by Nora Roberts
“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 check-in 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 funneled 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 elepha
nts. 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.
Chapter 3
“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 resort-goers. She’d priced a few solarium kits, and in her mind she could already see the sunroom 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
