The Welcoming (9 page)

“Doc said she could have some tea and toast.” Mae sniffled, then made a production out of blowing her nose. “Hay fever,” she said roughly. “I'm grateful you were close by when she was hurt.”

“If I'd been closer she wouldn't have been hurt.”

“And if she hadn't been walking that dog she'd have been in bed.” She paused and gave Roman a level look. “I guess we could shoot him.”

She surprised a little laugh out of him. “Charity might object to that.”

“She wouldn't care to know you're out here brooding, either. Your arm's bleeding, boy.”

He looked down dispassionately at the torn, bloodstained sleeve of his shirt. “Some.”

“Can't have you bleeding all over the floor.” She walked to the door, waving a hand. “Well, come on downstairs. I'll clean you up. Then you can bring the girl up some breakfast. I haven't got time to run up and down these steps all morning.”

***

After the doctor had finished his poking and the sheriff had finished his questioning, Charity stared at the ceiling. She hurt everywhere there was to hurt. Her head especially, but the rest of her was throbbing right along in time.

The medication would take the edge off, but she wanted to keep her mind clear until she'd worked everything out. That was why she had tucked the pill Dr. Mertens had given her under her tongue until she'd been alone. As soon as she'd organized her thoughts she would swallow it and check into oblivion for a few hours.

She'd only caught a flash of the car, but it had seemed familiar. While she'd spoken with the sheriff she'd remembered. The car that had nearly run her over belonged to Mrs. Norton, a sweet, flighty lady who crocheted doilies and doll clothes for the local craft shops. Charity didn't think Mrs. Norton had ever driven over twenty-five miles an hour. That was a great deal less than the car had been doing when it had swerved at her that morning.

She hadn't seen the driver, not really, but she had the definite impression it had been a man. Mrs. Norton had been widowed for six years.

Then it was simple, Charity decided. Someone had gotten drunk, stolen Mrs. Norton's car, and taken it for a wild joyride around the island. They probably hadn't even seen her at the side of the road.

Satisfied, she eased herself up in the bed. The rest was for the sheriff to worry about. She had problems of her own.

The breakfast shift was probably in chaos. She thought she could rely on Lori to keep everyone calm. Then there was the butcher. She still had her list to complete for tomorrow's order. And she had yet to choose the photographs she wanted to use for the ad in the travel brochure. The deposit hadn't been paid, and the fireplace in cabin 3 was smoking.

What she needed was a pad, a pencil and a telephone. That was simple enough. She'd find all three at the desk in the sitting room. Carefully she eased her legs over the side of the bed. Not too bad, she decided, but she gave herself a moment to adjust before she tried to stand.

Annoyed with herself, she braced a hand on one of the bedposts. Her legs felt as though they were filled with Mae's whipped cream rather than muscle and bone.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She winced at the sound of Roman's voice, then gingerly turned her head toward the doorway. “Nothing,” she said, and tried to smile.

“Get back in bed.”

“I just have a few things to do.”

She was swaying on her feet, as pale as the nightshirt that buttoned modestly high at the neck and skimmed seductively high on her thighs. Without a word, he set down the tray he was carrying, crossed to her and scooped her up in his arms.

“Roman, don't. I—”

“Shut up.”

“I was going to lie back down in a minute,” she began. “Right after—”

“Shut up,” he repeated. He laid her on the bed, then gave up. Keeping his arms around her, he buried his face against her throat. “Oh, God, baby.”

“It's all right.” She stroked a hand through his hair. “Don't worry.”

“I thought you were dead. When I found you I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” She rubbed at the tension at the back of his neck, trying to imagine how he must have felt. “It must have been awful, Roman. But it's only some bumps and bruises. In a couple of days they'll be gone and we'll forget all about it.”

“I won't forget.” He pulled himself away from her. “Ever.”

The violence she saw in his eyes had her heart fluttering. “Roman, it was an accident. Sheriff Royce will take care of it.”

He bit back the words he wanted to say. It was best that she believe it had been an accident. For now. He got up to get her tray. “Mae said you could eat.”

She thought of the lists she had to make and decided she had a better chance getting around him if she cooperated. “I'll try. How's Ludwig?”

“Okay. Mae put him out and gave him a ham bone.”

