She had even had an occasional meal with him, when he was the only guest and invited her to join him; the conversation had been light, interesting, amusing … and generally impersonal, without much effort on her part to keep it that way. Yet another reason why she had been so stunned to find out he was a cop. She'd imagined them as always asking questions, always skeptical, always suspecting.
She'd imagined them to be the way Cruz had been on the phone tonight.
"Thanks to you," she chastised herself aloud. She could probably have counted on his usual demeanor to keep him from finding out, she thought. He probably never would have even noticed anything. But now she'd gone and roused his suspicions. Cop suspicions.
She sighed. Oak Tree was the culmination of a lifelong dream, and now she'd endangered it with her own silly panic. Chances were Cruz's visit would have gone as all the rest had, quietly, uneventfully. Of course, during all his other visits, she'd had nothing to hide from him. But he probably never would have noticed anything different this time. She could have told him any number of things about Melissa. He would have had no reason to question them.
Except that he was a cop, and they had a tendency to question everything.
Without realizing it, she found herself back on her feet, pacing yet again.
"All right," she said to the empty room, "now what? You can't change what just happened, so deal with it. Just deal with it."
It always seemed to help, hearing it spoken aloud, even if it was in her own voice, instead of Cecelia's. It was from her that Kelsey had picked up the habit of bucking herself up aloud; it not only helped, but seemed to bring Cecelia closer. God, sometimes she missed her so much…
"You can't change that, either," she snapped, then shook her head wryly. Cecelia's soothing, logical advice had never been meant as self-castigation, only as a way of keeping going when it seemed things were impossible.
She couldn't change what she'd just done. She couldn't call back the panic that had made her do it, couldn't undo the call, couldn't undo the fact that Cruz was a cop and she'd roused his suspicions. So she had to decide what she could do.
And all that deciding would have to be based on the one thing she was reasonably certain of. It gave her a sinking feeling in her stomach, but she couldn't shake the feeling that it was true.
Despite her call, Cruz Gregerson would show up as planned.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
"It … turned out it wasn't as bad as I thought," Kelsey said.
Cruz simply looked at her, wondering if she knew how lame the excuse sounded; judging by her expression, she did. He'd seen too many people trying to hide things to mistake the signs, and even though her flustered air could have been put down to simple distraction, he knew it was more than that.
"You got it cleaned up in a hurry," he observed, glancing around.
"I did… It was in the kitchen, mostly. The tile floor helped."
It was good. It was logical. It was also a lie. He could have told by her tone, even if she wasn't avoiding meeting his eyes.
He wanted to say something, to ask her what was wrong, to try to help, but he couldn't seem to find the words. Perhaps because he'd worked so hard at keeping a safe distance from her. He'd been beyond wary of the first woman in a very long time who powerfully and irrevocably reminded him that he wasn't just a cop, that he wasn't just a father, the two roles he allowed himself, that he was a man. Red blood and all.
And Kelsey Hall set that blood pulsing as no woman had since his life began to fall apart six years ago. And made him start trying to remember just how long it had been since he held anyone in a real male-female way, how long it had been since he responded to the invitation in a woman's eyes.
And when he couldn't remember, when he realized he had no idea when the last time had been, he'd known he was in trouble.
But he kept coming back. He could resist the urge for a week, he told himself. He could resist anything for just a week. And Kelsey's own private nature helped; she never intruded on him, always left him to his own devices unless he made a point of seeking her out. He'd convinced himself she wanted it that way. He was hardly the type women fell for at first sight, anyway. That was reserved for smooth charmers like Quisto Romero, or dramatic, exotic guys like Ryan. Women tripped over themselves gaping at Ryan, who had eyes only for his wife. Even more now that they were remarried than before, although he'd been completely crazy about Lacey then.
There had been a happy ending for their tale, Cruz thought, although it had nearly killed them both to get there. There would be no such happy ending for him. Ellie was dead and buried now, and he'd lost her long before that.
And he didn't want to dwell on what it was about Kelsey that had him thinking about things like this at all.
"It looks … the same," he said, dragging his wandering mind back to the present.
He meant it; the main room looked as it always had, a charming haven of soft tans spiked by an occasional touch of rich, deep green or jewel red. Two comfortable sofas and a couple of temptingly cushioned chairs were arranged invitingly before a stone fireplace, and on the other side of the large main room sat an oak table and chairs, where breakfast was served. She always seemed to come up with unique dishes to add variety to the standard but tasty selection, unusual fruits, rich coffees, and the banana pancakes he found himself thinking about like a kid thinking about his favorite candy bar. She'd once laughingly told him breakfast was the only meal she was capable of cooking, so she tried to make it something special. He'd told her she more than succeeded, then taken a quiet pleasure in her pleased smile.
"I'm happy with the look, so I don't tinker much," she said now. "Besides, I think people like to have a permanent feel to things when they're in a transient situation. It's like coming to a home away from home."
Cruz blinked; he'd never thought of it that way, but she had a point. He knew it worked for him, even though he'd never been consciously aware of it; the sameness of the surroundings did make it easier for him to relax. And made the process of unwinding quicker, so that he was at ease much faster than he had been the first time.
