by Nora Roberts
“Just wondering.” You’d have to be careful of that smile, Charity decided. It made you relax, and she doubted he was a man it was wise to relax around.
The double glass doors opened up into a large, airy room that smelled of lavender and woodsmoke. There were two long, cushiony sofas and a pair of overstuffed chairs near a huge stone fireplace where logs crackled. Antiques were scattered throughout the room—a desk and chair with a trio of old inkwells, an oak hat rack, a buffet with glossy carved doors. Tucked into a corner was a spinet with yellowing keys, and the pair of wide arched windows that dominated the far wall made the water seem part of the room’s decor. At a table near them, two women were playing a leisurely game of Scrabble.
“Who’s winning today?” Charity asked.
Both looked up. And beamed. “It’s neck and neck.” The woman on the right fluffed her hair when she spotted Roman. She was old enough to be his grandmother, but she slipped her glasses off and straightened her thin shoulders. “I didn’t realize you were bringing back another guest, dear.”
“Neither did I.” Charity moved over to add another log to the fire. “Roman DeWinter, Miss Lucy and Miss Millie.”
His smile came again, smoothly. “Ladies.”
“DeWinter.” Miss Lucy put on her glasses to get a better look. “Didn’t we know a DeWinter once, Millie?”
“Not that I recall.” Millie, always ready to flirt, continued to beam at Roman, though he was hardly more than a myopic blur. “Have you been to the inn before, Mr. DeWinter?”
“No, ma’am. This is my first time in the San Juans.”
“You’re in for a treat.” Millie let out a little sigh. It was really too bad what the years did. It seemed only yesterday that handsome young men had kissed her hand and asked her to go for a walk. Today they called her ma’am. She went wistfully back to her game.
“The ladies have been coming to the inn longer than I can remember,” Charity told Roman as she led the way down a hall. “They’re lovely, but I should warn you about Miss Millie. I’m told she had quite a reputation in her day, and she still has an eye for an attractive man.”
“I’ll watch my step.”
“I get the impression you usually do.” She took out a set of keys and unlocked the door. “This leads to the west wing.” She started down another hall, brisk, businesslike. “As you can see, renovations were well under way before George hit the jackpot. The trim’s been stripped.” She gestured to the neat piles of wood along the freshly painted wall. “The doors need to be refinished yet, and the original hardware’s in that box.”
After taking off her sunglasses, she dropped them into her bag. He’d been right. The collar of her shirt matched her eyes almost exactly. He looked into them as she examined George’s handiwork.
“How many rooms?”
“There are two singles, a double and a family suite in this wing, all in varying stages of disorder.” She skirted a door that was propped against a wall, then walked into a room. “You can take this one. It’s as close to being finished as I have in this section.”
It was a small, bright room. Its window was bordered with stained glass and looked out over the mill wheel. The bed was stripped, and the floors were bare and in need of sanding. Wallpaper that was obviously new covered the walls from the ceiling down to a white chair rail. Below that was bare drywall.
“It doesn’t look like much now,” Charity commented.
“It’s fine.” He’d spent time in places that made the little room look like a suite at the Waldorf.
Automatically she checked the closet and the adjoining bath, making a mental list of what was needed. “You can start in here, if it’ll make you more comfortable. I’m not particular. George had his own system. I never understood it, but he usually managed to get things done.”
He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “You got a game plan?”
“Absolutely.”
Charity spent the next thirty minutes taking him through the wing and explaining exactly what she wanted. Roman listened, commenting little, and studied the setup. He knew from the blueprints he’d studied that the floor plan of this section mirrored that of the east wing. His position in it would give him easy access to the main floor and the rest of the inn.
He’d have to work, he mused as he looked at the half-finished walls and the paint tarps. He considered it a small bonus. Working with his hands was something he enjoyed and something he’d had little time for in the past.
She was very precise in her instructions. A woman who knew what she wanted and intended to have it. He appreciated that. He had no doubt that she was very good at what she did, whether it was running an inn . . . or something else.
“What’s up there?” He pointed to a set of stairs at the end of the hallway.
“My rooms. We’ll worry about them after the guest quarters are done.” She jingled the keys as her thoughts went off in a dozen directions. “So, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About the work.”
“Do you have tools?”
“In the shed, the other side of the parking area.”
“I can handle it.”
“Yes.” Charity tossed the keys to him. She was certain he could. They were standing in the octagonal parlor of the family suite. It was empty but for stacks of material and tarps. And it was quiet. She noticed all at once that they were standing quite close together and that she couldn’t hear a sound. Feeling foolish, she took a key off her ring.
