Protecting Peggy (15 page)

Together, they slid into hot, sweet oblivion.

 

They made love twice more on the floor. Later Rory found the strength to carry her to his bed. Now, with moonlight slanting through the curtains, he leaned back against the headboard, watching Peggy sleep. She lay on her stomach, her head turned toward him, one arm thrown across his stomach, her hair spreading like a pool of ink against the white pillowcase. The dark fan of her lashes against her cheeks made her skin look almost translucent.

The scent of their passion hung in the cool, still air.

To please himself, he stroked a hand down her back, over the swell of her hip. She didn't stir.

He had been drawn to other women, but never for the long haul. Certainly he had never felt such warmth and need as he did at this moment. Just for a heartbeat, he wondered what it would be like to spend the rest of his life with this one soft, sexy, beautiful woman.

His brow knit. He cared for her more than he had cared for anyone before, he accepted that. But how he felt about her didn't change who he was, what he was. He had spent years on his own, needing no one. What had happened between them didn't change who he was.

Who he was.
He skimmed a hand over the dark pool of her hair. He felt no guilt, not with her lying beside him, not while the memory of what they had shared was so new, so potent. Somehow tonight—this one night—a cloak of sensation had settled around them, allowing him to do as he wanted without hesitation or regret.

That would all change in the morning.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, then eased out of bed. Silently, he moved to the window, used the edge of his hand to slice back one side of the curtain, and looked out toward the sea. The moon was still high, cutting a distant swath of light across the black water.

His mind spun back to the night Peggy told him about Jay Honeywell's line-of-duty death. The determination that had settled in her eyes, her voice when she vowed to never involve herself with another cop would live forever in Rory's memory.

And his conscience.

His fingers clenched on the curtain. Knowing how
she felt, he had made an effort to stay away, to avoid what had happened between them tonight. That wasn't an excuse—there wasn't one. In the end, he hadn't been strong enough to be noble, hadn't been good enough to do the right thing. He'd been a man caught in a web of desire and, for the first time in his life, he hadn't walked away. He had stayed, and taken what he wanted.

He would have to deal with the consequences of his actions if Peggy found out he carried a badge.

He closed his eyes. There was no
if.
When. Limits existed to what he could and would give to her. To anyone. But he owed her the truth about himself. She deserved that. Just as he deserved to answer for what he'd done.

In the morning, he decided. He crossed back to the bed, slid in beside her, drew the covers over their naked bodies and took her in his arms. He would tell her the truth first thing in the morning.

W
ith a slow stretch, Peggy woke to the soft thrum of rain against the windows. It wasn't the panes in her own bedroom that the first watery rays of dawn crept through. Her mouth curved in sleepy contentment at the realization. The windows were on the inn's third floor. Rory's bedroom.

Turning her head, she gazed at the man who immediately consumed her thoughts. He lay sprawled facedown beside her, one arm draped across her waist. His head was angled toward the windows so that in the dim light she could make out the slash of one cheekbone. Against the white sheet, his face was tanned, his jaw shadowed by dark stubble.

Twin surges of contentment and desire swam through her. With a fingertip, she nudged the raven hair off his forehead. The small movement brought the
awareness of an ache, dull and sweet, through her entire body, a reminder of their long night of lovemaking. Lying beside him, with the sound of his steady breathing mixed with the patter of rain, she was filled with a swirling mix of emotion.

If he was so wrong for her as he claimed, how come he felt so right? Why had her heart reached out to this man, this one man, when it had lain dormant for so long?

He was so alone, she thought. Rory had no family to speak of, no real place that he belonged. He didn't even know the simple pleasure of coming home to his own house, his own bed and the familiar view out his own window.

He didn't want to know.

She closed her eyes on a soft sigh. That they had such differences in their basic needs didn't matter. Nor did the sobering knowledge that he would soon walk away. What mattered was that they enjoy the remaining time they had together.

It was then, in the quiet, still light of dawn, that she realized what she had not known until that moment. She didn't simply want him, need him. She loved him. Not just for the searing-hot kisses that had made her half-crazed, or the electric feel of his hands on her flesh. She had fallen in love with the man beneath. With his heart, the innate kindness, the nurturing side he refused to acknowledge. The man who went out of his way to bring a child a fuzzy, pink rabbit. The man who had swept her to safety and cared for her after she'd been attacked, then served her guests a cheese plate. The man concerned enough to offer his car so
her daughter's treasured belongings would arrive at a slumber party.

Rising on one elbow, Peggy shoved her tumbled hair out of her eyes. Her feelings were so new, so sudden, so jumbled. She needed time to think. To adjust. Accept that she was in love with a man who would soon leave and might never come back.

Rory had to go, she knew. Just as she had to stay.

She had no choice but to deal with his absence, she resolved. Live with it. He had told her up-front that was the way things would be. Yet, she'd willingly stepped into the fire. She had lost one man she loved, and she had survived. She would do so again.