Clever of her, he thought. But then, he'd always known she was smart. And good at what she did. He wondered for the first time if she'd gone to school for this. He'd never asked, but he'd somehow gotten the idea that this was more a calling than just a job for her. There had always seemed a heart in what she did, despite the smoothness of her approach to her guests.
But now, even her practiced innkeeper's smile was absent as she led him upstairs to his usual room in the front corner of the large remodeled old house. Not only was the smile missing, but she'd taken on another habit, that of looking around as if she expected something—or someone—to leap out at her at any moment. But as they reached the top of the stairs, she seemed to shake the mood off, and the smile was there as she opened the door for him.
It was a comfortable, welcoming room, the warmth of oak furniture and rich colors giving it a simplicity he felt instantly at ease with. The windows gave an expansive view of the rolling hills that spilled down to the Pacific, and if you looked from just the right angle, the spreading branches of the oak masked the sprawl of civilization and you could pretend it wasn't there, that there was nothing but open land reaching down to the sparkling water. It was hard to believe he was barely an hour from the city of Marina Heights, from the bustle and commotion of Trinity West.
She hadn't commented at all on the fact that he'd shown up even after her phone call; in fact, she hadn't even seemed surprised when he arrived despite her attempt to cancel. It was as if she'd expected him to come anyway, which made him wonder just what he had sounded like last night.
Nor had she told him again that the inn was closed; she'd simply said she was sorry for the confusion and welcomed him with her usual warmth.
But it was a warmth undeniably tinged with a wariness he hadn't seen in her before, and that alone kept Cruz's instincts at
a high hum as he set his bag down on the padded bench at the foot of the four-poster bed.
"I'll let you get settled," Kelsey said. "Then come down for lunch if you want."
He gave her a sideways look. She caught it and laughed—a genuine laugh, for the moment free of whatever was bothering her. It lit her green eyes and sent an odd sensation racing down his spine.
"It's okay, Cruz, really. Dolores did the cooking, not me."
He grinned in spite of himself, and everything seemed suddenly as it had always been. Except that he was more aware than ever that this woman was a potent female package, dangerous to a man who'd been without for a very long time. With an effort, he hid his own reaction.
"Her youngest daughter is having a baby soon, so she won't be back until the day you check out, but she made a ton of that spicy chicken salad you like," she said.
"You remembered," Cruz said, his grin widening.
Kelsey nodded, the smooth, sleek fall of hair that reached just below her chin moving in a way that made him want to touch it. He'd always wondered if it felt as silky as it looked, wondered if it was somehow as warm as the fiery highlights that made it shine, but he'd been better at quashing his wayward thoughts before. He wondered if there was a connection somehow, if all the questions that were clamoring for answers had somehow made him unable to dodge the other thoughts as well as he once had, if in rousing the cop instinct she'd managed to rouse some others he'd thought long numbed beyond revival.
"Actually," she corrected, "Dolores did. She was flattered that you liked it so much."
"You mean amazed that I ate about a gallon of it?"
Kelsey grinned back at him, and for an instant he wondered that he had ever suspected this open, warm woman of anything at all. "Something like that," she agreed, with another genuine laugh. "Oh, and there are strawberries. Just picked this morning."
Cruz put a hand over his chest in a dramatic gesture. "Be still my heart. Heaven is truly here on earth."
Kelsey laughed again, and as she walked toward the door, Cruz unabashedly watched, liking the way she moved, liking even better the way she looked in neatly tailored black slacks that subtly cupped her eminently cuppable bottom and a pristine white blouse with long sleeves and French cuffs that made her wrists seem impossibly fragile. It was her uniform of sorts; she always wore it during the day at the inn, although he'd seen her wear faded jeans and an old sweatshirt to work in the garden that produced strawberries the size of eggs. Once he'd even seen her in an elegant green silk dress, when she was on her way to some function she called a political necessity, something to do with schmoozing the zoning commissioner who would decide if she could keep her permit to run the inn permanently without filling out several dozen more forms in triplicate.
As she pulled the door closed behind her now, he remembered how she'd looked that night, emerald-green silk subtly delineating feminine curves without a trace of obviousness, the dress satisfyingly but not blatantly short, just enough to show a pair of legs a man would have to be dead not to appreciate. And he'd thought then that any man, zoning commissioner or otherwise, would have a hard time saying no to her.
Just as he was having a hard time believing what his gut had been telling him since she called last night.
He'd encountered this before, he thought as he began to unpack, putting what clothes he'd brought in the drawers of the solid oak dresser, pausing only to toss his shaving kit into the compact but more than adequate bathroom that had been added when the house on the hill was remodeled.
He'd confronted such situations before, when his instincts were in conflict, when the cop in him warned him of trouble but his gut told him someone wasn't involved. There had been trouble in Kelsey's voice last night, and obvious wariness in her today, but he couldn't believe she was truly involved in anything serious.
Maybe she just didn't like cops, he thought glumly. There were certainly enough people in the world who needed no more reason than a badge to despise you. But he couldn't quite bring himself to believe that Kelsey Hall was the type to turn on him simply for that.
