The Welcoming (5 page)

“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.”

“We've got a man on that end. You concentrate on Ford and her staff.” Roman heard the faint
tap-tap-tap
of Conby's pencil against his pad. “There's no way they can be pulling this off without someone on the inside. She's the obvious answer.”

“It doesn't fit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Roman crushed the cigarette under his boot heel. “I said it doesn't fit. I've watched her. I've gone through her personal accounts, damn it. She's got under three thousand in fluid cash. Everything else goes into the place for new sheets and soap.”

“I see.” The pause again. It was maddening. “I suppose our Miss Ford hasn't heard of Swiss bank accounts.”

“I said she's not the type, Conby. It's the wrong angle.”

“I'll worry about the angles, DeWinter. You worry about doing your job. I shouldn't have to remind you that it's taken us nearly a year to come close to pinning this thing down. The Bureau wants this wrapped quickly, and that's what I expect from you. If you have a personal problem with this, you'd better let me know now.”

“No.” He knew personal problems weren't permitted. “You want to waste time, and the taxpayers' money, it's all the same to me. I'll get back to you.”

“Do that.”

Roman hung up. It made him feel a little better to scowl at the phone and imagine Conby losing a good night's sleep. Then again, his kind rarely did. He'd wake some hapless clerk up at six and have the list run through the computer. Conby would drink his coffee, watch the
Today
show and wait in his comfortable house in the D.C. suburbs for the results.

Grunt work and dirty work were left to others.

That was the way the game was played, Roman reminded himself as he started the long walk back to the inn. But lately, just lately, he was getting very tired of the rules.

***

Charity heard him come in. Curious, she glanced at the clock after she heard the door close below. It was after one, and the rain had started nearly thirty minutes before with a gentle hissing that promised to gain strength through the night.

She wondered where he had been.

His business, she reminded herself as she rolled over and tried to let the rain lull her to sleep. As long as he did his job, Roman DeWinter was free to come and go as he pleased. If he wanted to walk in the rain, that was fine by her.

How could he have kissed her like that and felt nothing?

Charity squeezed her eyes shut and swore at herself. It was her feelings she had to worry about, not Roman's. The trouble was, she always felt too much. This was one time she couldn't afford that luxury.

Something had happened to her when he'd kissed her. Something thrilling, something that had reached deep inside her and opened up endless possibilities. No, not possibilities, fantasies, she thought, shaking her head. If she were wise she would take that one moment of excitement and stop wanting more. Drifters made poor risks emotionally. She had the perfect example before her.

Her mother had turned to a drifter and had given him her heart, her trust, her body. She had ended up pregnant and alone. She had, Charity knew, pined for him for months. She'd died in the same hospital where her baby had been born, only days later. Betrayed, rejected and ashamed.

Charity had only discovered the extent of the shame after her grandfather's death. He'd kept the diary her mother had written. Charity had burned it, not out of shame but out of pity. She would always think of her mother as a tragic woman who had looked for love and had never found it.

But she wasn't her mother, Charity reminded herself as she lay awake listening to the rain. She was far, far less fragile. Love was what she had been named for, and she had felt its warmth all her life.

Now a drifter had come into her life.

He had spoken of regrets, she remembered. She was afraid that whatever happened—or didn't happen—between them, she would have them.

Chapter 4

The rain continued all morning, soft, slow, steady. It brought a chill, and a gloom that was no less appealing than the sunshine. Clouds hung over the water, turning everything to different shades of gray. Raindrops hissed on the roof and at the windows, making the inn seem all the more remote. Occasionally the wind gusted, rattling the panes.

At dawn Roman had watched Charity, bundled in a hooded windbreaker, take Ludwig out for his morning run. And he had watched her come back, dripping, forty minutes later. He'd heard the music begin to play in her room after she had come in the back entrance. She had chosen something quiet and floating with lots of violins this time. He'd been sorry when it had stopped and she had hurried down the hallway on her way to the dining room.

