The Welcoming (6 page)

Roman played out the lead she had offered him. “That's an admirable quality. You've worked for her a long time.”

“Between Charity and her grandfather, I've worked at the inn for twenty-eight years come June.” She jerked her head in Dolores's direction. “She's been here eight.”

“Nine,” Dolores said. “Nine years this month.”

“It sounds like when people come to work here they stay.”

“You got that right,” Mae told him.

“It seems the inn has a loyal, hardworking staff.”

“Charity makes it easy.” Competently Mae measured out baking powder. “She was just feeling moody this morning.”

“She did look a little tired,” Roman said slowly, ignoring a pang of guilt. “Maybe she'll rest for a while today.”

“Not likely.”

“The housekeeping staff seems tight.”

“She'll still find a bed to make.”

“Bob handles the accounts.”

“She'll poke her nose in the books and check every column.” There was simple pride in her voice as she sifted flour into the bowl. “Not that she don't trust those who work for her,” Mae added. “It would just make her heart stop dead to have a bill paid late or an order mixed up. Thing is, she'd rather blame herself than somebody else if a mistake's made.”

“I guess nothing much gets by her.”

“By Charity?” With a snicker, Mae plugged in her electric mixer. “She'd know if a napkin came back from the laundry with a stain on it. Watch where you sneeze,” she added as Dolores covered her face with a tissue. “Drink some hot water with a squeeze of lemon.”

“Hot tea with honey,” Dolores said.

“Lemon. Honey'll clog your throat.”

“My mother always gave me hot tea with honey,” Dolores told her.

They were still arguing about it when Roman slipped out of the kitchen.

***

He spent most of his time closed off in the west wing. Working helped him think. Though he heard Charity pass in and out a few times, neither of them sought the other's company. He could be more objective, Roman realized, when he wasn't around her.

Mae's comments had cemented his observations and the information that had been made available to him. Charity Ford ran the inn from top to bottom. Whatever went on in it or passed through it was directly under her eye. Logically that meant that she was fully involved with, perhaps in charge of, the operation he had come to destroy.

And yet . . . what he had said to Conby the night before still held true. It didn't fit.

The woman worked almost around the clock to make the inn a success. He'd seen her do everything from potting geraniums to hauling firewood. And, unless she was an astounding actress, she enjoyed it all.

She didn't seem the type who would want to make money the easy way. Nor did she seem the type who craved all the things easy money could buy. But that was instinct, not fact.

The problem was, Conby ran on facts. Roman had always relied heavily on instinct. His job was to prove her guilt, not her innocence. Yet, in less than two days, his priorities had changed.

It wasn't just a matter of finding her attractive. He had found other women attractive and had brought them down without a qualm. That was justice. One of the few things he believed in without reservation was justice.

With Charity he needed to be certain that his conclusions about her were based on more than the emotions she dragged out of him. Feelings and instincts were different. If a man in his position allowed himself to be swayed by feelings, he was useless.

Then what was it? No matter how long or how hard he thought it through, he couldn't pinpoint one specific reason why he was certain of her innocence. Because it was the whole of it, Roman realized. Her, the inn, the atmosphere that surrounded her. It made him want to believe that such people, such places, existed. And existed untainted.

He was getting soft. A pretty woman, big blue eyes, and he started to think in fairy tales. In disgust, he took the brushes and the paint pans to the sink to clean them. He was going to take a break, from work and from his own rambling thoughts.

In the gathering room, Charity was thinking just as reluctantly of him as she set a stack of records on the table between Miss Millie and Miss Lucy.

“What a lovely idea.” Miss Lucy adjusted her glasses and peered at the labels. “A nice old-fashioned tea dance.” From one of the units in the east wing came the unrelenting whine of a toddler. Miss Lucy sent a sympathetic glance in the direction of the noise, “I'm sure this will keep everyone entertained.”

“It's hard for young people to know what to do with themselves on a rainy day. It makes them cross. Oh, look.” Miss Millie held up a 45. “Rosemary Clooney. Isn't this delightful?”