“You’ll need this.”
“Thanks.” He tucked it in his pocket.
She drew a deep breath, wondering why she felt as though she’d just taken a long step with her eyes closed. “Have you had lunch?”
“No.”
“I’ll show you down to the kitchen. Mae’ll fix you up.” She started out, a little too quickly. She wanted to escape from the sensation that she was completely alone with him. And helpless. Charity moved her shoulders restlessly. A stupid thought, she told herself. She’d never been helpless. Still, she felt a breath of relief when she closed the door behind them.
She took him downstairs, through the empty lobby and into a large dining room decorated in pastels. There were small milk-glass vases on each table, with a handful of fresh flowers in each. Big windows opened onto a view of the water, and as if carrying through the theme, an aquarium was built into the south wall.
She stopped there for a moment, hardly breaking stride, scanning the room until she was satisfied that the tables were properly set for dinner. Then she pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.
“And I say it needs more basil.”
“I say it don’t.”
“Whatever you do,” Charity murmured under her breath, “don’t agree with either of them. Ladies,” she said, using her best smile. “I brought you a hungry man.”
The woman guarding the pot held up a dripping spoon. The best way to describe her was wide—face, hips, hands. She gave Roman a quick, squint-eyed survey. “Sit down, then,” she told him, jerking a thumb in the direction of a long wooden table.
“Mae Jenkins, Roman DeWinter.”
“Ma’am.”
“And Dolores Rumsey.” The other woman was holding a jar of herbs. She was as narrow as Mae was wide. After giving Roman a nod, she began to ease her way toward the pot.
“Keep away from that,” Mae ordered, “and get the man some fried chicken.”
Muttering, Dolores stalked off to find a plate.
“Roman’s going to pick up where George left off,” Charity explained. “He’ll be staying in the west wing.”
“Not from around here.” Mae looked at him again, the way he imagined a nanny would look at a small, grubby child.
“No.”
With a sniff, she poured him some coffee. “Looks like you could use a couple of decent meals.”
“You’ll get them here,” Charity put in, playing peacemaker. She winced only a little when Dol
ores slapped a plate of cold chicken and potato salad in front of Roman.
“Needed more dill.” Dolores glared at him, as if she were daring him to disagree. “She wouldn’t listen.”
Roman figured the best option was to grin at her and keep his mouth full. Before Mae could respond, the door swung open again.
“Can a guy get a cup of coffee in here?” The man stopped and sent Roman a curious look.
“Bob Mullins, Roman DeWinter. I hired him to finish the west wing. Bob’s one of my many right hands.”
“Welcome aboard.” He moved to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee, adding three lumps of sugar as Mae clucked her tongue at him. The sweet tooth didn’t seem to have an effect on him. He was tall, perhaps six-two, and he couldn’t weigh more than 160. His light brown hair was cut short around his ears and swept back from his high forehead.
“You from back east?” Bob asked between sips of coffee.
“East of here.”
“Easy to do.” He grinned when Mae flapped a hand to move him away from her stove.
“Did you get that invoice business straightened out with the greengrocer?” Charity asked.
“All taken care of. You got a couple of calls while you were out. And there’s some papers you need to sign.”
“I’ll get to it.” She checked her watch. “Now.” She glanced over at Roman. “I’ll be in the office off the lobby if there’s anything you need to know.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” She studied him for another moment. She couldn’t quite figure out how he could be in a room with four other people and seem so alone. “See you later.”
***
Roman took a long, casual tour of the inn before he began to haul tools into the west wing. He saw a young couple who had to be newlyweds locked in an embrace near the pond. A man and a young boy played one-on-one on a small concrete basketball court. The ladies, as he had come to think of them, had left their game to sit on the porch and discuss the garden. Looking exhausted, a family of four pulled up in a station wagon, then trooped toward the cabins. A man in a fielder’s cap walked down the pier with a video camera on his shoulder.
There were birds trilling in the trees, and there was the distant sound of a motorboat. He heard a baby crying halfheartedly, and the strains of a Mozart piano sonata.
If he hadn’t pored over the data himself he would have sworn he was in the wrong place.
He chose the family suite and went to work, wondering how long it would take him to get into Charity’s rooms.
There was something soothing about working with his hands. Two hours passed, and he relaxed a little. A check of his watch had him deciding to take another, unnecessary trip to the shed. Charity had mentioned that wine was served in what she called the gathering room every evening at five. It wouldn’t hurt for him to get another, closer look at the inn’s guests.