“Ah, his favorite.” She bit into the toast and pretended she had an appetite.

“How's your head?”

“Not too bad.” It wasn't really a lie, she thought. She was sure a blow with a sledgehammer would have been worse. “No stitches.” She pulled back her hair to show him a pair of butterfly bandages. A bruise was darkening around them. “You want to hold up some fingers and ask me how many I see?”

“No.” He turned away, afraid he would explode. The last thing she needed was another outburst from him, he reminded himself. He wasn't the kind to fall apart—at least he hadn't been until he'd met her.

He began fiddling with bottles and bowls set around the room. She loved useless little things, he thought as he picked up a wand-shaped amethyst crystal. Feeling clumsy, he set it down again.

“The sheriff said the car swerved at you.” She drank the soothing chamomile tea, feeling almost human again. “I'm glad you weren't hurt.”

“Damn it, Charity.” He whirled, then made an effort to get a handle on his temper. “No, I wasn't hurt.” And he was going to see to it that
she
wasn't hurt again. “I'm sorry. This whole business has made me edgy.”

“I know what you mean. Want some tea? Mae sent up two cups.”

He glanced at the pretty flowered pot. “Not unless you've got some whiskey to go in it.”

“Sorry, fresh out.” Smiling again, she patted the bed. “Why don't you come sit down?”

“Because I'm trying to keep my hands off you.”

“Oh.” Her smile curved wider. It pleased her that she was resilient enough to feel a quick curl of desire. “I like your hands on me, Roman.”

“Bad timing.” Because he couldn't resist, he crossed to the bed to take her hand in his. “I care about you, Charity. I want you to believe that.”

“I do.”

“No.” His fingers tightened insistently on hers. He knew he wasn't clever with words, but he needed her to understand. “It's different with you than it's ever been with anyone.” Fighting a fresh wave of frustration, he relaxed his grip. “I can't give you anything else.”

She felt her heart rise up in her throat. “If I had known I could get that much out of you I might have bashed my head on a rock before.”

“You deserve more.” He sat down and ran a gentle finger under the bruise on her temple.

“I agree.” She brought his hand to her lips and watched his eyes darken. “I'm patient.”

Something was moving inside him, and he was helpless to prevent it. “You don't know enough about me. You don't know anything about me.”

“I know I love you. I figured you'd tell me the rest eventually.”

“Don't trust me, Charity. Not so much.”

There was trouble here. She wanted to smooth it from his face, but she didn't know how. “Have you done something so unforgivable, Roman?”

“I hope not. You should rest.” Knowing he'd already said too much, he set her tray aside.

“I was going to, really. Right after I take care of a few things.”

“The only thing you have to take care of today is yourself.”

“That's very sweet of you, and as soon as I—”

“You're not getting out of bed for at least twenty-four hours.”

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. What possible difference does it make whether I'm lying down or sitting down?”

“According to the doctor, quite a bit.” He picked up a tablet from the nightstand. “Is this the medication he gave you?”

“Yes.”

“The same medication that you were supposed to take before he left?”

She struggled to keep from pouting. “I'm going to take it after I make a few phone calls.”

“No phone calls today.”

“Now listen, Roman, I appreciate your concern, but I don't take orders from you.”

“I know. You give them to me.”

Before she could respond, he lowered his lips to hers. Here was gentleness again, whisper-soft, achingly warm. With a little sound of pleasure, she sank into it.

He'd thought it would be easy to take one, only one, fleeting taste. But his hand curled into a fist as he fought the need to demand more. She was so fragile now. He wanted to soothe, not arouse . . . to comfort, not seduce. But in seconds he was both aroused and seduced.

When he started to pull back, she gave a murmur of protest and pressed him close again. She needed this sweetness from him, needed it more than any medication.

“Easy,” he told her, clawing for his self-control. “I'm a little low on willpower, and you need rest.”

“I'd rather have you.”

She smiled at him, and his stomach twisted into knots. “Do you drive all men crazy?”

“I don't think so.” Feeling on top of the world, she brushed his hair back from his brow. “Anyway, you're the first to ask.”

“We'll talk about it later.” Determined to do his best for her, he held out the pill. “Take this.”

“Later.”

“Uh-uh. Now.”

