Kiss the Moon (6 page)

“What time did you leave?”

“I don’t know, about four, four-thirty.”

“And when did you get back?”

She slathered jam and butter onto another piece of scone. “What’re you going to do, get out your compass and map and calculate my coordinates?”

His gaze darkened enough to remind her that she was dealing with a man who hadn’t exactly driven six hours for tea and scones. “Maybe I’m just pinning you down.”

He said
pinning
in such a way that her stomach rolled over and a prickly, all-over awareness settled in. “Pin away,” she said lightly, making it a challenge. “I got home after dark. I didn’t look at the clock.”

His gaze remained steady, probing, all the more disconcerting because she had the distinct feeling he knew he’d gotten to her with that last remark. No doubt it had been deliberate. Part of his strategy. Make the woman quiver with thoughts of your hard body and dark eyes and then pounce—prove her a bald-faced liar.

“You must have some idea,” he said mildly.

She had no idea because she’d never made the trip. She’d tramped to the edge of her property, tossed snowballs against trees for a while and tramped back by a different route, careful not to let any enterprising reporter spot her. “I guess it must have been around seven. I took a shower, ate dinner, checked my e-mail and went to bed.”

“All right. And you say what you found this time was a dump.”

“What I found last time was a dump, too. I just didn’t know it.”

“Isn’t it unusual to find a dump, even an old one, that far out in the woods?”

“Unusual but not impossible. Most of New Hampshire was denuded by logging and farming a hundred years ago. A lot of reforestation has occurred over the century. The woods—even the Sinclair woods—are crisscrossed with stone walls, old logging trails, cellar holes, wells. Dumps. We see trees and like to think we’re stepping on virgin ground. But we’re not.” She sipped her tea, feeling calmer. “You went to school up here. You must know this stuff.”

“I was more concerned with climbing mountains and surviving for another semester than with local yore.” He settled back, his attention focused intently on her. He would want to be absolutely certain she was telling the truth before he left Cold Spring. If not, she had no idea what he’d do. “What made you think you’d found plane wreckage? Initially. Before you went back and learned otherwise. You’re a pilot. Something must have made you think it was a plane, specifically a Piper Cub J-3.”

So much for working out the kinks in her story. Being pelted with questions from a reporter was one thing—from Colt’s only nephew quite another. But Penelope saw no point in backing down. Telling Wyatt about his uncle’s plane would only bring on chaos. “It was a weird day. I don’t know if there was anything specific or not. And what I thought I saw on Sunday is irrelevant—what I did see yesterday was an old dump.”

“Which now you say you can’t find again.”

His tone wasn’t neutral. If he’d meant it to be neutral, it would be neutral. But it wasn’t. He didn’t believe a word she’d said. And he meant her to know it. “Mr. Sinclair, I get the distinct impression you don’t believe me.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t come here to put you on the defensive. I just want to know the truth. You tried to follow your footsteps to the site this morning but they’d been covered with snow?”

“That’s right.”

“Where’s the snow now?”

“There was more in the higher elevations. Four inches in some spots. We hardly got any along the lake. Microclimates.”

“There was enough snow to obliterate your tracks?”

“My tracks were hard enough to follow yesterday with all the melting and refreezing this time of year. And I wasn’t really paying attention to landmarks. It was lousy light, and I was focused on my tracks. I suppose I
might
be able to find my way back, given enough time, but I don’t see the point. It wasn’t Frannie and Colt’s plane I found, it was a dump.”

The dark gaze stayed on her. “That’s your story?”

Penelope popped the last of her scone into her mouth. “That’s what happened.”

“The press buying it?”

“Sure. They’re not going to traipse through the wilds of New Hampshire in March and risk finding out I’m not lying after all. They’d look like idiots. Besides, they won’t find it—it was a miracle I found it myself.”

Wyatt said nothing.

“I’m sorry you wasted your trip north,” Penelope said.

He leaned forward, gave a roguish wink that called up all her images of eighteenth-and nineteenth-century Sinclairs—the adventurers, the privateers, the reckless men who’d lived hard and too often died young. “Your story’s bullshit, Penelope. I doubt anyone believes it. I sure as hell don’t.”