But he couldn't forget the look on her face when she'd found out he was a cop, either. Or her effort last night to keep him from coming at all, despite the relative normalcy of her greeting this morning.
Perhaps there was a simple reason for it, Cruz thought. Maybe she had some kind of personal problem, some family thing—although, he realized now with some surprise, he had no idea if she even had any family—or maybe she had some new fight going with the county zoning people that had her on edge. But that wouldn't explain the subterfuge of the water leak, a leak he'd seen no sign of. Why had she felt the need to lie to him? More importantly, why had she felt the need to keep him away?
"And why," he muttered to himself, "can't you just stop being a cop for a while?"
He meant it; this was the one time of the year when he truly, genuinely tried to put it all behind him for a week. He took a second vacation later in the year, but that was Sam's time, and while he loved it, it was hardly relaxing. It was the time he concentrated on making sure he and his daughter had some time alone, to make sure he still knew who she was; he didn't ever want to be one of those parents he saw too often, parents who had no idea who their children were, what their dreams were, what their problems were. The ones who said in stunned tones, "But I had no idea," when confronted with a child caught stealing, doing drugs, or sometimes even worse.
So he needed this time to recharge, to simply let go of it all, so that he would have the energy to go back and start again to deal with the danger of an often ugly job and the stress of being a single parent.
And he wasn't going to get the time if he didn't turn off his cop mentality. If he didn't quit looking for trouble around every corner, if he didn't quit trying to make something that was probably utterly innocent into something he should stick his nose into.
"You're out of your jurisdiction anyway, Gregerson," he said as he slapped a drawer shut, "so back off."
He only hoped he could follow his own advice.
* * *
It just wasn't fair, Kelsey thought as she set plates on the table and got out the tangy chicken salad Dolores had left in the refrigerator. He was so nice. She liked him. She had liked him ever since she found him sitting under her oak tree, three years ago.
She'd seen his big blue four-wheel-drive truck first; it had been easily visible from the front room where she'd just put the finishing touches of colored pillows. She hadn't put up any signs on the drive denying entrance to anyone—it had seemed contrary to the atmosphere she was trying to create here—but maybe she would have to, she'd thought. She'd been afraid she had some trespassing off-roaders to deal with and wondered if she dared approach them. But there had been no sound of revving engines, and the truck itself had never moved, so eventually she had steeled her nerve and walked toward the big tree.
She'd stopped some yards away, staring at the dark-haired man who sat so utterly still. His back had been propped against the tree's gnarled trunk, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. She'd studied his profile, the regular features, the thick darkness of his hair. Nice, she'd thought, but he'd looked strained, his jaw tight, his strong, muscular body tense and wire-drawn. As she watched, it had been an amazing thing to see the change that gradually crept over him, to see his expression relax, see the tension seep away as the moments passed. She'd wondered if it was a conscious thing, this letting go, wondered if he'd learned some technique somewhere to simply release all the pressure and let it flow out.
And she'd wondered wryly if he could teach it to her.
He'd heard her the minute she started moving again, and when he turned his head to look at her, she'd nearly gasped as warning bells clanged in her head. She hadn't been able to see him face-on before; if she had, she would no doubt have turned back. What had been simply nice, regular features in profile had now been turned into striking good looks by a pair of thick-lashed, vivid blue eyes, unlike any she'd ever se
en before. They had seemed at odds with the slight bronze tint of his skin, a mixed heritage she'd understood as soon as he spoke.
"I'm Cruz Gregerson. I hope you don't mind. I was driving by and saw your tree. It was … irresistible."
"It is to me, too," she'd said impulsively, and been rewarded with a smile that made her breath catch.
They had talked for some time that day, long enough for her to find out that he'd set off simply to get away, looking for a likely place to spend a week's vacation. And she hadn't been able to resist offering him her just-finished main guest room, even though she wasn't due to officially open until the next weekend, when all four rooms would be done.
He'd hesitated—she wasn't sure why—but he had finally agreed. And he'd come back every year since, for a week each time, and each time she'd been glad to see him, even wished he would keep a little less to himself, although she knew it was just as well; she'd given up playing with dynamite long ago. And beneath the quite exterior, she sensed, Cruz Gregerson was just that—explosive.
She wasn't sure why she was so certain. There was no obvious reason. He was relatively quiet, never talking much about himself, unlike most men she knew. He always seemed more than willing to listen to her plans for the inn, and he encouraged her in her dreams for the future in a supportive way that surprised her. But she never quite lost the sense that there were depths to the man that were hidden, that he was walking, breathing proof of the old saying about still waters running deep.
They chatted amiably when they met, usually over breakfast in the main room of the house, sometimes with other guests, sometimes alone. Then he would be off on one of his long walks, or sitting alone under the oak, working in that spiral notebook he carried. She'd wondered if he was a writer, even asked him once, and he'd laughed and said no, he worked in Marina Heights, for the city, mostly pushing papers around on a desk.
Well, he hadn't lied, she thought ruefully.
But why did he have to be a cop? Why couldn't he have been a nice, boring accountant or something?
A MAN TO TRUST Page 2