With a sound of disgust, she popped the pill into her mouth, then picked up her cooling tea and sipped it. “There. Satisfied?”

He had to grin. “I've been a long way from satisfied since I first laid eyes on you, baby. Lift up your tongue.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. You're pretty good.” He put a hand under her chin. “But I'm better. Let's have the pill.”

She knew she was beaten. She took the pill out of her mouth, then made a production out of swallowing it. She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. “It might still be in there. Want to search me for it?”

“What I want”—he kissed her lightly—“is for you to stay in bed.” He shifted his lips to her throat. “No calls, no paperwork, no sneaking downstairs.” He caught her earlobe between his teeth and felt her shudder, and his own. “Promise.”

“Yes.” Her lips parted as his brushed over them. “I promise.”

“Good.” He sat back and picked up the tray. “I'll see you later.”

“But—” She set her teeth as he walked to the door. “You play dirty, DeWinter.”

“Yeah.” He glanced back at her. “And to win.”

He left her, knowing she would no more break her word than she would fly out the window. He had business of his own to attend to.

Chapter 7

An important part of Roman's training had been learning how to pursue an assignment in a thorough and objective manner. He had always found it second nature to do both. Until now. Still, for very personal reasons, he fully intended to be thorough.

When he left Charity, Roman expected to find Bob in the office, and he hoped to find him alone. He wasn't disappointed. Bob had the phone receiver at his ear and the computer monitor blinking above his fingers. After waving a distracted hand in Roman's direction, he went on with his conversation.

“I'll be happy to set that up for you and your wife, Mr. Partington. That's a double room for the nights of the fifteenth and sixteenth of July.”

“Hang up,” Roman told him. Bob merely held up a finger, signaling a short wait.

“Yes, that's available with a private bath and includes breakfast. We'd be happy to help you arrange the rentals of kayaks during your stay. Your confirmation number is—”

Roman slammed a hand down on the phone, breaking the connection.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Wondering if I should bother to talk to you or just kill you.”

Bob sprang out of his chair and managed to put the desk between him and Roman. “Look, I know you've had an upsetting morning—”

“Do you?” Roman didn't bother to try to outmaneuver. He simply stood where he was and watched Bob sweat. “Upsetting. That's a nice, polite word for it. But you're a nice, polite man, aren't you, Bob?”

Bob glanced at the door and wondered if he had a chance of getting that far. “We're all a bit edgy because of Charity's accident. You could probably use a drink.”

Roman moved over to a stack of computer manuals and unearthed a small silver flask. “Yours?” he said. Bob stared at him. “I imagine you keep this in here for those long nights when you're working late—and alone. Wondering how I knew where to find it?” He set it aside. “I came across it when I broke in here a couple of nights ago and went through the books.”

“You broke in?” Bob wiped the back of his hand over suddenly dry lips. “That's a hell of a way to pay Charity back for giving you a job.”

“Yeah, you're right about that. Almost as bad as using her inn to pass counterfeit bills and slip undesirables in and out of the country.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Bob took one cautious sideways step toward the door. “I want you out of here, DeWinter. When I tell Charity what you've done—”

“But you're not going to tell her. You're not going to tell her a damn thing—yet. But you're going to tell me.” One look stopped Bob's careful movement cold. “Try for the door and I'll break your leg.” Roman tapped a cigarette out of his pack. “Sit down.”

“I don't have to take this.” But he took a step back, away from the door, and away from Roman. “I'll call the police.”

“Go ahead.” Roman lit the cigarette and watched him through a veil of smoke. It was a pity Bob was so easily cowed. He'd have liked an excuse to damage him. “I was tempted to tell Royce everything I knew this morning. The problem with that was that it would have spoiled the satisfaction of dealing with you and the people you're with personally. But go ahead and call him.” Roman shoved the phone across the desk in Bob's direction. “I can find a way of finishing my business with you once you're inside.”

Bob didn't ask him to explain. He had heard the cell door slam the moment Roman had walked into the room. “Listen, I know you're upset. . . .”

“Do I look upset?” Roman murmured.

No, Bob thought, his stomach clenched. He looked cold—cold enough to kill. Or worse. But there had to be a way out. There always was. “You said something about counterfeiting. Why don't you tell me what this is all about, and we'll try to settle this calm—?” Before he got the last word out he was choking as Roman hauled him out of the chair by the collar.

