The Welcoming (3 page)

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 barking 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 cries. The fragrance of flowers, a celebration of spring, carried delicately on the quiet breeze.

He wondered why he'd been so certain he preferred the rush and noise of cities.

As he stood there he saw a deer come out of the trees and raise her head to scent the air. That was freedom, he thought abruptly. To know your place and to be content with it. The doe cleared the trees, picking her way delicately toward the high grass. Behind her came a gangly fawn. Staying upwind, Roman watched them graze.

He was restless. Even as he tried to absorb and accept the peace around him he felt the impatience struggling through. This wasn't his place. He had no place. That was one of the things that made him so perfect for his job. No roots, no family, no woman waiting for his return. That was the way he wanted it.

But he'd felt enormous satisfaction in doing the carpentry the day before, in leaving his mark on something that would last. All the better for his cover, he told himself. If he showed some skill and some care in the work he would be accepted more easily.

He was already accepted.

She trusted him. She'd given him a roof and a meal and a job, thinking he needed all three. She seemed to have no guile in her. Something had simmered between them the evening before, yet she had done nothing to provoke or prolong it. She hadn't—though he knew all females were capable of it from birth—issued a silent invitation that she might or might not have intended to keep.

She'd simply looked at him, and everything she felt had been almost ridiculously clear in her eyes.

He couldn't think of her as a woman. He couldn't think of her as ever being
his
woman.

He felt the urge for a cigarette again, and this time he deliberately suppressed it. If there was something you wanted that badly, it was best to pass it by. Once you gave in, you surrendered control.

He'd wanted Charity. For one brief, blinding instant the day before, he had craved her. A very serious error. He'd blocked the need, but it had continued to surface—when he'd heard her come into the wing for the night, when he'd listened to the sound of Chopin drifting softly down the stairway from her rooms. And again in the middle of the night, when he'd awakened to the deep country silence, thinking of her, imagining her.

He didn't have time for desires. In another place, at another time, they might have met and enjoyed each other for as long as enjoyments lasted. But now she was part of an assignment—nothing less, nothing more.

He heard the sound of running footsteps and tensed instinctively. The deer, as alert as he, lifted her head, then sprinted back into the trees with her young. His weapon was strapped just above his ankle, more out of habit than necessity, but he didn't reach for it. If he needed it it could be in his hand in under a second. Instead he waited, braced, to see who was running down the deserted road at dawn.

Charity was breathing fast, more from the effort of keeping pace with her dog than from the three-mile run. Ludwig bounded ahead, tugged to the right, jerked to the left, tangled and untangled in the leash. It was a daily routine, one that both of them were accustomed to. She could have controlled the little golden cocker, but she didn't want to spoil his fun. Instead, she swerved with him, adjusting her pace from a flat-out run to an easy jog and back again.

She hesitated briefly when she saw Roman. Then, because Ludwig sprinted ahead, she tightened her grip on the leash and kept pace.

“Good morning,” she called out, then skidded to a halt when Ludwig decided to jump on Roman's shins and bark at him. “He doesn't bite.”

“That's what they all say.” But he grinned and crouched down to scratch between the dog's ears. Ludwig immediately collapsed, rolled over and exposed his belly for rubbing. “Nice dog.”

“A nice spoiled dog,” Charity added. “I have to keep him fenced because of the guests, but he eats like a king. You're up early.”

“So are you.”

“I figure Ludwig deserves a good run every morning, since he's so understanding about being fenced.”

To show his appreciation, Ludwig raced once around Roman, tangling his lead around his legs.

“Now if I could only get him to understand the concept of a leash.” She stooped to untangle Roman and to control the now-prancing dog.

Her light jacket was unzipped, exposing a snug T-shirt darkened with sweat between her breasts. Her hair, pulled straight, almost severely, back from her face, accented her bone structure. Her skin seemed almost translucent as it glowed from her run. He had an urge to touch it, to see how it felt under his fingertips. And to see if that instant reaction would rush out again.

“Ludwig, be still a minute.” She laughed and tugged at his collar.

In response, the dog jumped up and lapped at her face. “He listens well,” Roman commented.

“You can see why I need the fence. He thinks he can play with everyone.” Her hand brushed Roman's leg as she struggled with the leash.

When he took her wrist, both of them froze.

He could feel her pulse skip, then sprint. It was a quick, vulnerable response that was unbearably arousing. Though it cost him, he kept his fingers loose. He had only meant to stop her before she inadvertently found his weapon. Now they crouched, knee to knee, in the center of the deserted road, with the dog trying to nuzzle between them.

“You're trembling.” He said it warily, but he didn't release her. “Do you always react that way when a man touches you?”

“No.” Because it baffled her, she kept still and waited to see what would happen next. “I'm pretty sure this is a first.”

It pleased him to hear it, and it annoyed him, because he wanted to believe it. “Then we'll have to be careful, won't we?” He released her, then stood up.

More slowly, because she wasn't sure of her balance, she rose. He was angry. Though he was holding on to his temper, it was clear enough to see in his eyes. “I'm not very good at being careful.”

His gaze whipped back to hers. There was a fire in it, a fire that raged and then was quickly and completely suppressed. “I am.”

“Yes.” The brief, heated glance had alarmed her, but Charity had always held her own. She tilted her head to study him. “I think you'd have to be, with that streak of violence you have to contend with. Who are you mad at, Roman?”

He didn't like to be read that easily. Watching her, he lowered a hand to pet Ludwig, who was resting his front paws on his knees. “Nobody at the moment,” he told her, but it was a lie. He was furious—with himself.

