The Welcoming (7 page)

“The inn must be doing well.”

“Oh, it's stable.” Bob turned his attention to the petits fours. “A couple of years ago things were a little rocky, but Charity would always find a way to keep the ship afloat. Nothing's more important to her.”

Roman was silent for a moment. “I don't know much about the hotel business, but she seems to know what she's doing.”

“Inside and out.” Bob chose a cake with pink frosting. “Charity
is
the inn.”

“Have you worked for her long?”

“About two and a half years. She couldn't really afford me, but she wanted to turn things around, modernize the bookkeeping. Pump new life into the place, was what she said.” Someone put on a jitterbug, and he grinned. “She did just that.”

“Apparently.”

“So you're from back east.” Bob paused for a moment, then continued when Roman made no comment. “How long are you planning to stay?”

“As long as it takes.”

He took a long sip of tea. “As long as what takes?”

“The job.” Roman glanced idly toward the west wing. “I like to finish what I start.”

“Yeah. Well . . .” He arranged several petits fours on a plate. “I'm going to go offer these to the ladies and hope they let me eat them.”

Roman watched him pass Block and exchange a quick word with him before he crossed the room. Wanting time to think, Roman slipped back into the west wing.

It was still raining when he came back hours later. Music was playing, some slow, melodic ballad from the fifties. The room was dimmer now, lit only by the fire and a glass-globed lamp. It was empty, too, except for Charity, who was busy tidying up, humming along with the music.

“Party over?”

She glanced around, then went hurriedly back to stacking cups and plates. “Yes. You didn't stay long.”

“I had work to do.”

Because she wanted to keep moving, she switched to emptying ashtrays. She'd held on to her guilt long enough. “I was tired this morning, but that's no excuse for being rude to you. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that you couldn't enjoy yourself for a few hours.”

He didn't want to accept an apology that he knew he didn't deserve. “I enjoy the work.”

That only made her feel worse. “Be that as it may, I don't usually go around barking orders. I was angry with you.”

“Was?”

She looked up, and her eyes were clear and direct. “Am. But that's my problem. If it helps, I'm every bit as angry with myself for acting like a child because you didn't let things get out of hand last night.”

Uncomfortable, he picked up the wine decanter and poured a glass. “You didn't act like a child.”

“A woman scorned, then, or something equally dramatic. Try not to contradict me when I'm apologizing.”

Despite his best efforts, his lips curved against the rim of his glass. If he didn't watch himself he could find he was crazy about her. “All right. Is there more?”

“Just a little.” She picked up one of the few petits fours that were left over, debated with herself, then popped it into her mouth. “I shouldn't let my personal feelings interfere with my running of the inn. The problem is, almost everything I think or feel connects with the inn.”

“Neither of us were thinking of the inn last night. Maybe that's the problem.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you want the couch moved back?”

“Yes.” Business as usual, Charity told herself as she walked over to lift her end. The moment it was in place she scooted around to plump the pillows. “I saw you dancing with Miss Millie. It thrilled her.”

“I like her.”

“I think you do,” Charity said slowly, straightening and studying him. “You're not the kind of man who likes easily.”

“No.”

She wanted to go to him, to lift a hand to his cheek. That was ridiculous, she told herself. Apology notwithstanding, she was still angry with him for last night. “Has life been so hard?” she murmured.

“No.”

With a little laugh, she shook her head. “Then again, you wouldn't tell me if it had been. I have to learn not to ask you questions. Why don't we call a truce, Roman? Life's too short for bad feelings.”

“I don't have any bad feelings toward you, Charity.”

She smiled a little. “It's tempting, but I'm not going to ask what kind of feelings you do have.”

“I wouldn't be able to tell you, because I haven't figured it out.” He was amazed that the words had come out. After draining the wine, he set the empty glass aside.

“Well.” Nonplussed, she pushed her hair back with both hands. “That's the first thing you've told me I can really understand. Looks like we're in the same boat. Do I take it we have a truce?”

“Sure.”