He started out, then stopped by the doorway to his room. He’d heard something, a movement. Cautious, he eased inside the door and scanned the empty room.
Humming under her breath, Charity came out of the bath, where she’d just placed fresh towels. She unfolded linens and began to make the bed.
“What are you doing?”
Muffling a scream, she stumbled backward, then eased down on the bed to catch her breath. “My God, Roman, don’t do that.”
He stepped into the room, watching her with narrowed eyes. “I asked what you were doing.”
“That should be obvious.” She patted the pile of linens with her hand.
“You do the housekeeping, too?”
“From time to time.” Recovered, she stood up and smoothed the bottom sheet on the bed. “There’s soap and towels in the bath,” she told him, then tilted her head. “Looks like you can use them.” She unfolded the top sheet with an expert flick. “Been busy?”
“That was the deal.”
With a murmur of agreement, she tucked up the corners at the foot of the bed the way he remembered his grandmother doing. “I put an extra pillow and blanket in the closet.” She moved from one side of the bed to the other in a way that had him watching her with simple male appreciation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone make a bed. It stirred thoughts in him that he couldn’t afford. Thoughts of what it might be like to mess it up again—with her.
“Do you ever stop?”
“I’ve been known to.” She spread a white wedding-ring quilt on the bed. “We’re expecting a tour tomorrow, so everyone’s a bit busy.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Mmm. On the first ferry from Sidney.” She fluffed his pillows, satisfied. “Did you—”
She broke off when she turned and all but fell against him. His hands went to her hips instinctively as hers braced against his shoulders. An embrace—unplanned, unwanted and shockingly intimate.
She was slender beneath the long, chunky sweater, he realized, even more slender than a man might expect. And her eyes were bluer than they had any right to be, bigger, softer. She smelled like the inn, smelled of that welcoming combination of lavender and woodsmoke. Drawn to it, he continued to hold her, though he knew he shouldn’t.
“Did I what?” His fingers spread over her hips, drawing her just a fraction closer. He saw the dazed confusion in her eyes; her reaction tugged at him.
She’d forgotten everything. She could only stare, almost stupefied by the sensations that spiked through her. Involuntarily her fingers curled into his shirt. She got an impression of strength, a ruthless strength with the potential for violence. The fact that it excited her left her speechless.
“Do you want something?” he murmured.
“What?”
He thought about kissing her, about pressing his mouth hard on hers and plunging into her. He would enjoy the taste, the momentary passion. “I asked if you wanted something.” Slowly he ran his hands up under her sweater to her waist.
The shock of heat, the press of fingers, brought her back. “No.” She started to back away, found herself held still, and fought her rising panic. Before she could speak again, he had released her. Disappointment. That was an odd reaction, she thought, when you’d just missed getting burned.
“I was—” She took a deep breath and waited for her scattered nerves to settle. “I was going to ask if you’d found everything you needed.”
His eyes never left hers. “It looks like it.”
She pressed her lips together to moisten them. “Good. I’ve got a lot to do, so I’ll let you get back.”
He took her arm before she could step away. Maybe it wasn’t smart, but he wanted to touch her again. “Thanks for the towels.”
“Sure.”
He watched her hurry out, knowing her nerves were as jangled as his own. Thoughtfully he pulled out a cigarette. He couldn’t remember ever having been thrown off balance so easily. Certainly not by a woman who’d done nothing more than look at him. Still, he made a habit of landing on his feet.
It might be to his advantage to get close to her, to play on the response he’d felt from her. Ignoring a wave of self-disgust, he struck a match.
He had a job to do. He couldn’t afford to think about Charity Ford as anything more than a means to an end.
He drew smoke in, cursing the dull ache in his belly.
Chapter 2
It was barely dawn, and the sky to the east was fantastic. Roman stood near the edge of the narrow road, his hands tucked in his back pockets. Though he rarely had time for them, he enjoyed mornings such as this, when the air was cool and sparkling clear. A man could breathe here, and if he could afford the luxury he could empty his mind and simply experience.
He’d promised himself thirty minutes, thirty solitary, soothing minutes. The blooming sunlight pushed through the cloud formations, turning them into wild, vivid colors and shapes. Dream shapes. He considered lighting a cigarette, then rejected it. For the moment he wanted only the taste of morning air flavored by the sea.
There was a dog bar
king in the distance, a faint yap, yap, yap that only added to the ambience. Gulls, out for an early feeding, swooped low over the water, slicing the silence with their lonely