“Thank you again for defusing what might have turned into an even more unpleasant situation, Mr. Sinclair.”
“You’re always so polite while you’re trying to get rid of me.” He smiled, a slow curving of the lips that gave his strong-featured face a devastating appeal. “What’s it going to take for you to call me Rory?”
Peggy slicked her tongue along her bottom lip. She didn’t want to picture herself in his arms, breathing his name against his heated flesh, but she did. “I think…” Her voice hitched, and she cleared her throat. “It would be wise for us to keep things between us on a business level, Mr. Sinclair.”
He said nothing for a moment, but stared down at her with those off-the-chart blue eyes until she had to fight the urge to squirm.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “That would probably be the wise thing to do….”
Meet the Coltons—
a California dynasty with a legacy
of privilege and power.
Rory Sinclair: Not the marrying kind. Having dedicated his life to researching chemical and biological warfare for the FBI, he’s not about to be distracted from his current mission. Until he comes head-to-head with a toothless toddler and her beautiful mother…
Peggy Honeywell: Feisty single mom. When a town emergency forces a federal agent to move into her bed-and-breakfast, this proud widow suddenly has trouble remembering all the reasons she’d vowed to avoid dangerous men at all costs.
Samantha Honeywell: Heartbreaker-in-waiting. This wise two-year-old knows that any man who’d rescue a tattered pink bunny is a keeper!
Michael Longstreet: Beleaguered mayor. As the town of Prosperino faces its water crisis, he’s about to be tested in life—and love.
About the Author
MAGGIE PRICE
Viewing the world from behind the badge of an FBI special agent hero wasn’t a giant step for Maggie Price to take. A former civilian crime analyst for the Oklahoma City Police Department, Maggie possesses an insider’s knowledge of cops and the workings of various law enforcement agencies. Add to that her having snagged assignments to several task forces alongside FBI special agents, and it was only natural that FBI forensic scientist Rory Sinclair would stride onto the pages of Protecting Peggy as a true-to-life cop with a microscopic eye for detail and a cop’s dangerous edge.
Maggie loves to hear from readers! Contact her at 5208 W. Reno, Suite 350, Oklahoma City, OK 73127-6317.
To Pam Newell, in appreciation for your support, encouragement and, most especially, for your friendship.
A special thank-you for all the “kid” advice you’ve given me over the years.
One
As a member of the FBI’s elite evidence support team, Rory Sinclair’s hopping a flight from D.C. without much advance notice usually meant he was headed to a crime scene. His rainy-night arrival in California wasn’t the case, although he’d stowed his computer and field evidence kit in the trunk of the car he had rented three hours ago at the San Francisco airport. For the first time in years, Special Agent Rory Sinclair was off the Bureau’s clock and on his own time.
Time, that Rory had agreed to spend posing as a civilian chemist while conducting a surveillance at a widow’s homey bed-and-breakfast.
With rain slanting down through the darkness, the sign welcoming Rory to Prosperino—a town hailing itself as a tourist’s mecca on the rugged northern California coast—glistened in the car’s headlights.
From what Rory could see of the flower-laden planters and neat benches that lined the sidewalks in front of a row of darkened storefronts, Prosperino looked picture-postcard perfect, everything calm and serene. Untroubled.
The urgent call Rory had received the previous day from Blake Fallon, his former college roommate, told Rory there was at least one imperfection on Prosperino’s charming facade. That imperfection came in the form of the mysterious contamination of the water supply on Hopechest Ranch, the haven for troubled adolescents and teens where Blake served as director. The contamination had occurred weeks ago. Since then, Blake had watched a series of Hopechest’s staff and residents fall ill while the EPA inspector assigned to the case conducted his investigation at a suspicious snail’s pace.
Peering through the rain-spattered windshield, Rory spotted the road to Honeywell House marked on the map Blake had faxed him. Braking, he turned, then steered along a thin ribbon of road that curved up a hill. Although Rory had Blake’s assurances that the widow Honeywell ran a first-class establishment, comfort wasn’t the reason Rory was headed there. EPA Inspector Charlie O’Connell had checked into Honeywell House weeks ago. Rory wanted a close look at the man who had raised Blake’s suspicions by conducting at least one clandestine meeting on Hopechest Ranch property.
Honeywell House was impressive, Rory decided as he drove past a wooden sign that welcomed him to the inn. Small spotlights spread dramatic fans of illumination across the face of the building that nestled against the hillside. Inside, lights burned gold behind windows dotting four stories, the upper one ringed by a widow’s walk.
Rory pulled the car into the gravel lot at the side of the house and climbed out, thankful that the rain had slowed to a light mist. When he turned to walk toward the back of the car, he noted the outline of a small greenhouse sitting a few yards away.