She glanced back as another record dropped onto the turntable. “This is one of my favorites. `Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.'” She was smiling again when she looked back at him. “You never asked me to dance.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Miss Millie claims you're very smooth.” She held out a hand in a gesture that was as much a peace offering as an invitation. Unable to resist, he took it in his. Their eyes stayed locked as he drew her slowly toward him.

Chapter 5

A fire simmered in the grate. Rain pattered against the windows. The record was old and scratchy, the tune hauntingly sad. Whether they wanted it or not, their bodies fitted. Her hand slid gently over his shoulder, his around her waist. With their faces close, they began to dance.

The added height from her heels brought her eyes level with his. He could smell the light fragrance that seemed so much a part of her. Seduced by it, he brought her closer, slowly. Their thighs brushed. Still closer. Her body melted against his.

It was so quiet. There was only the music, the rain, the hissing of the fire. Gloomy light swirled into the room. He could feel her heart beating against his, quick now, and not too steady.

His wasn't any too steady now, either.

Was that all it took? he wondered. Did he only have to touch her to think that she was the beginning and the end of everything? And to wish . . . His hand slid up her back, fingers spreading until they tangled in her hair. To wish she could belong to him.

He wasn't sure when that thought had sunk its roots in him. Perhaps it had begun the first moment he had seen her. She was—should have been—unattainable for him. But when she was in his arms, warm, just bordering on pliant, dozens of possibilities flashed through his head.

She wanted to smile, to make some light, easy comment. But she couldn't push the words out. Her throat was locked. The way he was looking at her now, as if she were the only woman he had ever seen or ever wanted to see, made her forget that the dance was supposed to be a gesture of friendship.

She might never be his friend, she knew, no matter how hard she tried. But with his eyes on hers she understood how easily she could be his lover.

Maybe it was wrong, but it didn't seem to matter as they glided across the floor. The song spoke of love betrayed, but she heard only poetry. She felt her will ebb away even as the music swelled inside her head. No, it didn't seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter as long as she went on swaying in his arms.

She didn't even try to think, never attempted to reason. Following her heart, she pressed her lips to his.

Instant. Irresistible. Irrevocable. Emotions funneled from one to the other, then merged in a torrent of need. She didn't expect him to be gentle, though her kiss had offered comfort, as well as passion. He dived into it, into her, with a speed and force that left her reeling, then fretting for more.

So this was what drove people to do mad, desperate acts, she thought as their tongues tangled. This wild, painful pleasure, once tasted, would never be forgotten, would always be craved. She wrapped her arms around his neck as she gave herself to it.

With quick, rough kisses he drove them both to the edge. It was more than desire, he knew. Desire had never hurt, not deeply. It was like a scratch, soon forgotten, easily healed. This was a raw, deep wound.

Lust had never erased every coherent thought from his mind. Still, he could only think of her. Those thoughts were jumbled, and all of them were forbidden. Desperate, he ran his lips over her face, while wild fantasies of touching, of tasting every inch of her whirled in his head. It wouldn't be enough. It would never be enough. No matter how much he took from her, she would draw him back. And she could make him beg. The certainty of it terrified him.

She was trembling again, even as she strained against him. Her soft gasps and sighs pushed him toward the brink of reason. He found her mouth again and feasted on it.

He hardly recognized the change, could find no reason for it. All at once she was like glass in his arms, something precious, something fragile, something he needed to protect and defend. He lifted his hands to her face, his fingers light and cautiously caressing. His mouth, ravenous only a moment before, gentled.

Stunned, she swayed. New, vibrant emotions poured into her. Weak from the onslaught, she let her head fall back. Her arms slipped, boneless, to her sides. There was beauty here, a soft, shimmering beauty she had never known existed. Tenderness did what passion had not yet accomplished. As freely as a bird taking wing, her heart flew out to him.

Love, first experienced, was devastating. She felt tears burn the back of her eyes, heard her own quiet moan of surrender. And she tasted the glory of it as his lips played gently with hers.