From his position on the second floor he couldn't hear the bustle in the kitchen below, but he could imagine it. Mae and Dolores would be bickering as waffle or muffin batter was whipped up. Charity would have grabbed a quick cup of coffee before rushing out to help the waitress set up tables and write the morning's menu.

Her hair would be damp, her voice calm as she smoothed over Dolores's daily complaints. She'd smell of the rain. When the early risers wandered down she would smile, greet them by name and make them feel as though they were sharing a meal at an old friend's house.

That was her greatest skill, Roman mused. Making a stranger feel at home.

Could she be as uncomplicated as she seemed? A part of him wanted badly to believe that. Another part of him found it impossible. Everyone had an angle, from the mailroom clerk dreaming of a desk job to the CEO wheeling another deal. She couldn't be any different.

He wouldn't have called the kiss they'd shared uncomplicated. There had been layers to it he couldn't have begun to peel away. It seemed contradictory that such a calm-eyed, smooth-voiced woman could explode with such towering passion. Yet she had. Perhaps her passion was as much a part of the act as her serenity.

It annoyed him. Just remembering his helpless response to her infuriated him. So he made himself dissect it further. If he was attracted to what she seemed to be, that was reasonable enough. He'd lived a solitary and often turbulent life. Though he had chosen to live that way, and certainly preferred it, it wasn't unusual that at some point he would find himself pulled toward a woman who represented everything he had never had. And had never wanted, Roman reminded himself as he tacked up a strip of molding.

He wasn't going to pretend he'd found any answers in Charity. The only answers he was looking for pertained to the job.

For now he would wait until the morning rush was over. When Charity was busy in her office, he would go down and charm some breakfast out of Mae. There was a woman who didn't trust him, Roman thought with a grin. There wasn't a naive bone in her sturdy body. And except for Charity there was no one, he was sure, who knew the workings of the inn better.

Yes, he'd put some effort into charming Mae. And he'd keep some distance between himself and Charity. For the time being.

***

“You're looking peaked this morning.”

“Thank you very much.” Charity swallowed a yawn as she poured her second cup of coffee.
Peaked
wasn't the word, she thought. She was exhausted right down to the bone. Her body wasn't used to functioning on three hours' sleep. She had Roman to thank for that, she thought, and shoved the just-filled cup aside.

“Sit.” Mae pointed to the table. “I'll fix you some eggs.”

“I haven't got time. I—”

“Sit,” Mae repeated, waving a wooden spoon. “You need fuel.”

“Mae's right,” Dolores put in. “A body can't run on coffee. You need protein and carbohydrates.” She set a blueberry muffin on the table. “Why, if I don't watch my protein intake I get weak as a lamb. 'Course, the doctor don't say, but I think I'm hydroglycemic.”

“Hypoglycemic,” Charity murmured.

“That's what I said.” Dolores decided she liked the sound of it. At the moment, however, it was just as much fun to worry about Charity as it was to worry about herself. “She could use some nice crisp bacon with those eggs, Mae. That's what I think.”

“I'm putting it on.”

Outnumbered, Charity sat down. The two women could scrap for days, but when they had a common cause they stuck together like glue.

“I'm not peaked,” she said in her own defense. “I just didn't sleep well last night.”

“A warm bath before bed,” Mae told her as the bacon sizzled. “Not hot, mind you. Lukewarm.”

“With bath salts. Not bubbles or oils,” Dolores added as she plunked down a glass of juice. “Good old-fashioned bath salts. Ain't that right, Mae?”

“Couldn't hurt,” Mae mumbled, too concerned about Charity to think of an argument. “You've been working too hard, girl.”

“I agree,” Charity said, because it was easiest that way. “The reason I don't have time for a long, leisurely breakfast is that I have to see about hiring a new waitress so I don't have to work so hard. I put an ad in this morning's paper, so the calls should be coming in.”

