The Welcoming (12 page)

“Thanks. You're sulking,” he murmured to Charity.

“I am not.”

“Doc's coming by this morning to take another look at you.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Mae—”

“You're not doing nothing till he gives the okay.” With a nod, she began preparing Bonnie's order. “Fat lot of good you'll do if you're not a hundred percent. Things were hard enough yesterday.”

Charity stopped staring into her tea and looked up. “Were they?”

“Everybody asking questions nobody had the answer to. Whole stacks of linens lost.”

“Lost? But—”

“Found them.” Mae made room at the stove for Dolores. “But it sure was confusing for a while. Then the dinner shift . . . Could have used an extra pair of hands for sure.” Mae winked at Roman over Charity's head. “We'll all be mighty glad when the doc gives you his okay. Let that bacon crisp, Dolores.”

“It is crisp.”

“Not enough.”

“Want me to burn it?”

Charity smiled and sipped her tea. It was good to be back.

It was midafternoon before she saw Roman again. She had a pencil behind her ear, a pad in one pocket and a dustcloth in another, and she was dashing down the hallway toward her rooms.

“In a hurry?”

“Oh.” She stopped long enough to smile at him. “Yes. I have some papers up in my room that should be in the office.”

“What's this?” He tugged at the dustcloth.

“One of the housekeepers came down with a virus. I sent her home.” She looked at her watch and frowned. She thought she could spare about two minutes for conversation. “I really hope that's not what's wrong with Bob.”

“What's wrong with Bob?”

“I don't know. He just doesn't look well.” She tossed her hair back, causing the slender gold spirals in her ears to dance. “Anyway, we're short a housekeeper, and we've got guests checking into units 3 and 5 today. The Garsons checked out of 5 this morning. They won't win any awards for neatness.”

“The doctor said you were supposed to rest an hour this afternoon.”

“Yes, but— How did you know?”

“I asked him.” Roman pulled the dustcloth out of her pocket. “I'll clean 5.”

“Don't be ridiculous. It's not your job.”

“My job's to fix things. I'll fix 5.” He took her chin in his hand before she could protest. “When I'm finished I'm going to go upstairs. If you aren't in bed I'm coming after you.”

“Sounds like a threat.”

He bent down and kissed her, hard. “It is.”

“I'm terrified,” she said, and dashed up the stairs.

***

It wasn't that she meant to ignore the doctor's orders. Not really. It was only that a nap came far down on her list of things to be done. Every phone call she made had to include a five-minute explanation of her injuries.

No, she was really quite well. Yes, it was terrible that someone had stolen poor Mrs. Norton's car and driven it so recklessly. Yes, she was sure the sheriff would get to the bottom of it. No, she had not broken her legs . . . her arm . . . her shoulder. . . . Yes, she intended to take good care of herself, thank you very much.

The goodwill and concern would have warmed her if she hadn't been so far behind in her work. To make it. worse, Bob was distracted and disorganized. Worried that he was ill or dealing with a personal problem, Charity took on the brunt of his work.

Twice she'd fully intended to take a break and go up to her rooms, and twice she'd been delayed by guests checking in. Taking it on faith that Roman had spruced up unit 5, she showed a young pair of newlyweds inside.

“You have a lovely view of the garden from here,” Charity said as a cover while she made sure there were fresh towels. Roman had hung them on the rack, exactly where they belonged. The bed, with its heart-shaped white wicker headboard, was made up with a military precision she couldn't have faulted. It cost her, but she resisted the temptation to turn up the coverlet and check sheets.

“We serve complimentary wine in the gathering room every evening at five. We recommend that you make a reservation for dinner if you plan to join us, particularly since it's Saturday night. Breakfast is served between seven-thirty and ten. If you'd like to—” She broke off when Roman stepped into the room. “I'll be with you in a minute,” she told him, and started to turn back to the newlyweds.