She would always remember that one instant when the world changed—the music, the rain, the scent of fresh flowers. Nothing would ever be quite the same again. Nor would she ever want it to be.

Shaken, she drew back to lift a hand to her spinning head. “Roman—”

“Come with me.” Unwilling to think, he pulled her against him again. “I want to know what it's like to be with you, to undress you, to touch you.”

With a moan, she surrendered to his mouth again.

“Charity, Mae wants to—” Lori stopped on a dime at the top of the stairs. After clearing her throat, she stared at the painting on the opposite wall as if it fascinated her. “Excuse me. I didn't mean to . . .”

Charity had jerked back like a spring and was searching for composure. “It's all right. What is it, Lori?”

“It's, well . . . Mae and Dolores . . . Maybe you could come down to the kitchen when you get a minute.” She rushed down the stairs, grinning to herself.

“I should . . .” Charity paused to draw in a steadying breath but managed only a shaky one. “I should go down.” She retreated a step. “Once they get started, they need—” She broke off when Roman took her arm. He waited until she lifted her head and looked at him again.

“Things have changed.”

It sounded so simple when he said it. “Yes. Yes, they have.”

“Right or wrong, Charity, we'll finish this.”

“No.” She was far from calm, but she was very determined. “If it's right, we'll finish it. I'm not going to pretend I don't want you, but you're right when you say things have changed, Roman. You see, I know what I'm feeling now, and I have to get used to it.”

He tightened his grip when she turned to go. “What are you feeling?”

She couldn't have lied if she'd wanted to. Dishonesty was abhorrent to her. When it came to feelings, she had neither the ability nor the desire to suppress them. “I'm in love with you.”

His fingers uncurled from her arm. Very slowly, very carefully, as if he were retreating from some dangerous beast, he released her.

She read the shock on his face. That was understandable. And she read the distrust. That was painful. She gave him a last unsmiling look before she turned away.

“Apparently we both have to get used to it.”

***

She was lying. Roman told himself that over and over as he paced the floor in his room. If not to him, then certainly to herself. People seemed to find love easy to lie about.

He stopped by the window and stared out into the dark. The rain had stopped, and the moon was cruising in and out of the clouds. He jerked the window open and breathed in the damp, cool air. He needed something to clear his head.

She was working on him. Annoyed, he turned away from the view of trees and flowers and started pacing again. The easy smiles, the openhanded welcome, the casual friendliness . . . then the passion, the uninhibited response, the seduction. He wanted to believe it was a trap, even though his well-trained mind found the idea absurd.

She had no reason to suspect him. His cover was solid. Charity thought of him as a drifter, passing through long enough to take in some sights and pick up a little loose change. It was he who was setting the trap.

He dropped down on the bed and lit a cigarette, more out of habit than because he wanted one. Lies were part of his job, a part he was very good at. She hadn't lied to him, he reflected as he inhaled. But she was mistaken. He had made her want, and she had justified her desire for a relative stranger by telling herself she was in love.

But if it was true . . .

He couldn't allow himself to think that way. Leaning back against the headboard, he stared at the blank wall. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of wondering what it would be like to be loved, and especially not what it would be like to be loved by a woman to whom love would mean a lifetime. He couldn't afford any daydreams about belonging, about having someone belong to him. Even if she hadn't been part of his assignment he would have to sidestep Charity Ford.

She would think of love, then of white picket fences, Sunday dinners and evenings by the fire. He was no good for her. He would never be any good for her. Roman DeWinter, he thought with a mirthless smile. Always on the wrong side of the tracks. A questionable past, an uncertain future. There was nothing he could offer a woman like Charity.

But God, he wanted her. The need was eating away at his insides. He knew she was upstairs now. He imagined her curled up in the big four-poster, under white blankets, perhaps with a white candle burning low on the table.

He had only to climb the stairs and walk through the door. She wouldn't send him away. If she tried, it would take him only moments to break down her resistance. Believing herself in love, she would yield, then open her arms to him. He ached to be in them, to sink into that bed, into her, and let oblivion take them both.