She had Samantha and she had the inn. Raising her daughter and operating a business kept her steady, maintained her balance. Last night had changed nothing about those aspects of her life.

Slowly, Peggy slipped from beneath Rory's arm. He muttered a few unintelligible words, then turned his head and buried his face in the pillow.

The rain had put a chill in the air, sending goose bumps prickling over her skin. A hard, quick throbbing of her pulse accompanied the goose bumps when she spied the pile of pale ivory silk in the center of the braided rug. She could still feel Rory's hands stripping her of the cool fabric.

Blowing out a breath, Peggy gathered up the chemise, then walked soundlessly toward the door. There, she plucked her coat off the floor and slid it on. Closing the bedroom door behind her, she padded along the dim hallway, down the three flights of stairs, then into the foyer. She paused to turn off the light she left
glowing each night. That done, she headed toward the kitchen.

While she readied the coffeemaker, she glanced out the window. Any hopes she had that Charlie O'Connell might have returned overnight with her station wagon faded when she saw through the drizzling rain that Rory's car was the only one in the lot.

She opened the refrigerator, her mind formulating a breakfast menu of ham and egg blossoms with hollandaise, accented with fresh dill. The dill she would have to gather from her greenhouse. Fine, she told herself as she closed the refrigerator door with a snap. Since the attack she had avoided the greenhouse, had halted her daily routine of checking on her plants. The delicate buds she had planted in peat pots the previous week needed water and care, or she would lose them. Kade had put extra police patrols on the inn. The drifter who had probably attacked her was no longer in the area. She had to start back working in the greenhouse and today was as good a time as any.

With her emotions in such upheaval, she needed the comfort of her routine.

She turned the oven to preheat, made sure the coffeemaker had begun spewing out its heady brew, then moved down the hallway to her living quarters. She wasn't sure what time Rory would leave for the lab in San Francisco, but she wanted to make sure he had a good breakfast before he went. Since he'd been asleep when she left his room only moments ago, she estimated she had just enough time to take a quick shower, dress and collect the dill before she started cooking.

 

Rory felt an instant flare of disappointment when he strode into the empty kitchen where the rich scent of coffee filled the air. Dammit, he had wanted Peggy to be there, wanted her to gaze across the center island at him with those beautiful green eyes. Eyes that had gone dark and smoky throughout the long night when he had made her his.

On his way to the coffeemaker, he nudged up the sleeve of his sweater, checked his watch and winced. He should be airborne by now, halfway to the lab in San Francisco. He hadn't planned on oversleeping, hadn't planned on having a reason to have overslept.

Hadn't known he would need time to tell Peggy that she had spent the night making love with a man who carried a badge.

He shoved a hand through his hair, still damp from his hurried shower. Pouring coffee into a mug, he tried to ignore the sweaty fist of dread that lodged in his stomach. He'd had several casual affairs that had lasted over weeks, months sometimes. Never had he given thought to what he would do, how he would feel if any of the women he'd been involved with had ended the relationship before he was ready to move on. Now that prospect had panic sneaking up to scrape at the back of his throat.

He didn't want to leave the woman, the child, the inn. Not now. Not yet.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the back porch had him swinging around. Kade Lummus pushed open the door and stepped in, his uniform neat and trim, his dark hair damp, his expression grim.

Rory set his coffee aside. He had checked the park
ing lot from a window before coming downstairs, so he knew O'Connell hadn't returned during the night with Peggy's station wagon. “Do you have some word on O'Connell?”

“More than just some word. We found him.”

“Where is he?”

Lummus stepped to the coffeemaker, filled a mug. His gaze swept the kitchen. “Where's Peggy?”

“I just came downstairs, so I'm not sure.” Rory glanced across his shoulder toward the dim hallway that led off the rear of the kitchen. “Back in her room, maybe.”

Lummus leaned against the counter, sipped his coffee. “O'Connell's dead. He went over a cliff in Peggy's station wagon.”

“Christ.” Rory had not liked the man, but he hadn't wished him dead, either. “Where?”

“North, about twenty miles from here. The road runs along the top of a cliff and is a nightmare of twists and turns. No guardrails. A county survey crew went out there this morning and saw the station wagon. Good thing, because it's hidden from the road. If it weren't for that crew, there's no telling how long it would have been until someone stumbled across the wreck.”

“Any idea what happened?”

“The only thing we have right now are skid marks from two vehicles on the road at the same point the wagon went over the cliff. There's no way to tell how long those skid marks have been there, or if they were made at the same time.”

“What about point of impact?”

Lummus narrowed his eyes. “There isn't one on any of the rocks or trees, so it's not like O'Connell hit a wet spot, then skidded into something and bounced over the cliff. It looks like he just headed toward the edge and went straight over.”