“Excuse me.” Roman gave them both a friendly nod before he scooped Charity up in his arms. “Miss Ford is needed elsewhere. Enjoy your stay.”

As the first shock wore off she began to struggle. “Are you out of your mind? Put me down.”

“I intend to—when I get you to bed.”

“You can't just . . .” The words trailed off into a groan as he carried her through the gathering room.

Two men sitting on the sofa stopped telling fish stories. A family coming in from a hike gawked from the doorway. Miss Millie and Miss Lucy halted their daily game of Scrabble by the window.

“Isn't that the most romantic thing?” Miss Millie said when they disappeared into the west wing.

“You have totally embarrassed me.”

Roman shifted her weight in his arms and carried her upstairs. “You're lucky that's all I did.”

“You had no right interrupting me when I was welcoming guests. Then, to make matters worse, you decide to play Rhett Butler.”

“As I recall, he had something entirely different in mind when he carried another stubborn woman up to bed.” He dropped her, none too gently, on the mattress. “You're going to rest.”

“I'm tempted to tell you to go to hell.”

He leaned down to cage her head between his hands. “Be my guest.”

She'd be damned if she'd smile. “My manners are too ingrained to permit it.”

“Aren't I the lucky one?” He leaned a little closer. There was amusement in his eyes now, enough of it so she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “I don't want you to get out of this bed for sixty minutes.”

“Or?”

“Or . . . I'll sic Mae on you.”

“A low blow, DeWinter.”

He brushed a kiss just below the fresh bandage on her temple. “Tune out for an hour, baby. It won't kill you.”

She reached up to toy with the top button of his shirt. “I'd like it better if you got in with me.”

“I said tuned out, not turned on.” When the phone in the parlor rang, he held her down with one hand. “Not a chance. Stay here and I'll get it.”

She rolled her eyes behind his back as he walked into the adjoining room.

“Yes? She's resting. Tell him she'll get back to him in an hour. Hold her calls until four. That's right.” He glanced down idly at a catalog she'd left open on her desk. She had circled a carved gold bracelet with a square-cut purple stone. “You handle whatever needs to be handled for the next hour. That's right.”

“What was it?” Charity called from the next room.

“I'll tell you in an hour.”

“Damn it, Roman.”

He stopped in the doorway. “You want the message, I'll give it to you in an hour.”

“But if it's important—”

“It's not.”

She sent him a smoldering look. “How do you know?”

“I know it's not more important than you. Nothing is.” He closed the door on her astonished expression.

He needed to keep Bob on a tight leash, he thought as he headed downstairs. As long as he was more afraid of him than of Block, things would be fine. He only had to keep the pressure on for a few more days. Block and Vision Tours would be checking in on Tuesday. When they checked out on Thursday morning he would lock the cage.

Roman pushed open the door of the office to find Bob staring at the computer screen and gulping coffee. “For somebody who's made his living from scams you're a mess.”

Bob gulped more coffee. “I never worked with a cop looking over my shoulder before.”

“Just think of me as your new partner,” Roman advised him. He took the mug out of his hand and sniffed at it. “And lay off the booze.”

“Give me a break.”

“I'm giving you more of one than you deserve. Charity's worried that you're coming down with something—something other than a stretch in federal prison. I don't want her worrying.”

“Look, you want me to carry on like it's business as usual. I'm lying to Block, setting him up.” His hand shook as he passed it over his hair. “You don't know what he's capable of.
I
don't know what he's capable of.” He looked at the mug, which Roman had set out of reach. “I need a little something to help me through the next few days.”

“Let this get you through.” Roman calmly lit a cigarette. “You pull this off and I'll go to bat for you. Screw up and I'll see to it that you're in a cage for a long time. Now take a break.”

“What?”

“I said, take a break, go for a walk, get some real coffee.” Roman tapped the ash from his cigarette into a little mosaic bowl.

