by Nora Roberts
“You know I’d never leave the inn, Roger.” Her smile faded a bit. That was something she and Roman had never spoken of. “In any case, I promise to keep my mind on my work. You’ve got six people who want to rent boats.” She took a quick look at her watch. “I can have them taken to the marina by noon.”
“I’ll round them up.”
The door to the inn opened, and Charity glanced over. She saw a small, spare man with well-cut auburn hair, wearing a crisp sport shirt. He carried one small leather bag.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.” He took a brief study of the lobby as he crossed to the desk. “Conby, Richard Conby. I believe I have a reservation.”
“Yes, Mr. Conby. We’re expecting you.” Charity shuffled through the papers on the desk and sent up a quick prayer that Bob would have the computer humming along by the end of the day. “How was your trip?”
“Uneventful.” He signed the register, listing his address as Seattle. Charity found herself both amused and impressed by his careful manicure. “I was told your inn is quiet, restful. I’m looking forward to relaxing for a day or two.”
“I’m sure you’ll find the inn very relaxing.” She opened a drawer to choose a key. “Either Roman or I will drive your group to the marina, Roger. Have them in the parking lot at noon.”
“Will do.” With a cheerful wave, he sauntered off.
“I’ll be happy to show you to your room, Mr. Conby. If you have any questions about the inn, or the island, feel free to ask me or any of the staff.” She came around the desk and led the way to the stairs.
“Oh, I will,” Conby said, following her. “I certainly will.”
***
At precisely 12:05, Conby heard a knock and opened his door. “Prompt as always, DeWinter.” He scanned down to Roman’s tool belt. “Keeping busy, I see.”
“Dupont’s in cabin 3.”
Conby decided to drop the sarcasm. This was a big one, much too big for him to let his personal feelings interfere. “You made a positive ID?”
“I helped him carry his bags.”
“Very good.” Satisfied, Conby finished arranging his ebony-handled clothes brush and shoe horn on the oak dresser. “We’ll move in as planned on Thursday morning and take him before we close in on Block.”
“What about the driver of the car who tried to kill Charity?”
Always fastidious, Conby walked into the adjoining bath to wash his hands. “You’re inordinately interested in a small-time hood.”
“Did you get a confession?”
“Yes.” Conby unfolded a white hand towel bordered with flowers. “He admitted to meeting with Block last week and taking five thousand to—to put Miss Ford out of the picture. A very minor sum for a hit.” His hands dry, Conby tossed the towel over the lip of the sink before walking back into the bedroom. “If Block had been more discerning, he might have had more success.”
Taking him by the collar, Roman lifted Conby to his toes. “Watch your step,” he said softly.
“It’s more to the point for me to tell you to watch yours.” Conby pulled himself free and straightened his shirt. In the five years since he had taken over as Roman’s superior he had found Roman’s methods crude and his attitude arrogant. The pity was, his results were invariably excellent. “You’re losing your focus on this one, Agent DeWinter.”
“No. It’s taken me a while—maybe too long—but I’m focused just fine. You’ve got enough on Block to pin him with conspiracy to murder. Dupont’s practically tied up with a bow. Why wait?”
“I won’t bother to remind you who’s in charge of this case.”
“We both know who’s in charge, Conby, but there’s a difference between sitting behind a desk and calling the shots in the field. If we take them now, quietly, there’s less risk of endangering innocent people.”
“I have no intention of endangering any of the guests. Or the staff,” he added, thinking he knew where Roman’s mind was centered. “I have my orders on this, just as you do.” He took a fresh handkerchief out of his drawer. “Since it’s apparently so important to you, I’ll tell you that we want to nail Block when he passes the money. We’re working with the Canadian authorities on this, and that’s the way we’ll proceed. As for the conspiracy charges, we have the word of a bargain-basement hit man. It may take a bit more to make it stick.”
“You’ll make it stick. How many have we got?”
“We have two agents checking in tomorrow, and two more as backup. We’ll take Dupont in his cabin, and Block in the lobby. Moving on Dupont any earlier would undoubtedly tip off Block. Agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Since you’ve filled me in on the checkout procedures, it should go very smoothly.”
“It better. If anything happens to her—anything—I’m holding you responsible.”
***
Charity dashed into the kitchen with a loaded tray. “I don’t know how things can get out of hand so fast. When have you ever known us to have a full house on a Wednesday night?” she asked the room at large, whipping out her pad. “Two specials with wild rice, one with baked potato, hold the sour cream, and one child’s portion of ribs with fries.” She rushed over to get the drinks herself.
“Take it easy, girl,” Mae advised her. “They ain’t going anywhere till they eat.”
“That’s the problem.” She loaded up the tray. “What a time for Lori to get sick. The way this virus is bouncing around, we’re lucky to have a waitress still standing. Whoops!” She backed up to keep from running into Roman. “Sorry.”
