Protecting Peggy (3 page)

Rory settled a palm on the counter. “Are you asking me if I agree with him?”

“Yes, I guess I am.”

“If O'Connell is conducting his study by the book,
he will have taken water samples at the ranch on the day he arrived in Prosperino. Those samples should have been sent to the EPA lab for analysis. Depending on the rarity of the contaminant, it could take weeks to break down its components and make an ID.”

“That just seems like an awfully long time.”

“I know it does.” Rory angled his chin. “To put things in context, the breath you just exhaled contains one hundred and two different composites. To conduct a scientific analysis of that one breath, each composite has to be separated, then analyzed. Contaminated water has to be broken down that same way. In a lab, you can't rush tests, can't skip steps. That's why I agree with O'Connell. There's no way to predict how long it might take to find out what it was that wound up in the ranch's water. And how it got there.”

Although she knew next to nothing about Rory Sinclair, instinct told Peggy she could trust what he said. Her gaze went to his hand resting on the countertop, his long, elegant fingers splayed against dark granite. Those long elegant fingers that she somehow knew would work slow, sweet magic against a woman's flesh.

A dry ache settled in her throat. For so many years she had ignored her physical needs. Now those needs seemed to double and triple when she was in the same room with this one man.

“Something wrong?” he asked quietly.

Peggy looked up, realized he was watching her with the same intense assessment she had seen last night when he walked in on her and O'Connell.

“Of course not,” she said, pleased that her voice
sounded steady. She ran her palms down the thighs of her gray flannel slacks. “It's just a relief to know the inn's water is safe.”

“I'll continue to test it twice a day as long as I'm here.”

“I feel guilty not paying you for the testing.”

“Well, I don't want your guilt on my conscience.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he flashed her a grin. “I'll take my payment in dessert.”

“Dessert?” She'd have to be careful of that grin, Peggy told herself. It oozed recklessness and charm. Made you want to put down your guard and relax in his presence. She knew instinctively he was a man it would be unwise to relax around.

“Blake says you cook like an angel and that your apricot cobbler is a direct route to heaven.” Rory lifted a shoulder. “I've got a sweet tooth that would like to take that trip.”

He didn't look like he had a sweet tooth. He looked incredibly fit, his stomach washboard flat, his forearms toned and muscular. What would it be like, she wondered, to feel that well-maintained body pressed against hers?

The thought brought all of her nerves swimming to the surface. She picked up a jar of herbed vinegar, set it back down. He would not be good for her, she knew that. Still, knowing something wasn't good for you didn't stop you from wanting to sample it.

Which was something she wasn't going to do. A week from now Rory Sinclair might possibly be back in D.C., working in his lab. And, just because he didn't
have children didn't mean there wasn't a Mrs. Sinclair waiting for him at home.

That she suddenly found herself hoping he didn't have a wife had Peggy scowling. She had no clue what it was that made her thoughts about one of her guests turn totally idiotic. Whatever it was, she was done with it. She was a professional. A businesswoman.

“It's agreed, Mr. Sinclair,” she said in her most efficient tone. “I'll prepare whatever dessert you'd like each evening in exchange for your testing the inn's water every day. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to deal with breakfast.”

He opened his mouth to respond when a loud clatter came from the hallway. An instant later, a masculine voice filled the air with vicious curses.

Panic tripped Peggy's heart. “That sounds like Mr. O'Connell. Samantha, stay here.”

Peggy darted to the kitchen door on Rory's heels, raced down the hallway at his side. Just as they reached the foyer, the two caftan-clad art judges burst from the hallway that led to the dining room, the mass of metal and wood bracelets both women wore clanking in unison. When Peggy saw the EPA inspector sitting on the bottom stair, massaging his right ankle, she realized he must have taken a tumble down the staircase.

She rushed to him, placed her hand on his arm. “Are you all right, Mr. O'Connell? Do I need to call a doctor?”

He jerked away, anger shimmering in his eyes as he surged up on one foot and leaned against the newel
post. “Dammit to hell, woman, what kind of place are you running here?”

Peggy's chin rose. “One in which you don't have to yell at the top of your lungs for me to hear you. Now, please calm down and tell me how badly you're hurt. Do I need to call a doctor?”

“No, dammit, I don't need a doctor. I need a safety inspector.”

Peggy shook her head. “What for?”

“Oh, Bugs!”

Peggy had no idea Samantha had disobeyed her instructions to stay in the kitchen until she heard her daughter's high-pitched wail.

“That's what for.” Propping against the banister, O'Connell jerked his head toward the floor at the bottom of the staircase.

Peggy's heart sank when she saw Samantha bent over her beloved pink rabbit, its head torn off and stuffing strewn on the wood floor.

“Damn thing was at the top of the stairs,” O'Connell said. “Caused me to slip and fall.”

Samantha glared up at O'Connell, tears streaming down her cheeks while she hugged the bunny's torso. “You broke Bugs's head off!”

“Hey, it's a miracle I didn't break my own neck.”