“Sure.” As he rose, Bob rubbed his palms on his thighs. “Look, DeWinter, I'm playing it straight with you. When this goes down, I expect you to keep Block off me.”

“I'll take care of Block.” That was a promise he intended to keep. When the door closed behind Bob, he picked up the phone. “DeWinter,” he said when the connection was made.

“Make it quick,” Conby told him. “I'm entertaining friends.”

“I'll try not to let your martini get warm. I want to know if you've located the driver.”

“DeWinter, an underling is hardly important at this point.”

“It's important to me. Have you found him?”

“A man answering the description your informant gave you was detained in Tacoma this morning. He's being held for questioning by the local police.” Conby put his hand over the receiver. Roman heard him murmur something that was answered by light laughter.

“We're using our influence to lengthen the procedure,” Conby continued. “I'll be flying out there on Monday. By Tuesday afternoon I should be checked into the inn. I'm told I'll have a room overlooking a fish pond. It sounds very quaint.”

“I want your word that Charity will be left out of this.”

“As I explained before, if she's innocent she has nothing to worry about.”

“It's not a matter of
if.
” Struggling to hold his temper, Roman crushed out his cigarette. “She is innocent. We've got it on record.”

“On the word of a whimpering little bookkeeper.”

“She was damn near killed, and she doesn't even know why.”

“Then keep a closer eye on her. We have no desire to see Miss Ford harmed, or to involve her any more deeply than necessary. There's a police officer out there who shares the same passionate opinion of Miss Ford as you do. Sheriff Royce managed to trace you to us.”

“How?”

“He's a smart cop with connections. He has a cousin or brother-in-law or some such thing with the Bureau. He wasn't at all pleased at being left in the dark.”

“I'll bet.”

“I imagine he'll be paying you a visit before long. Handle him carefully, DeWinter, but handle him.”

Just as Roman heard the phone click in his ear the office door opened. For once, Roman thought, Conby was right on target. He replaced the receiver before settling back in his chair.

“Sheriff.”

“I want to know what the hell's going on around here, Agent DeWinter.”

“Close the door.” Roman pushed back in the chair and considered half a dozen different ways of handling Royce. “I'd appreciate it if you'd drop the ‘Agent' for now.”

Royce just laid both palms on the surface of the desk. “I want to know what a federal agent is doing undercover in my territory.”

“Following orders. Sit down?” He indicated a chair.

“I want to know what case you're working on.”

“What did they tell you?”

Royce snorted disgustedly. “It got to the point where even my cousin started giving me the runaround, DeWinter, but I've got to figure that your being here had something to do with Charity being damn near run down yesterday.”

“I'm here because I was assigned here.” Roman waited a moment, sending Royce a long, direct look. “But my first priority is keeping Charity safe.”

Royce hadn't been in law enforcement for nearly twenty years without being able to take the measure of a man. He took Roman's now, and was satisfied. “I got a load of bull from Washington about her being under investigation.”

“She was. Now she's not. But she could be in trouble. Are you willing to help?”

“I've known that girl all her life.” Royce took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Why don't you stop asking fool questions and tell me what's going on?”

Roman briefed him, pausing only once or twice to allow Royce to ask questions. “I don't have time to get into any more specifics. I want to know how many of your men you can spare Thursday morning.”

“All of them,” Royce said immediately.

“I only want your most experienced. I have information that Block will not only be bringing the counterfeit money, but also a man who'll register as Jack Marshall. His real name is Vincent Dupont. A week ago he robbed two banks in Ontario, killed a guard and wounded a civilian. Block will smuggle him out of Canada in the tour group, keep him here for a couple of days, then send him by short routes to South America. For his travel service to men like Dupont he takes a nice stiff fee. Both Dupont and Block are dangerous men. We'll have agents here at the inn, but we also have civilians. There's no way we can clear the place without tipping them off.”

“It's a chancy game you're playing.”

“I know.” He thought of Charity dozing upstairs. “It's the only way I know how to play it.”