“Pick out your favorites.” Charity gave the room a distracted glance. How could she prepare for a party when all she could think of was the way Roman had looked at her across the breakfast table? “I'm depending on you.”

The long buffet and a small server had been cleared off to hold the refreshments. If she could count on Mae—and she always had—they should be coming up from the kitchen shortly.

Would Roman come in? she wondered. Would he hear the music and slip silently into the room? Would he look at her until her heart started to hammer and she forgot there was anything or anyone but him?

She was going crazy, Charity decided. She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to three. Word had been passed to all the guests, and with luck she would be ready for them when they began to arrive. The ladies were deep in a discussion of Perry Como. Leaving them to it, Charity began to tug on the sofa.

“What are you doing?”

A squeal escaped her, and she cursed Roman in the next breath. “If you keep sneaking around I'm going to take Mae's idea of you being a cat burglar more seriously.”

“I wasn't sneaking around. You were so busy huffing and puffing you didn't hear me.”

“I wasn't huffing or puffing.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and glared at him. “But I am busy, so if you'd get out of my way—”

She waved a hand at him, and he caught it and held it. “I asked what you were doing.”

She tugged, then tugged harder, struggling to control her temper. If he wanted to fight, she thought, she'd be happy to oblige him. “I'm knitting an afghan,” she snapped. “What does it look like I'm doing? I'm moving the sofa.”

“No, you're not.”

She could, when the occasion called for, succeed in being haughty. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said you're not moving the sofa. It's too heavy.”

“Thank you for your opinion, but I've moved it before.” She lowered her voice when she noticed the interested glances the ladies were giving her. “And if you'd get the hell out of my way I'd move it again.”

He stood where he was, blocking her. “You really do have to do everything yourself, don't you?”

“Meaning?”

“Where's your assistant?”

“The computer sprang a leak. Since Bob's better equipped to deal with that, he's playing with components and I'm moving furniture. Now—”

“Where do you want it?”

“I didn't ask you to—” But he'd already moved to the other end of the sofa.

“I said, where do you want it?”

“Against the side wall.” Charity hefted her end and tried not to be grateful.

“What else?”

She smoothed down the skirt of her dress. “I've already given you a list of chores.”

He hooked a thumb in his pocket as they stood on either side of the sofa. He had an urge to put his hand over her angry face and give it a nice hard shove. “I've finished them.”

“The faucet in cabin 4?”

“It needed a new washer.”

“The window in unit 2?”

“A little sanding.”

She was running out of steam. “The painting?”

“The first coat's drying.” He angled his head. “Want to check it out?”

She blew out a breath. It was difficult to be annoyed when he'd done everything she'd asked. “Efficient, aren't you, DeWinter?”

“That's right. Got your second wind?”

“What do you mean?”

“You looked a little tired this morning.” He skimmed a glance over her. The dark plum-colored dress swirled down her legs. Little silver buttons ranged down from the high neck to the hem, making him wonder how long it would take him to unfasten them. There was silver at her ears, as well, a fanciful trio of columns he remembered having seen in her drawer. “You don't now,” he added, bringing his eyes back to hers.

She started to breathe again, suddenly aware that she'd been holding her breath since he'd started his survey. Charity reminded herself that she didn't have time to let him—or her feelings for him—distract her.

“I'm too busy to be tired.” Relieved, she signaled to a waitress who was climbing the steps with a laden tray. “Just set it on the buffet, Lori.”

“Second load's right behind me.”

“Great. I just need to—” She broke off when the first damp guests came through the back door. Giving up, she turned to Roman. If he was going to be in the way anyway, he might as well make himself useful. “I'd appreciate it if you'd roll up the rug and store it in the west wing. Then you're welcome to stay and enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks. Maybe I will.”

Charity greeted the guests, hung up their jackets, offered them refreshments and switched on the music almost before Roman could store the rug out of sight. Within fifteen minutes she had the group mixing and mingling.

