by Nora Roberts
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 way. 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.”