“Need a hand?”
“I need two.” She smiled and took the time to lean over the tray and kiss him. “You seem to have them. Those salads Dolores is fixing go to table 5.”
“Girl makes me tired just looking at her,” Mae commented as she filleted a trout. She lifted her head just long enough for her eyes to meet Roman’s. “Seems to me she rushes into everything.”
“Four house salads.” Dolores was humming the “Wedding March” as she passed him a tray. “Looks like you didn’t need that dynamite after all.” Cackling, she went back to fill the next order.
Five minutes later he passed Charity in the doorway again. “Strange bunch tonight,” she murmured.
“How so?”
“There’s a man at table 2. He’s so jumpy you’d think he’d robbed a bank or something. Then there’s a couple at table 8, supposed to be on a second honeymoon. They’re spending more time looking at everyone else than each other.”
Roman said nothing. She’d made both Dupont and two of Conby’s agents in less than thirty minutes.
“And then there’s this little man in a three-piece suit sitting at 4. Suit and tie,” she added with a glance over her shoulder. “Came here to relax, he says. Who can relax in a three-piece suit?” Shifting, she balanced the tray on her hip. “Claims to be from Seattle and has an Eastern accent that could cut Mae’s apple pie. Looks like a weasel.”
“You think so?” Roman allowed himself a small smile at her description of Conby.
“A very well-groomed weasel,” she added. “Check it out for yourself.” With a small shudder, she headed toward the dining room again. “Anyone that smooth gives me the creeps.”
Duty was duty though, and the weasel was sitting at her station. “Are you ready to order?” she asked Conby with a bright smile.
He took a last sip of his vodka martini. It was passable, he supposed. “The menu claims the trout is fresh.”
“Yes, sir.” She was particularly proud of that. The stocked pond had been her idea. “It certainly is.”
“Fresh when it was shipped in this morning, no doubt.”
“No.” Charity lowered her pad but kept her smile in place. “We stock our own right here at the inn.”
Lifting a brow, he tapped a finger against his empty glass. “Your fish may be superior to your vodka, but I have my doubts as to whether it is indeed fresh. Nonetheless, it appears to be the most interes
ting item on your menu, so I shall have to make do.”
“The fish,” Charity repeated, with what she considered admirable calm, “is fresh.”
“I’m sure you consider it so. However, your conception of fresh and mine may differ.”
“Yes, sir.” She shoved the pad into her pocket. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”
She might be innocent, Conby thought, frowning at his empty glass, but she was hardly efficient.
“Where’s the fire?” Mae wanted to know when Charity burst into the kitchen.
“In my brain.” She stopped a moment, hands on hips. “That—that insulting pipsqueak out there tells me our vodka’s below standard, our menu’s dull and our fish isn’t fresh.”
“A dull menu.” Mae bristled down to her crepe-soled shoes. “What did he eat?”
“He hasn’t eaten anything yet. One drink and a couple of crackers with salmon dip and he’s a restaurant critic.”
Charity took a turn around the kitchen, struggling with her temper. No urban wonder was going to stroll into her inn and pick it apart. Her bar was as good as any on the island, her restaurant had a triple-A rating, and her fish—
“Guy at table 4 wants another vodka martini,” Roman announced as he carried in a loaded tray.
“Does he?” Charity whirled around. “Does he really?”
He couldn’t recall ever seeing quite that glint in her eye. “That’s right,” he said cautiously.
“Well, I have something else to get him first.” So saying, she strode into the utility room and then out again.
“Uh-oh,” Dolores mumbled.
“Did I miss something?” Roman asked.
“Man’s got a nerve saying the food’s dull before he’s even had a taste of it.” Scowling, Mae scooped a helping of wild asparagus onto a plate. “I’ve a mind to add some curry to his entrée. A nice fat handful of it. We’ll see about dull.”
They all turned around when Charity strolled back in. She was still carrying the platter. On it flopped a very confused trout.
“My.” Dolores covered her mouth with both hands, giggling. “Oh, my.”
Grinning, Mae went back to her stove.
“Charity.” Roman made a grab for her arm, but she evaded him and glided through the doorway. Shaking his head, he followed her.
A few of the diners looked up and stared as she carried the thrashing fish across the room. Weaving through the tables, she crossed to table 4 and held the tray under Conby’s nose.
“Your trout, sir.” She dropped the platter unceremoniously in front of him. “Fresh enough?” she asked with a small, polite smile.
In the archway Roman tucked his hands into his pockets and roared. He would have traded a year’s salary for a photo of the expression on Conby’s face as he and the fish gaped at each other.