She only shook her head. “You're entitled to your secrets, but I can't help wondering why you'd be angry with yourself for responding to me.”

He took a lazy scan of the road, up, then down. They might have been alone on the island. “Would you like me to do something about it, here and now?”

He could, she realized. And he would. If he was pushed too far he would do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted. The frisson of excitement that passed through her annoyed her. Macho types were for other women, different women—not Charity Ford. Deliberately she looked at her watch.

“Thanks. I'm sure that's a delightful offer, but I have to get back and set up for breakfast.” Struggling with the dog, she started off at what she hoped was a dignified walk. “I'll let you know if I can squeeze in, say, fifteen minutes later.”

“Charity?”

She turned her head and aimed a cool look. “Yes?”

“Your shoe's untied.”

She just lifted her chin and continued on.

Roman grinned at her back and tucked his thumbs in his pockets. Yes, indeed, the woman had one hell of a walk. It was too damn bad all around that he was beginning to like her.

***

He was interested in the tour group. It was a simple matter for Roman to loiter on the first floor, lingering over a second cup of coffee in the kitchen, passing idle conversation with the thick-armed Mae and the skinny Dolores. He hadn't expected to be put to work, but when he'd found himself with an armful of table linens he had made the best of it.

Charity, wearing a bright red sweatshirt with the inn's logo across the chest, meticulously arranged a folded napkin in a water glass. Roman waited a moment, watching her busy fingers smoothing and tapering the cloth.

“Where do you want these?”

She glanced over, wondering if she should still be annoyed with him, then decided against it. At the moment she needed every extra hand she could get. “On the tables would be a good start. White on the bottom, apricot on top, slanted. Okay?” She indicated a table that was already set.

“Sure.” He began to spread the cloths. “How many are you expecting?”

“Fifteen on the tour.” She held a glass up to the light and placed it on the table only after a critical inspection. “Their breakfast is included. Plus the guests already registered. We serve between seven-thirty and ten.” She checked her watch, satisfied, then moved to another table. “We get some drop-ins, as well.” After setting a chipped bread plate aside, she reached for another. “But it's lunch and dinner that really get hectic.”

Dolores swooped in with a stack of china, then dashed out again when Mae squawked at her. Before the door had swung closed, the waitress they had passed on the road the day before rushed out with a tray of clanging silverware.

“Right,” Roman murmured.

Charity rattled off instructions to the waitress, finished setting yet another table, then rushed over to a blackboard near the doorway and began to copy out the morning menu in a flowing, elegant hand.

Dolores, whose spiky red hair and pursed lips made Roman think of a scrawny chicken, shoved through the swinging door and set her fists on her skinny hips. “I don't have to take this, Charity.”

Charity calmly continued to write. “Take what?”

“I'm doing the best that I can, and you know I told you I was feeling poorly.”

Dolores was always feeling poorly, Charity thought as she added a ham-and-cheese omelet to the list. Especially when she didn't get her way. “Yes, Dolores.”

“My chest's so tight that I can hardly take a breath.”

“Um-hmm.”

“Was up half the night, but I come in, just like always.”

“And I appreciate it, Dolores. You know how much I depend on you.”

“Well.” Slightly mollified, Dolores tugged at her apron. “I guess I can be counted on to do my job, but you can just tell that woman in there—” She jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Just tell her to get off my back.”

“I'll speak to her, Dolores. Just try to be patient. We're all a little frazzled this morning, with Mary Alice out sick again.”

“Sick.” Dolores sniffed. “Is that what they're calling it these days?”

Listening with only half an ear, Charity continued to write. “What do you mean?”

“Don't know why her car was in Bill Perkin's driveway all night again if she's sick. Now, with my condition—”

Charity stopped writing. Roman's brow lifted when he heard the sudden thread of steel in her voice. “We'll talk about this later, Dolores.”

Deflated, Dolores poked out her lower lip and stalked back into the kitchen.

Storing her anger away, Charity turned to the waitress. “Lori?”

“Almost ready.”

“Good. If you can handle the registered guests, I'll be back to give you a hand after I check the tour group in.”

“No problem.”

“I'll be at the front desk with Bob.” Absently she pushed her braid behind her back. “If it gets too busy, send for me. Roman—”

“Want me to bus tables?”

She gave him a quick, grateful smile. “Do you know how?”

“I can figure it out.”

“Thanks.” She checked her watch, then rushed out.

He hadn't expected to enjoy himself, but it was hard not to, with Miss Millie flirting with him over her raspberry preserves. The scent of baking—something rich, with apples and cinnamon—the quiet strains of classical music and the murmur of conversation made it almost impossible not to relax. He carried trays to and from the kitchen. The muttered exchanges between Mae and Dolores were more amusing than annoying.

So he enjoyed himself. And took advantage of his position by doing his job.

As he cleared the tables by the windows, he watched a tour van pull up to the front entrance. He counted heads and studied the faces of the group. The guide was a big man in a white shirt that strained across his shoulders. He had a round, ruddy, cheerful face that smiled continually as he piloted his passengers inside. Roman moved across the room to watch them mill around in the lobby.

They were a mix of couples and families with small children. The guide—Roman already knew his name was Block—greeted Charity with a hearty smile and then handed her a list of names.

Did she know that Block had done a stretch in Leavenworth for fraud? he wondered. Was she aware that the man she was joking with had escaped a second term only because of some fancy legal footwork?