“Do you want to die?”

“No.” Bob's fingers slid helplessly off Roman's wrists.

“Then cut the crap.” Disgusted, Roman tossed him back into the chair. “There are two things Charity doesn't do around here. Only two. She doesn't cook, and she doesn't work the computer.
Can't
would be a better word. She can't cook because Mae didn't teach her. Pretty easy to figure why. Mae wanted to rule in the kitchen, and Charity wanted to let her.”

He moved to the window and casually lowered the shades so that the room was dim and private. “It's just as simple to figure why she can't work a basic office computer. You didn't teach her, or you made the lessons so complicated and contradictory she never caught on. You want me to tell you why you did that?”

“She was never really interested.” Bob swallowed, his throat raw. “She can do the basics when she has to, but you know Charity—she's more interested in people than machines. I show her all the printouts.”

“All? You and I know you haven't shown her all of them. Should I tell you what I think is on those disks you've got hidden in the file drawer?”

Bob pulled out a handkerchief with fumbling fingers and mopped at his brow. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You keep the books for the inn, and for the little business you and your friends have on the side. I figure a man like you would keep backups, a little insurance in case the people you work for decided to cut you out.” He opened a file drawer and dug out a disk. “We'll take a look at this later,” he said, and tossed it onto the desk. “Two to three thousand a week washes through this place. Fifty-two weeks a year makes that a pretty good haul. Add that to the fee you charge to get someone back and forth across the border mixed with the tour group and you've got a nice, tidy sum.”

“That's crazy.” Barely breathing, Bob tugged at his collar. “You've got to know that's crazy.”

“Did you know your references were still on file here?” Roman asked conversationally. “The problem is, they don't check out. You never worked for a hotel back in Fort Worth, or in San Francisco.”

“So I padded my chances a bit. That doesn't prove anything.”

“I think we'll turn up something more interesting when we run your prints.”

Bob stared down at the disk. Sometimes you could bluff, and sometimes you had to fold. “Can I have a drink?”

Roman picked up the flask, tossed it to him and waited while he twisted off the cap. “You made me for a cop, didn't you? Or you were worried enough to keep your ear to the ground. You heard me asking the wrong questions, were afraid I'd told Charity about the operation and passed it along to your friends.”

“It didn't feel right.” Bob wiped the vodka from his lips, then drank again. “I know a scam when I see one, and you made me nervous the minute I saw you.”

“Why?”

“When you're in my business you get so you can spot cops. In the supermarket, on the street, buying underwear at a department store. It doesn't matter where, you get so you can make them.”

Roman thought of himself and of the years he'd spent on the other side of the street. He'd made his share of cops, and he still could. “Okay. So what did you do?”

“I told Block I thought you were a plant, but he figured I was going loopy. I wanted to back off until you'd gone, but he wouldn't listen. Last night, when you went down for dinner, I looked through your room. I found a box of shells. No gun, just the shells. That meant you were wearing it. I called Block and told him I was sure you were a cop. You'd been spending a lot of time with Charity, so I figured she was working with you on it.”

“So you tried to kill her.”

“No, not me.” Panicked, Bob pressed back in his chair. “I swear. I'm not a violent man, DeWinter. Hell, I like Charity. I wanted to pull out, take a breather. We'd already set up another place, in the Olympic Mountains. I figured we could take a few weeks, run legit, then move on it. Block just said he'd take care of it, and I thought he meant we'd handle next week's tour on the level. That would give me time to fix everything here and get out. If I'd known what he was planning . . .”

“What? Would you have warned her?”

“I don't know.” Bob drained the flask, but the liquor did little to calm his nerves. “Look, I do scams, I do cons. I don't kill people.”

“Who was driving the car?”

“I don't know. I swear it,” he said. Roman took a step toward him, and he gripped the arms of his chair. “Listen, I got in touch with Block the minute this happened. He said he'd hired somebody. He couldn't have done it himself, because he was on the mainland. He said the guy wasn't trying to kill her. Block just wanted her out of the way for a few days. We've got a big shipment coming in and—” He broke off, knowing he was digging himself in deeper.

Roman merely nodded. “You're going to find out who was driving the car.”