In hindsight, she should have said she’d hallucinated the Piper Cub. She could have blamed stress, the trouble she was having concentrating in recent weeks, cabin fever, her general restlessness and malaise. Her father would have believed her. He’d have immediately grounded her, of course, but he’d ended up grounding her, anyway.

The dump story hadn’t worked. Now it was too late. She had no rewind button, no chance to revise it and start over.

And damned if she’d give the skeptical man across the table from her the satisfaction of witnessing her admit her folly. If he was naturally arrogant, she was naturally defiant and stubborn—faults, at times, to be sure, but occasionally, too, virtues.

“Well,” she said, “there’s nothing I can do to make you believe me. That’s your problem.”

“At the moment, yes. In a day or two, if I’ve found anything that casts doubt on your story—then we’ll have to have tea again.” He grabbed the check. “Allow me.”

Damned right she’d allow him. He’d ruined her tea, he could pay for it. He slid to his feet, calm, knowing just how much he’d rattled her. “This looks like a decent inn. I expect they’re not booked solid this time of year.”

“You’re going to stay here? Why? There are hotels in Laconia—”

“I prefer to stay in Cold Spring.”

Penelope nearly choked. Harriet, her mother and Wyatt Sinclair.
No…

He paid Terry and walked to the front desk, leaving Penelope to sputter, recover her senses and follow. How could she explain her cousin to him? The dump in the woods was enough to swallow.

Harriet was at the front desk. Tall, plain, blue-eyed, sensitive Harriet. Penelope felt a rush of emotion. Although her cousin was fifteen years her senior, Penelope was the one who was protective, who did what she could to allow Harriet her illusions of gentility and refinement. When she was small, Harriet would read her L. M. Montgomery, Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott, and she let Penelope thumb through her scrapbook of pretty houses and gardens she clipped from magazines. They’d had tea parties, trimming the crusts from their sandwiches, and they’d played dress-up with clothes from the church attic, Edwardian dresses, feathered hats, impossible shoes. With unwavering patience, Harriet had tried to teach Penelope crewel embroidery and needlepoint, but their lessons usually ended with blood all over everything. Penelope had found ways to prick her fingers—and often Harriet’s—with even the bluntest of needles.

Sunrise Inn was perfect for Harriet. It took all her yearnings and all her skills and put them together in a profitable business. She had a suite of rooms on the third floor, as precious and perfect as she could ever want. If she longed for marriage and children, she never said. Certainly no one in Cold Spring expected her to take a husband—who would it be?

She wasn’t naive, innocent or stupid. There was a core niceness to her that people tended to respect, and perhaps, as a result, she brought out the best in them.
That
was what Penelope found herself wanting to protect. Harriet wasn’t cynical or bitter about anything, including the guests who stayed at her inn. She wouldn’t become one of those businesspeople who griped about the tourists.

But the thing was, Harriet was also just a little odd.

“Penelope, I don’t believe you. I just got off the phone with your father. He said he’s grounded you. All I can say is it’s about time. A wonder you haven’t given that man a heart attack.”

“Harriet, Pop’s going to live to be a hundred. Look, I’ve got to run—”

But Harriet’s brows drew together, and clear, blue eyes—easily her best feature—focused on the tall, dark man next to her cousin. She expected an introduction. Penelope
knew
she expected an introduction, and she silently cursed her father for not mentioning there was a Sinclair in town. It was the coward’s way out. He knew damned well she’d find out.

Before Penelope could sort through this latest dilemma, Wyatt stepped forward, playing the gentleman. “You have a lovely inn, Miss Chestnut. I was wondering if you might have a room available for tonight. My name’s Wyatt Sinclair. I drove up from New York this morning.”

Penelope groaned inwardly.

Harriet gawked, turning pale. She fumbled around on her antique desk, trying to find something to do with her hands, her fingers finally closing on a pen. Penelope felt for her. This was the day Harriet had waited for her entire life, when she would stand face-to-face with a Sinclair. “Um—are you related to the Sinclairs—the Sinclairs who own the land up above the lake—Colt—”

“Brandon Sinclair is my father. Colt was my uncle. I never knew him. He disappeared before I was born.”

“Oh.” She breathed out, her lower lip trembling. “Oh, dear.”

Wyatt glanced at Penelope, who was making a show of pretending she wasn’t listening. Damn him for being so smooth. She snatched up a jar of maple syrup from a display of goods the inn had for sale and held it to the light. “Harriet, I wouldn’t call this Grade A. I think it’s Fancy.”