When Charity glided back into the kitchen, she handed the tray and its passenger to Dolores. “You can put this back,” she said. “Table 4 decided on the stuffed pork chops. I wish I had a pig handy.” She let out a laughing squeal as Roman scooped her off the floor.
“You’re the best.” He pressed his lips to hers and held them there long after he’d set her down again. “The absolute best.” He was still laughing as he gathered her close for a hug. “Isn’t she, Mae?”
“She has her moments.” She wasn’t about to let them know how much good it did her to see them smiling at each other. “Now the two of you stop pawing each other in my kitchen and get back to work.”
Charity lifted her face for one last kiss. “I guess I’d better fix that martini now. He looked like he could use one.”
Because she wasn’t one to hold a grudge, Charity treated Conby to attentive and cheerful service throughout the meal. Noting that he hadn’t unbent by dessert, she brought him a serving of Mae’s Black Forest cake on the house.
“I hope you enjoyed your meal, Mr. Conby.”
It was impossible for him to admit that he’d never had better, not even in Washington’s toniest restaurants. “It was quite good, thank you.”
She offered an easy smile as she poured his coffee. “Perhaps you’ll come back another time and try the trout.”
Even for Conby, her smile was hard to resist. “Perhaps. You run an interesting establishment, Miss Ford.”
“We try. Have you lived in Seattle long, Mr. Conby?”
He continued to add cream to his coffee, but he was very much on guard. “Why do you ask?”
“Your accent. It’s very Eastern.”
Conby deliberated only seconds. He knew that Dupont had already left the dining room, but Block was at a nearby table, entertaining part of his tour group with what Conby considered rather boring stories. “You have a good ear. I was transferred to Seattle eighteen months ago. From Maryland. I’m in marketing.”
“Maryland.” Deciding to forgive and forget, she topped off his coffee. “You’re supposed to have the best crabs in the country.”
“I assure you, we do.” The rich cake and the smooth coffee had mellowed him. He actually smiled at her. “It’s a pity I didn’t bring one along with me.”
Laughing, Charity laid a friendly hand on his arm. “You’re a good sport, Mr. Conby. Enjoy your evening.”
Lips pursed, Conby watched her go. He couldn’t recall anyone having accused him of being a good sport before. He rather liked it.
“We’re down to three tables of diehards,” Charity announced as she entered the kitchen again. “And I’m starving.” She opened the refrigerator and rooted around for something to eat, but Mae snapped it closed again.
“You haven’t got time.”
“Haven’t got time?” Charity pressed a hand to her stomach. “Mae, the way tonight went, I wasn’t able to grab more than a stray French fry.”
“I’ll fix you a sandwich, but you had a call. Something about tomorrow’s delivery.”
“The salmon. Damn.” She tilted her watch forward. “They’re closed by now.”
“Left an emergency number, I think. Message is upstairs.”
“All right, all right. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” She cast a last longing glance at the refrigerator. “Make that two sandwiches.”
To save time, she raced out through the utility room, rounded the side of the building and climbed the outside steps. When she opened the door, she could only stop and stare.
The music was pitched low. There was candlelight, and there were flowers and a white cloth on a table at the foot of the bed. It was set for two. As she watched, Roman took a bottle of wine from a glass bucket and drew the cork.
“I thought you’d never get here.”
She leaned back on the closed door. “If I’d known this was waiting, I’d have been here a lot sooner.”
“You said you liked surprises.”
“Yes.” There was both surprise and delight in her eyes as she brushed her tumbled hair back from her forehead. “I like them a lot.” Untying her apron, she walked to the table while he poured the wine. It glinted warm and gold in the candlelight. “Thanks,” she murmured when he offered her a glass.
“I wanted to give you something.” He gripped her hand, holding tight and trying not to remember that this was their last night together before all the questions had to be answered. “I’m not very good with romantic gestures.”
“Oh, no, you’re very good at them. Champagne picnics, late-night suppers.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Mozart.”
“Picked at random,” he admitted, feeling foolishly nervous. “I have something for you.”
She looked at the table. “Something else?”
“Yes.” He reached down to the seat of his chair and picked up a square box. “It just came today.” It was the best he could do. He pushed the box into her hand.
“A present?” She’d always liked the anticipation as much as the gift itself, so she took a moment to study and shake the box. But the moment the lid was off she snatched the bracelet out. “Oh, Roman, it’s gorgeous.” Thoroughly stunned, she
turned the etched gold, watching the light glint off the metal and the square-cut amethyst. “It’s absolutely gorgeous,” she said again. “I’d swear I’d seen this before. Last week,” she remembered. “In one of the magazines Lori brought me.”
“You had it on your desk.”
Overwhelmed, she nodded. “Yes, I’d circled this. I do that with beautiful things I know I’ll never buy.” She took a deep breath. “Roman, this is a wonderful, sweet and very romantic thing to do,