“Okay, sure.” He made the promise without knowing if he could keep it. “I'll find out.”

“You and I are going to work together for the next few days, Bob.”

“But . . . aren't you going to call Royce?”

“Let me worry about Royce. You're going to go on doing what you do best. Lying. Only now you're going to lie to Block. You do exactly what you're told and you'll stay alive. If you do a good job I'll put in a word for you with my superior. Maybe you can make a deal, turn state's evidence.”

After resting a hip on the desk, Roman leaned closer. “If you try to check out, I'll hunt you down. I'll find you wherever you hide, and when I'm finished you'll wish I'd killed you.”

Bob looked into Roman's eyes. He believed him. “What do you want me to do?”

“Tell me about the next shipment.”

***

Charity was sick of it. It was bad enough that she'd given her word to Roman and had to stay in bed all day. She couldn't even use the phone to call the office and see what was going on in the world.

She'd tried to be good-humored about it, poking through the books and magazines that Lori had brought up to her. She'd even admitted—to herself—that there had been times, when things had gotten crazy at the inn, that she'd imagined having the luxury of an idle day in bed.

Now she had it, and she hated it.

The pill Roman had insisted she swallow had made her groggy. She drifted off periodically, only to wake later, annoyed that she didn't have enough control to stay awake and be bored. Because reading made her headache worse, she tried to work up some interest in the small portable television perched on the shelf across the room.

When she'd found
The Maltese Falcon
flickering in black and white she'd felt both pleasure and relief. If she had to be trapped in bed, it might as well be with Bogart. Even as Sam Spade succumbed to the Fat Man's drug, Charity's own medication sent her under. She awoke in a very poor temper to a rerun of a sitcom.

He'd made her promise to stay in bed, she thought, jabbing an elbow at her pillow. And he didn't even have the decency to spend five minutes keeping her company. Apparently he was too busy to fit a sickroom call into his schedule. That was fine for him, she decided, running around doing something useful while she was moldering between the sheets. It wasn't in her nature to do nothing, and if she had to do it for five minutes longer she was going to scream.

Charity smiled a bit as she considered that. Just what would he do if she let out one long bloodcurdling scream? It might be interesting to find out. Certainly more interesting, she decided, than watching a blond airhead jiggle around a set to the beat of a laugh track. Nodding, she sucked in her breath.

“What are you doing?”

She let it out again in a long huff as Roman pushed open the door. Pleasure came first, but she quickly buried it in resentment. “You're always asking me that.”

“Am I?” He was carrying another tray. Charity distinctly caught the scent of Mae's prize chicken soup and her biscuits. “Well, what were you doing?”

“Dying of boredom. I think I'd rather be shot.” After eyeing the tray, she decided to be marginally friendly. But not because she was glad to see him, she thought. It was dusk, and she hadn't eaten for hours. “Is that for me?”

“Possibly.” He set the tray over her lap, then stayed close and took a long, hard look at her. There was no way for him to describe the fury he felt when he saw the bruises and the bandages. Just as there was no way for him to describe the sense of pleasure and relief he experienced when he saw the annoyance in her eyes and the color in her cheeks.

“I think you're wrong, Charity. You're going to live.”

“No thanks to you.” She dived into the soup. “First you trick a promise out of me, then you leave me to rot for the next twelve hours. You might have come up for a minute to see if I had lapsed into a coma.”

He
had
come up, about the time Sam Spade had been unwrapping the mysterious bird, but she'd been sleeping. Nonetheless, he'd stayed for nearly half an hour, just watching her.

“I've been a little busy,” he told her, and broke off half of her biscuit for himself.

“I'll bet.” Feeling far from generous, she snatched it back. “Well, since you're here, you might tell me how things are going downstairs.”

“They're under control,” he murmured, thinking of Bob and the phone calls that had already been made.

“It's only Bonnie's second day. She hasn't—”

“She's doing fine,” he said, interrupting her. “Mae's watching her like a hawk. Where'd all these come from?” He gestured toward half a dozen vases of fresh flowers.

“Oh, Lori brought up the daisies with the magazines. Then the ladies came up. They really shouldn't have climbed all those stairs. They brought the wood violets.” She rattled off more names of people who had brought or sent flowers.