Sinclair wasn’t giving an inch. Instinctively suspicious, he was probably wondering why she didn’t want him staying at the inn. “Do you have a room?” he asked Harriet gently.

She nodded, clutching her shirt. She favored cotton button-down shirts and skirts or jumpers, sensible shoes. She didn’t dye her graying, mousy brown hair, just kept it parted in the middle and pulled back, occasionally pinned up. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll freshen it up myself. We’ve had reporters here the past two nights…” She took a breath, steadying herself. “But they’ve all left now that Penelope changed her story.”

“Well,” Wyatt said, “I won’t be leaving for a while.”

Penelope thumped down the jar. “What do you mean, a while? A while could be a week. There’s no reason—”

“I came all this way, I might as well check out the land my family owns.” He glanced at Penelope, his dark eyes unreadable, his mouth neutral, neither smiling nor unsmiling. She had no doubt—not one—that he knew he was getting under her skin. “I’ve never seen it.”

She was beside herself. “It looks like all the other land around here. Steep hills. Trees. Rocks. Brooks. Stone walls.”

“Turn-of-the-century dumps,” he added without detectable sarcasm. Unmoved by her protest, he turned to Harriet. “I’d like to reserve a room for three nights, perhaps longer.”

“As long as you wish, Mr. Sinclair. This is our slow time.”

“I rode with your cousin from the airport. I’ll check in after I’ve picked up my car.”

“You can check in whenever you want.”

He smiled, laying on the charm. “Thank you, Miss Chestnut.”

“My pleasure. Penelope—”

“I’ll talk to you later, Harriet. The scones were spectacular today, as usual.”

Penelope had no intention of chitchatting with her cousin. Couldn’t she
tell
she wanted Wyatt Sinclair out of town? Not Harriet. There was a simple reason she could deal with the public with such genuine good cheer—Harriet was oblivious to the undercurrents between people. She took them at face value, and that was that. Which was why she’d missed Penelope’s frustration with Sinclair, the phoniness of his charm and how much he was enjoying thwarting her. If she was going to stick to her story, he could at least do something she didn’t want him to do. Jerk her chain. Rattle her.

As if the black leather jacket and the strong, lean build weren’t enough, Penelope thought grimly.

She started for the door, assuming Sinclair would follow. To her relief, he did. She glanced at Harriet. “Oh, and if Mother calls, I’d like to tell her myself I’ve been grounded, not that she won’t have heard it from half the town by now.”

“Your father already told her. She’s staying out of it.”

Just as Penelope had expected. If Robby Chestnut was anything, it was laissez faire when it came to her husband’s relationship with their daughter, especially if flying was involved.

Penelope charged through the door and into the chilly, damp air. She never should have picked the Sunrise Inn, except that during the crisis, thinking about Harriet’s scones had helped her stop berating herself for not properly preflighting her plane.

Her
father’s
plane, she amended, suddenly feeling quite grouchy.

When she finally had Wyatt Sinclair in her truck, she gripped the wheel and took a deep breath. It had been one hell of a day. And it showed no signs of improving.

“What’s the matter?” he asked mildly, knowing damned well he’d struck a nerve. “Is Harriet the crazy cousin who snuck out of the attic?”

“No, she’s the crazy cousin we should
lock
in the attic.” Penelope shook her head, debating how much she should tell Sinclair about her cousin before he spent the night under her roof. Tears rushed to her eyes. Damn. That was all she needed, to start crying.
Harriet, Harriet. What am I going to do with you?
She took one last look at the Sunrise Inn, shook her head and started the engine. “You knew I don’t want you staying there.”

“Why not?”

“Harriet’s—she’s—” This wasn’t going to be easy. “You’re the first Sinclair she’s ever met.”

“I’m the first Sinclair you’ve ever met. It hasn’t seemed to affect you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain.”

She thrust her truck into gear and let out the clutch. “It’s not my place, but if you’re intent on sticking around town for a few days, you’ll find out anyway. If no one else tells you, Harriet will herself.” She exhaled slowly, refusing to imagine the results if that happened. Would Sinclair laugh hysterically? Threaten her? Call in the men in white jackets? “Look, she’s a sweet soul.”