and saw him. Jay had that same stealthy way about him.”
Suzanne tilted her head. “Does it upset you to be around a man who reminds you of your husband?”
“No. Jay’s been gone nearly five years. It’s easier now to focus on all the good times we shared.”
Silently, Peggy conceded that what having Rory around did do was make her feel nervous, unsettled and far more interested in him than she had a right to be. After all, the possibility still loomed that there was a Mrs. Sinclair waiting for him in D.C.
Frowning, Peggy sat the cut-glass vase aside, then rolled up the newspapers that held the pieces of stem she’d clipped. “I guess all the worrying over the water is getting to me. I don’t know how many hours of sleep I’ve lost while I’ve agonized over whether I should take Samantha someplace safe until this crisis is over.”
“I think everyone in town has lost sleep over the water.” Suzanne rose, carried her cup and saucer to the sink. There, she turned and gazed at the crayon drawings attached by magnets to the refrigerator door. “Speaking of Samantha, how is she?”
“Wonderful.” Peggy smiled as she dumped the newspaper in the trash, then carried the flower arrangement to the center work island. “Of course, I’m prejudiced.”
“That’s a mother’s right.” Suzanne moved to the refrigerator, slid a fingertip along the edge of one of the drawings. “You can’t always know where a safe place is for your child, can you? Until two weeks ago Hopechest Ranch fell into that category. Overnight its water supply turned into an environmental nightmare.”
“True.” Peggy paused. She saw worry and concern in Suzanne’s eyes…and a wistfulness she’d never before seen. “Is something wrong? I mean, other than what you and everyone else who works at Hopechest are having to deal with?”
Suzanne opened her mouth, then closed it. Shaking her head, she retrieved the multicolored wool jacket she’d hung on the coatrack by the back door. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. A couple of things to figure out. Plus, all those hours I’ve spent with our two pregnant teens are catching up with me. My brain is toast.”
Peggy retrieved her shears off the table, then joined her friend at the door. “You’ll let me know if I can help?”
“Sure.” Smiling, Suzanne squeezed Peggy’s arm. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Anytime. I’ll walk you out. I need to get some baby’s breath from the greenhouse.”
The women stepped onto the back porch into the fog-enshrouded afternoon. The rumble of the surf at the base of the nearby cliffs permeated the thick, humid air. Beyond the porch lay the gravel lot. Peggy could barely make out the outline of her black station wagon, which, other than Suzanne’s, was the only vehicle parked there.
When she found herself wondering when Rory would return, Peggy tightened her grip on the shears. It wasn’t any of her business when he would get back. Didn’t matter if he ever returned.
Suzanne shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket while she shot a disparaging look at the gray, overcast sky. “Whoever dubbed this ‘sunny California’ must have been smoking something at the time.”
Laughing, Peggy watched her friend descend the porch steps. “You’re right. Come to think of it, we haven’t seen the sun for a week. Maybe longer.”
“I guess the mood of the town matches the weather these days,” Suzanne observed. When she turned to look back up at Peggy, the wind whipped through her dark hair. “Are you bringing Samantha to the arts festival tomorrow night?”
“Definitely. She’s been talking for days about her and Gracie making a return visit to the face painting booth. Samantha would never forgive me if we missed the festival.”
“See you there, then.” Suzanne walked the few steps to her car, slid in, then started the engine.
Peggy lingered on the porch, snipping off several wilted sprigs from the pots of orange and yellow mums that lined the rail. Satisfied, she descended the steps, gravel crunching beneath her shoes as she traversed the parking lot. With each step, the wind whipped at the red velvet ribbon that tied her hair loosely back.
The unremitting gray clouds that blocked the sun transformed the interior of the greenhouse into a dim space where the smell of damp earth mixed with the scent of delicate blooms. Wooden, waist-high potting benches lined both sides of the greenhouse and the wall opposite the door. That bench held empty pots, packets of seeds, a long-spouted watering can and hand tools. Large bags of peat moss and potting soil shared space in a shadowy corner beside the be
nch.
The wind battered against the structure’s walls and roof, rattling the glass panes. Beneath her gray sweater and slacks, Peggy’s skin prickled from the wind’s mournful howl and a sensation she couldn’t identify.