She was made for this, he thought as he watched her. She was made for being in the center of things, for making people feel good. His place had always been on the fringe.

“Oh, Mr. DeWinter.” Smelling of lilacs, Miss Millie offered him a cup and saucer. “You must have some tea. Nothing like tea to chase the blues away on a rainy day.”

He smiled into her blurred eyes. If even she could see that he was brooding, he'd better watch his step. “Thanks.”

“I love a party,” she said wistfully as she watched a few couples dance to a bluesy Clooney ballad. “Why, when I was a girl, I hardly thought of anything else. I met my husband at a tea like this. That was almost fifty years ago. We danced for hours.”

He would never have considered himself gallant, but she was hard to resist. “Would you like to dance now?”

The faintest of blushes tinted her cheeks. “I'd love to, Mr. DeWinter.”

Charity watched Roman lead Miss Millie onto the floor. Her heart softened. She tried to harden it again but found it was a lost cause. It was a sweet thing to do, she thought, particularly since he was anything but a sweet man. She doubted that teas and dreamy little old ladies were Roman's style, but Miss Millie would remember this day for a long time.

What woman wouldn't? Charity mused. To dance with a strong, mysterious man on a rainy afternoon was a memory to be pressed in a book like a red rose. It was undoubtedly fortunate he hadn't asked her. She had already stored away too many memories of Roman. With a sigh, she herded a group of children into the television room and pushed a Disney movie into the VCR.

Roman saw her leave. And he saw her come back.

“That was lovely,” Miss Millie told him when the music had stopped.

“What?” Quickly he brought himself back. “My pleasure.” Then he made her pleasure complete by kissing her hand. By the time she had walked over to sigh with her sister he had forgotten her and was thinking of Charity.

She was laughing as an older man led her onto the floor. The music had changed. It was up-tempo now, something brisk and Latin. A mambo, he thought. Or a merengue. He wouldn't know the difference. Apparently Charity knew well enough. She moved through the complicated, flashy number as if she'd been dancing all her life.

Her skirt flared, wrapped around her legs, then flared again as she turned. She laughed, her face level and close to her partner's as they matched steps. The first prick of jealousy infuriated Roman and made him feel like a fool. The man Charity was matching steps with was easily old enough to be her father.

By the time the music ended he had managed to suppress the uncomfortable emotion but another had sprung up to take its place. Desire. He wanted her, wanted to take her by the hand and pull her out of that crowded room into someplace dim and quiet where all they would hear was the rain. He wanted to see her eyes go big and unfocused the way they had when he'd kissed her. He wanted to feel the incredible sensation of her mouth softening and heating under his.

“It's an education to watch her, isn't it?”

Roman jerked himself back as Bob eased over to pluck a sandwich from the tray. “What?”

“Charity. Watching her dance is an education.” He popped the tiny sandwich into his mouth. “She tried to teach me once, hoping I'd be able to entertain some of the ladies on occasions like this. Trouble is, I not only have two left feet, I have two left legs.” He gave a cheerful shrug and reached for another sandwich.

“Did you get the computer fixed?”

“Yeah. Just a couple of minor glitches.” The little triangle of bread disappeared. Roman caught a hint of nerves in the way Bob's knuckle tapped against the server. “I can't teach Charity about circuit boards and software any more than she can teach me the samba. How's the work going?”

“Well enough.” He watched as Bob poured a cup of tea and added three sugars to it. “I should be done in two or three weeks.”

“She'll find something else for you to do.” He glanced over to where Charity and a new partner were dancing a fox-trot. “She's always got a new idea for this place. Lately she's been making noises about adding on a sunroom and putting in one of those whirlpool tubs.”

Roman lit a cigarette. He was watching the guests now, making mental notes to pass on to Conby. There were two men who seemed to be alone, though they were chatting with other members of the tour group. Block stood by the doors, holding a plate full of sandwiches that he was dispatching with amazing ease and grinning at no one in particular.