“Told Bob to cancel the ad,” Mae announced, cracking an egg into the pan.

“What? Why?” Charity started to rise. “Damn it, Mae, if you think I'm going to take Mary Alice back after she—”

“No such thing, and don't you swear at me, young lady.”

“Testy.” Dolores clucked her tongue. “Happens when you work too hard.”

“I'm sorry,” Charity mumbled, managing not to grind her teeth. “But, Mae, I was counting on setting up interviews over the next couple of days. I want someone in by the end of the week.”

“My brother's girl left that worthless husband of hers in Toledo and came home.” Keeping her back to Charity, Mae set the bacon to drain, then poked at the eggs. “She's a good girl, Bonnie is. Worked here a couple of summers while she was in school.”

“Yes, I remember. She married a musician who was playing at one of the resorts in Eastsound.”

Mae scowled and began to scoop up the eggs. “Saxophone player,” she said, as if that explained it all. “She got tired of living out of a van and came home a couple weeks back. Been looking for work.”

With a sigh, Charity pushed a hand through her bangs. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

“You didn't need anyone before.” Mae set the eggs in front of her. “You need someone now.”

Charity glanced over as Mae began wiping off the stove. The cook's heart was as big as the rest of her. “When can she start?”

Mae's lips curved, and she cleared her throat and wiped at a spill with more energy. “Told her to come in this afternoon so's you could have a look at her. Don't expect you to hire her unless she measures up.”

“Well, then.” Charity picked up her fork. Pleased at the thought of having one job settled, she stretched out her legs and rested her feet on an empty chair. “I guess I've got time for breakfast after all.”

Roman pushed through the door and almost swore out loud. The dining room was all but empty. He'd been certain Charity would be off doing one of the dozens of chores she took on. Instead, she was sitting in the warm, fragrant kitchen, much as she had been the night before. With one telling difference, Roman reflected. She wasn't relaxed now.

Her easy smile faded the moment he walked in. Slowly she slipped her feet off the chair and straightened her back. He could see her body tense, almost muscle by muscle. Her fork stopped halfway to her lips. Then she turned slightly away from him and continued to eat. It was, he supposed, as close to a slap in the face as she could manage.

He rearranged his idea about breakfast and gossip in the kitchen. For now he'd make do with coffee.

“Wondered where you'd got to,” Mae said as she pulled bacon out of the refrigerator again.

“I didn't want to get in your way.” He nodded toward the coffeepot. “I thought I'd take a cup up with me.”

“You need fuel.” Dolores busied herself arranging a place setting across from Charity. “Isn't that right, Mae? Man can't work unless he has a proper breakfast.”

Mae poured a cup. “He looks like he could run on empty well enough.”

It was quite true, Charity thought. She knew what time he'd come in the night before, and he'd been up and working when she'd left the wing to oversee the breakfast shift. He couldn't have gotten much more sleep than she had herself, but he didn't look any the worse for wear.

“Meals are part of your pay, Roman.” Though her appetite had fled, Charity nipped off a bite of bacon. “I believe Mae has some pancake batter left over, if you'd prefer that to eggs.”

It was a cool invitation, so cool that Dolores opened her mouth to comment. Mae gave her a quick poke and a scowl. He accepted the coffee Mae shoved at him and drank it black.

“Eggs are fine.” But he didn't sit down. The welcoming feel that was usually so much a part of the kitchen was not evident. Roman leaned against the counter and sipped while Mae cooked beside him.

She wasn't going to feel guilty, Charity told herself, ignoring a chastising look from Dolores. After all, she was the boss, and her business with Roman was . . . well, just business. But she couldn't bear the long, strained silence.

“Mae, I'd like some petits fours and tea sandwiches this afternoon. The rain's supposed to last all day, so we'll have music and dancing in the gathering room.” Because breakfast seemed less and less appealing, Charity pulled a notepad out of her shirt pocket. “Fifty sandwiches should do if we have a cheese tray. We'll set up an urn of tea, and one of hot chocolate.”