Another presence? Immediately she dismissed the unsettling thought as her gaze raked the dim, tidy interior, taking in the colorful irises that burst from bulbs planted beside pots of delicate baby’s breath and pink tulips. The disconcerting sensation that had suddenly descended around her no doubt came from the wind’s forlorn moan.
Shaking her head, she moved to the bench that held rows of small peat pots in which she’d sown seeds the previous week. Although she’d glanced at the pots when she was there earlier, she’d been in a hurry to snip the iris stems and get back to the kitchen to take her sourdough bread out of the oven before it burned. Now that all the baking and cleaning were done for the day—and poor Bugs’s head was stitched back on—she lingered over the peat pots, examining the tender sprouts that had just begun to push through the soil.
Peggy’s mouth curved with the sense of pleasure she always felt amid the fragrance of loamy earth and delicate blossoms. She could think of few things more intensely satisfying than growing things, giving them life, then watching them flourish in her care.
After a few moments, she glanced at her watch. It was nearly three o’clock. Normally, Samantha would be getting off the bus from preschool about this time. Today, however, was special. Gracie’s mom had called and invited Samantha to their house for a session of cookie baking.
Samantha’s absence gave Peggy a few extra minutes to linger over her plants. Still, she couldn’t get any real work done since it was nearly time to prepare that evening’s cheese plate and the accompanying wine to serve her guests in the study.
Turning to the bench opposite the one that held the peat pots, Peggy used the shears to clip a sprig of baby’s breath. She had just laid the sprig aside when a vague noise that seemed to come from somewhere behind her sent a chill zipping up her spine. Swallowing hard, she told herself the noise had been nothing more than the wind rattling the panes of glass. Or maybe a car pulling into the parking lot. Those reassuring thoughts didn’t stop her from looking across her shoulder while her heart banged against her ribs like a moth against a screen.
The only thing behind her was the bench covered with peat pots. Beyond the glass walls, the fog seemed to have grown more dense. It pressed against the panes, obscuring the parking lot, heightening her sense of isolation.
Turning her attention back to the task at hand, Peggy expelled a slow breath. The half sigh ended in a choked gasp when a hand grabbed her hair in one hard yank that snapped her head back. The pain that stabbed into her skull was like an explosion, as clear as a star on a cold night.
From behind, thick fingers locked like a vise on the back of her neck and lifted. She was nearly on tiptoe, and bent so far backward that her spine threatened to crack.
The strength necessary to raise her almost off her feet told her that her assailant was a man.
She had a sickening half moment to think about rape while she struggled, her body twisting while her blood pounded in her ears. Her hand, still gripping the shears, flailed, stabbing futilely at the air behind her.
Fear screamed through her head, shrieked toward her throat. Before she could make a sound, she was spun toward the rear of the greenhouse then shoved forward. Staggering off-balance, she slammed sideways into the potting bench; the force of the blow sent the shears flying from her grasp. The bolt of pain that exploded in her hip blurred her vision and turned her legs as spindly as a foal’s.
She fell hard on her hands and knees to the dirt floor. Dazed, she was vaguely aware of movement behind her, heard the door bang outward, felt the cool wind sweep into the greenhouse’s dim recesses. Through a haze of pain and fear, she heard footsteps scrambling across the gravel lot. Then nothing.
He was gone. Had something scared him away? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was alone. Shaking, scared and alone. Until he came back.
Sheer black waves of terror threatened to engulf her. What if he came back? He’d been immensely strong, could have snapped her neck with one twist of his powerful hands. What if he killed her next time? Samantha had no other family, she would be alone. Who would take care of her child? Love her?
Sobbing, Peggy raised a trembling hand above her head and gripped the edge of the bench. Her fingers slipped, leaving a streak of dirt. She tried again, using both hands. When she pulled herself up, pain seared up and down her thigh from the spot on her hip that had smashed against wood.
Eyes watering from the pain, short breaths scraping at her throat, she took an unsteady step forward. Then another. Her instinct for survival shrieked for her to get inside the inn, get away. Lock herself in before he came back.
Reaching out, she gripped the bench that held the peat pots. She saw that her garden shears had landed in the middle of the small pots, scattering them. Her fingers numb and stiff, she gripped the shears as though they were a weapon. If her attacker came back, if he tried to touch her again, she would use them.