But she had asked for time. He wasn't going to deny her what he needed himself. In the time he gave her he would use all his skill to do the one thing he knew how to do for her. He would prove her innocence.

***

Roman watched the tour group check out the following morning. Perched on a stepladder in the center of the lobby, he took his time changing bulbs in the ceiling fixture. The sun was out now, full and bright, bathing the lobby in light as a few members of the tour loitered after breakfast.

At the front desk, Charity was chatting with Block. He was wearing a fresh white shirt and his perpetual smile. Taking a calculator from his briefcase, he checked to see if Charity's tallies matched his own.

Bob poked his head out of the office and handed her a computer printout. Roman didn't miss the quick, uncertain look Bob sent in his direction before he shut himself away again.

Charity and Block compared lists. Still smiling, he took a stack of bills out of his briefcase. He paid in Canadian, cash. Having already adjusted the bill to take the exchange rate into account, Charity locked the cash away in a drawer, then handed Block his receipt.

“Always a pleasure, Roger.”

“Your little party saved the day,” he told her. “My people consider this the highlight of the tour.”

Pleased, she smiled at him. “They haven't seen Mount Rainier yet.”

“You're going to get some repeaters out of this.” He patted her hand, then checked his watch. “Time to move them out. See you next week.”

“Safe trip, Roger.” She turned to make change for a departing guest, then sold a few postcards and a few souvenir key chains with miniature whales on them.

Roman replaced the globe on the ceiling fixture, taking his time until the lobby was clear again. “Isn't it strange for a company like that to pay cash?”

Distracted from her reservations list, Charity glanced up at him. “We never turn down cash.” She smiled at him as she had promised herself she would. Her feelings, her problem, she reminded herself as he climbed down from the ladder. She only wished the hours she'd spent soul-searching the night before had resulted in a solution.

“It seems like they'd charge, or pay by check.”

“It's their company policy. Believe me, with a small, independent hotel, a cash-paying customer like Vision can make all the difference.”

“I'll bet. You've been dealing with them for a while?”

“A couple of years. Why?”

“Just curious. Block doesn't look much like a tour guide.”

“Roger? No, I guess he looks more like a wrestler.” She went back to her papers. It was difficult to make small talk when her feelings were so close to the surface. “He does a good job.”

“Yeah. I'll be upstairs.”

“Roman.” There was so much she wanted to say, but she could feel, though they were standing only a few feet apart, that he had distanced himself from her. “We never discussed a day off,” she began. “You're welcome to take Sunday, if you like.”

“Maybe I will.”

“And if you'd give Bob your hours at the end of the week, he generally takes care of payroll.”

“All right. Thanks.”

A young couple with a toddler walked out of the dining room. Roman left her to answer their questions on renting a boat.

It wasn't going to be easy to talk to him, Charity decided later. But she had to do it. She'd spent all morning on business, she'd double-checked the housekeeping in the cabins, she'd made every phone call on her list, and if Mae's comments were anything to go on she'd made a nuisance of herself in the kitchen.

She was stalling.

That wasn't like her. All her life she'd made a habit of facing her problems head-on and plowing through them. Not only with business, she thought now. Personal problems had always been given the same kind of direct approach. She had handled being parentless. Even as a child she had never evaded the sometimes painful questions about her background.

But then, she'd had her grandfather. He'd been so solid, so loving. He'd helped her understand that she was her own person. Just as he'd helped her through her first high-school crush, Charity remembered.

He wasn't here now, and she wasn't a fifteen-year-old mooning over the captain of the debating team. But if he had taught her anything, it was that honest feelings were nothing to be ashamed of.

Armed with a thermos full of coffee, she walked into the west wing. She wished it didn't feel so much like bearding the lion in his den.

He'd finished the parlor. The scent of fresh paint was strong, though he'd left a window open to air it out. The doors still had to be hung and the floors varnished, but she could already imagine the room with sheer, billowy curtains and the faded floral-print rug she'd stored in the attic.