Peggy crouched, pulled her sobbing child into her arms. “It'll be okay, sweetheart.” She would have to have another stern talk with Samantha about leaving her toys lying around the inn. Now, however, was not the time.

“Your kid's not hurt.” O'Connell delivered the
words in a steel tone. “I am. You ought to keep that in mind.”

Peggy lifted her gaze to his. From where she crouched, he looked disconcertingly big. And strong. She hated the fact she was nearly kneeling at his feet, but she couldn't do anything about that. Not while Samantha clung to her while she sobbed hot tears against her shoulder.

“It'll be okay, Bugs,” Samantha murmured between watery gasps as she rocked the animal. “I'll fix you.”

Peggy ran a soothing palm down the child's dark curls. “Mr. O'Connell, I am very concerned about you. Do you need a doctor?”

“A lawyer's more like it.”

“I've got a question, O'Connell,” Rory said as he stepped between them. Peggy sensed that a protective barrier had suddenly risen in front of her and her child. Still crouched on the floor with Samantha crying against her shoulder, she leaned forward so she could see each man's face in profile.

“What's the question, Sinclair?” the EPA inspector asked.

“Why do you want a lawyer?”

“The kid—”

“Samantha,” Rory said evenly. “Her name's Samantha.”

“Yeah, well, she left that rabbit in the middle of the stairs. The fall I took could have killed me.”

“So, you want a lawyer because you're thinking of suing Mrs. Honeywell?”

O'Connell looked at Peggy. “Maybe.” His gaze
dropped to her mouth. “Unless we can work out something.”

She gritted her teeth while heated anger pooled in her cheeks. If Samantha and her other guests weren't present, she would ask the idiot if he actually thought his threatening her with a lawsuit would compel her to sleep with him.

Rory hooked a thumb in the front pocket of his jeans. “Here's the deal, O'Connell. If you call a lawyer, I'll have to talk to him, too.”

A guarded look settled in the man's eyes. “About what?”

“I came down to breakfast ten minutes ago. I saw the pink bunny at the top of the staircase.”

“See—”

“Not in the
middle
of the staircase. Off to one side. Against the wall, in fact.” Rory shrugged. “Didn't look like a safety problem to me. It sounds more like you just got clumsy. If you had gotten hurt, it would have been your own fault. Besides, what does it say about an
inspector
who trips over something hot pink?”

“We saw the bunny, too, Mr. O'Connell,” one of the art judges volunteered while the other nodded in agreement. “This gentleman is right. The bunny was against the wall. You must not have been looking where you were going.”

Apparently realizing he was outnumbered, O'Connell scowled. “Yeah, okay. I guess I'm more shaken up than anything.”

Peggy swiveled her head, gave the women a grateful smile. “Ladies, would you please escort Mr.
O'Connell into the dining room? I'll have breakfast ready in just a few minutes.”

O'Connell limped across the foyer between the two women, their bracelets clanking as they each patted one of his arms. Murmuring their sympathies, they steered O'Connell down the hallway that led to the dining room.

Peggy gave Samantha a hug, then settled on the bottom step. “Sweetheart, why don't you take Bugs to your room? While you're at preschool, I'll see if I can sew him back together.”

“Can you fix him, Momma?” Voice hitching, Samantha stared at her through swollen, tearful eyes. “Can you really fix him?”

Cupping the small, tearstained face in her hands, Peggy placed a light kiss on her daughter's trembling lips. “I can try.”

“Okay.” Samantha bent and gathered up the bunny's head. Snuggling it and the fuzzy, pink body against her chest, she headed toward the hallway.

Peggy shook her head. “Dear Lord, give me strength.”

Chuckling softly, Rory offered his hand. “All this before breakfast. Are things always this eventful around Honeywell House?”

She hesitated an instant before sliding her hand into his. His flesh felt warm and firm against hers as he helped her to her feet.

“No, thank goodness.” Because his fingers had tangled with hers, she took a step back, disengaging her hand from his. “Usually things are on the sedate side.” She flicked a look toward the hallway in which
O'Connell had disappeared. “I appreciate you stepping in. I doubt I would have been quite so tactful.”

“A lioness defending her cub doesn't worry about tact.”

Peggy pulled in a deep breath. “No, she doesn't. Samantha comes first with me.”

“That's the way things should be.”

Peggy knew she had guests waiting for their breakfast, knew she needed to get to the kitchen. Still, she lingered inches from him, the spicy male tang of his cologne pervading her lungs.

“When Samantha showed you the picture she drew, I wondered how on earth you guessed it was a bunny. You knew because you saw Bugs at the top of the stairs.”

“The rabbit and the picture are both hot pink.” He shrugged. “I made a wild guess.”

“An accurate one.” She smiled as she fingered a wayward wisp of hair off her cheek. “Thank you again for defusing what might have turned into an even more unpleasant situation, Mr. Sinclair. If you'll join the other guests in the dining room for coffee, I'll see to breakfast.”

“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.”

H
is 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 two 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.”