“What time?”

“At three, I think. Then we can bring out the wine at five for anyone who wants to linger. You can have your niece help out.”

She began making notes on the pad.

She looked tired, Roman thought. Pale and heavy-eyed and surprisingly fragile. She'd apparently pulled her hair back in a hasty ponytail when it had still been damp. Little tendrils had escaped as they'd dried. They seemed lighter than the rest, their color more delicate than rich. He wanted to brush them away from her temples and watch the color come back into her cheeks.

“Finish your eggs,” Mae told her. Then she nodded at Roman. “Yours are ready.”

“Thanks.” He sat down, wishing no more fervently than Charity that he was ten miles away.

Dolores began to complain that the rain was making her sinuses swell.

“Pass the salt,” Roman murmured.

Charity pushed it in his direction. Their fingers brushed briefly, and she snatched hers away.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” Charity poked her fork into her eggs. She knew from experience that it would be difficult to escape from the kitchen without cleaning her plate, and she intended to do it quickly.

“Nice day,” he said, because he wanted her to look at him again. She did, and pent-up anger was simmering in her eyes. He preferred it, he discovered, to the cool politeness that had been there.

“I like the rain.”

“Like I said”—he broke open his muffin—“it's a nice day.”

Dolores blew her nose heartily. Amusement curved the corners of Charity's mouth before she managed to suppress it. “You'll find the paint you need—wall, ceiling, trim—in the storage cellar. It's marked for the proper rooms.”

“All right.”

“The brushes and pans and rollers are down there, too. Everything's on the workbench on the right as you come down the stairs.”

“I'll find them.”

“Good. Cabin 4 has a dripping faucet.”

“I'll look at it.”

She didn't want him to be so damn agreeable, Charity thought. She wanted him to be as tense and out of sorts as she was. “The window sticks in unit 2 in the east wing.”

He sent her an even look. “I'll unstick it.”

“Fine.” Suddenly she noticed that Dolores had stopped complaining and was gawking at her. Even Mae was frowning over her mixing bowl. The hell with it, Charity thought as she shoved her plate away. So she was issuing orders like Captain Bligh. She damn well felt like Captain Bligh.

She took a ring of keys out of her pocket. She'd just put them on that morning, having intended to see to the minor chores herself. “Make sure to bring these back to the office when you've finished. They're tagged for the proper doors.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Keeping his eyes on hers, he dropped the ring into his breast pocket. “Anything else?”

“I'll let you know.” She rose, took her plate to the sink and stalked out.

“What got into her?” Dolores wanted to know. “She looked like she wanted to chew somebody's head off.”

“She just didn't sleep well.” More concerned than she wanted to let on, Mae set down the mixing bowl in which she'd been creaming butter and sugar. Because she felt like the mother of an ill-mannered child, she picked up the coffeepot and carried it over to Roman. “Charity's not feeling quite herself this morning,” she told him as she poured him a second cup. “She's been overworked lately.”

“I've got thick skin.” But he'd felt the sting. “Maybe she should delegate more.”

“Ha! That girl?” Pleased that he hadn't complained, she became more expansive. “It ain't in her. Feels responsible if a guest stubs his toe. Just like her grandpa.” Mae added a stream of vanilla to the bowl and went back to her mixing. “Not a thing goes on around here she don't have a finger—more likely her whole hand—in. Except my cooking.” Mae's wide face creased in a smile. “I shooed her out of here when she was a girl, and I can shoo her out of here today if need be.”

“Girl can't boil water without scorching the pan,” Dolores put in.

“She could if she wanted to,” Mae said defensively, turning back to Roman with a sniff. “There's no need for her to cook when she's got me, and she's smart enough to know it. Everything else, though, from painting the porch to keeping the books, has to have her stamp on it. She's one who takes her responsibilities to heart.”