“That could mean a car came from behind and pushed the station wagon off the road. A heavier car or truck with more power.”

“Could.” Rory felt Lummus's assessing scrutiny as the cop sipped his coffee. “No way to prove that.”

“What about damage to the station wagon, other than what was caused by the plunge off the cliff? Any paint on it that doesn't belong?”

“There's some white paint on the right rear bumper. That's one of the reasons I'm here. I need to find out from Peggy if the paint was there before.”

Rory set his jaw. “She gets attacked in her greenhouse, then it's possible someone purposely runs her station wagon off the road. All that within a few days. Do you think that's a coincidence?”

“I'm a cop, Sinclair. I don't believe in coincidence.”

“Neither do I. That means someone could have thought it was Peggy behind the wheel instead of O'Connell.”

“I agree.”

Rory paced toward the back door, turned and stalked back to the center island. That so many questions remained unanswered in his mind had his hands balling into fists of frustration. “Is there anyone in town with a reason to hurt her? Anyone who might even try to kill her?”

“Not that I know of. You can be sure I'm keeping my eyes open.” Lummus raised a dark brow. “What about O'Connell?”

“What about him?”

“Do you know of a reason someone might want to force him off that cliff?”

“Nothing solid. Did you find any of his work papers in the car with him?”

“No.”

Rory muttered an oath. “The more time that's passed without his coming up with what contaminated the water at Hopechest, the more I suspect him of holding back. And for reasons other than his being a disgruntled government worker.” Rory thought about the gas-station charge slips and cash-register receipts he had photographed in O'Connell's room. Yesterday he'd checked all the locations on the receipts, asking questions about the EPA inspector, trying to dig up something—anything. He'd hit a dead end.

“Problem is,” Rory added, “I have no proof that O'Connell was up to anything. I haven't exactly come up with answers about the water, either.”

Lummus sat his mug on the counter, then crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm not a scientist, so I'll leave the water issue up to you.”

“Fine.” Rory paused. “Any idea how long O'Connell's been dead?”

“The M.E.'s aide estimated at least a day. The body's on the way to the morgue. The M.E. says he'll finish the autopsy by late afternoon, so we'll know more then.”

“Has the station wagon been moved?”

“Not yet. The only way to get to the base of the cliff is by a narrow footpath. A wrecker alone can't handle the job of getting the wagon out. We're bringing in a crane to lift it up onto the road. It'll be a couple of hours at least before the crane gets there.”

“I want to take a look at the scene.”

“Sorry, it's a possible crime scene. No civilians allowed.”

“Dammit, Lummus, I'm not a civilian. I think you've pretty well figured that out by the questions I'm asking.”

“Maybe.” Lummus angled his chin. “Got some ID?”

As he walked across the kitchen, Rory glanced down the dim hallway that led to Peggy's room. It was empty. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his badge case, flipped it open. “FBI special agent. I work out of the lab in D.C. That good enough to get me onto the scene?”

“I'd say so.”

“FBI?”

Rory's heart stopped at the sound of Peggy's voice coming from behind him. With the air clogging in his lungs, he slowly turned.

She stood in the open doorway between the wind and the warmth, dressed in an emerald sweater and slacks. Her dark hair was pulled back from her deathly pale face, her eyes wide and dark with hurt. In the crook of one arm, she cradled a cardboard box. On top of the box lay a cutting from a plant Rory couldn't identify. She had been outside, he realized, had opened
the back door and stepped into the kitchen without his hearing.

“Ireland—”

“You're an FBI agent? A cop?”

He drew a careful breath at her cool tone. “Yes.”

“In that case, Agent Sinclair, I suppose this box should go to you.”

Rory's gut knotted at her use of his rank. “Peggy—”

“I found it in the greenhouse, hidden behind a bag of peat moss.” She rapped a finger on the shoe box. “It has Mr. O'Connell's name on it and glass vials inside. I can't imagine why he hid this in my greenhouse.”

Walking stiffly to the nearest counter, she sat the box on top, then turned, the plant's cutting clenched in one fist. “Hello, Kade. Are you here about Mr. O'Connell?”

“Yes.” Lummus's gaze darted between her and Rory. “Peggy, you're as pale as ice. I think you should sit—”

“I'm fine. What about Mr. O'Connell?”

“He went off a cliff in your station wagon, about twenty miles north of here. He's dead. I'm sorry.”

“Oh, God.” Her hand went to her throat. “I'm sorry, too.”

“There's some white paint on the wagon's right rear bumper,” Kade continued. “Do you know if it was there when O'Connell borrowed it?”

“I don't know.” A crease formed between her dark brows. “I didn't notice the paint, but that doesn't mean it wasn't there.”

Her eyes were cool, very cool when they flicked back to Rory. “So, that's the scene you were insisting on going to when I walked in. Don't let me keep you.”