Leaning her weight against the bench, she inched toward the open door, her heart hammering wildly. Fingers of fog crept across the dirt floor, sliding around her ankles like shackles, making her progress seem more of a crawl than an unsteady walk.
Even as she told herself she was more frightened than hurt, her brain registered the sickening crunch of gravel coming from just outside the door.
She went still, her body rigid, every muscle and tendon taut. The fog-obscured silhouette that darkened the doorway sent claws of terror digging into her throat.
He’s back.
Panic threatened to swamp her, and she forced it away. She could panic later…if she survived his next attack.
With the quick, instinctive fear of a cornered victim, she raised the shears. When the dark form advanced through the door, she lunged.
It happened fast, a blur of motion and sound. One second, Rory was striding across the gravel parking lot, his mind half focused on the microbiological quality of Hopechest Ranch’s water. The instant he stepped through the door of the greenhouse, adrenaline surged through his chest as he dodged the business end of viciously sharp garden shears.
“What the hell…?”
“Oh, God, it’s you. I thought…”
When he saw the shockingly white sheen of Peggy’s skin, the pure fear in her moss-green eyes, his heart stopped.
He gripped her shoulders. “What happened?”
“A man grabbed me.” She burrowed into Rory’s arms as if he were a lifeline. “Did you see him out there?” Her breath came out on a broken sob. “He’s out there.”
Rory looked toward the door and quelled the urge to go after the guy. With the fog so thick, it would be like searching for someone on a moonless night.
“I didn’t see him,” Rory said quietly while cursing the fact his gun was upstairs, hidden in his room.
Sliding his arms tighter around Peggy’s trembling body, he swept his gaze across the greenhouse’s dim interior. Nothing. He saw nothing amiss, except the small pots with tiny green sprouts scattered across one of the wooden benches.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not really.”
“Tell me what happened.”
She shuddered. “I…thought someone…was behind me. No one was. Then…he grabbed my hair. The back of my neck.” Against his chest, Rory felt her hands fist. “He nearly lifted me off the floor. I thought… Oh, God, I thought he was going to…”
Setting his jaw, Rory eased her back. Her sweater was buttoned to the neck, and the only damage to her slacks were smudges of dirt on both knees. If she’d been raped in this setting, her clothing would be soiled, torn.
“I’ve got you.” He closed his eyes, slicked his palm down the length of her ponytail and chose to ignore the hard, jerky beat of his own heart. “He can’t hurt you now.”
“Samantha. All I
could think about was Samantha. How alone she’d be if I died.”
Rory’s chin jerked up. Dammit, for the first time in his life he’d broken one of the ironclad rules of being a cop. He had let himself feel instead of think. Less than five minutes ago, he’d parked his rental car in the lot, gone into the inn through the front door and immediately started looking for Peggy. When he got to the kitchen, he spotted the flowers in the vase. Since her station wagon was parked outside, he figured she was around somewhere, so he took a chance she might be in the greenhouse. During his short time indoors, he hadn’t heard or seen Samantha.
The thought that some scum had attacked the mother to buy time to snatch her child put a sick feeling in Rory’s gut. He’d worked enough crime scenes that involved kidnapped children to last a lifetime. Swallowing hard, he forced his voice to remain steady. “Where’s Samantha?”
“At a friend’s house.”
Relief rose in him like a wave. “Do you know who attacked you?”
“I…never saw his face.”
“Did he use a weapon?”
“Just his hands.” Her voice quavered. “They were enough.”
“Okay.” Nudging her gently back a step, Rory peeled off his leather jacket, settled it over her shoulders. “I’m taking you inside, Ireland.” In an unconscious gesture, he skimmed his long fingers over her pale cheek. Even her lips had lost color. “You need to lie down while I call the police.”
“I… Fine.”
They started toward the door. With his arm draped around her thin waist, Rory not only saw but felt the limp in her walk. His eyes narrowed as he halted.
“You are hurt.” That knowledge sent fury pounding through him.
“He shoved me.” When she looked up, he saw a flash of pain in her green eyes. “My hip rammed into the potting bench.”
“The son of a bitch.” Teeth set, Rory tightened his arm around her waist. “I’m also calling a doctor.”
“My hip’s bruised, is all. I don’t need a doctor.”
“Why don’t we let someone with the letters M.D. after their name confirm that?”