He retrieved his leather duffel bag, computer and field kit out of the trunk, then headed up the water-beaded cobblestone walk. He took the steps two at a time that led up to the large, wraparound porch. Although he’d never given much thought to his surroundings, something compelled him to turn and look back toward the road he’d just driven. The inn sat high enough on the hill that, past the wash of light from the streetlamps, he could see a wedge of the rocky cliffs that edged the fierce, churning Pacific. Mrs. Honeywell, he mused, had herself a piece of prime real estate.
Pushing open the inn’s carved double doors, Rory left the chilling mist behind him. A mix of scents wafted in the warm air—lemon, cinnamon and lavender. The foyer was spacious with waist-high oak wainscoting from which colorful wallpaper rose. A handsome mahogany reception counter sat in the center of a gold and cream tapestry rug that pooled over the polished wood floor.
Through an archway to his left he glimpsed a study lined with shelves crowded with books. The room had a high ceiling, wood floor and a green-marbled fireplace in which flames fed on thick logs that burned with a woodsy smell. The plump leather couch in front of the hearth looked like a great spot to curl up with a book.
He doubted he would have time to do that on this trip.
Turning his attention back to the foyer, he noted the brass plaque inscribed “Private” affixed to the wall beside a door that stood partially ajar.
Rory settled his bags against the wall, took two steps toward the reception desk, then halted when a deep voice coming from behind the door said, “There’s no need to put your back up just because a man pays you attention.”
“That kind of attention isn’t welcome,” a woman responded. “Touch me again, and you and all of your belongings will be out in the street. You have my word on that.”
Rory arched a brow. The woman’s voice was as steady as the January mist that shrouded the inn. With an ample spicing of temper.
Shifting his stance, he peered through the doorway into what appeared to be a small office. He could see one side of a bookcase, a file cabinet and a portion of a desk. It was the woman standing at the front of that desk, facing sideways, who commanded his attention. She was medium height with a delicate build, squared shoulders and creamy skin that held the trace of a flush. An angry flush, Rory theorized, considering the tone of her voice. Her dark hair fell, wave after wave, over the shoulders of her vivid turquoise sweater; the hem of a long black skirt skimmed her calves.
When the owner of the bass voice stepped closer to the woman, he moved into Rory’s line of sight. The man was tall and solid with a square jaw and sharp eyes. Judging from the brown hair just going to gray, Rory put his age at forty-something. He wore brown slacks and a tan sweater, its sleeves shoved up on his well-developed forearms.
“I didn’t come in here meaning to upset you.” Although the deep voice had softened, Rory caught the hard edge to the words. “Look at it this way, we’re both unattached. We have mutual needs. What’s the harm in helping each other satisfy those needs?”
“The only need you can help me satisfy is to leave this office. That way I can start getting my inn settled for the night.”
My inn. Rory pursed his mouth. Because Blake had referred to the bed-and-breakfast proprietress as “the widow Honeywell who cooks like an angel,” Rory had been expecting an apron-clad, homey woman with gray hair tucked into a bun. Peggy Honeywell was anything but homey and looked to be in her late twenties. He wondered vaguely what had happened to the husband who had died and left her such a young widow.
As if sensing his presence, she turned her head toward the door. Rory saw surprise flicker in her expression when her gaze met his. Even from a distance he could see that her wide-set eyes were the color of rich emeralds.
She looked back at the man. “This discussion is over. Excuse me while I see to a customer.”
The man flicked an idle glance across his shoulder at Rory, then looked back. “I’ll be staying here at least another week. Let me know when you change your mind.”
“I won’t. Good night, Mr. O’Connell.”
Training kept Rory’s expression unreadable as he slid the keys to his rental car into one pocket of his leather bomber jacket. Small world, he thought. That the guy putting moves on the Widow Honeywell was Charlie O’Connell, the EPA inspector whom Rory had come there to surveil.
Peggy Honeywell swung the door open and moved into the foyer with a dancer’s grace. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Her gaze slid to the bags Rory had settled against the wall. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any vacancies.”
“Blake Fallon made a reservation for me. I’m Rory Sinclair.”
“Oh, yes, Blake said you’d be in tonight.” Her mouth curved. “Since you planned to drive up from San Francisco, I was expecting you later.”
“I managed to catch an earlier flight out.”
“That’s fortunate.” Rory sensed her hesitate before offering a hand. “I’m Peggy Honeywell, Mr. Sinclair. Welcome to Honeywell House.”
When his fingers curved around hers, Rory felt flesh as smooth as soft butter…and the heat of the angry flush that still rode high on her cheeks.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that O’Connell had stepped from the office and was now leaning in the doorway. The man’s brow furrowed as he gazed down at the hard-sided field evidence kit Rory had settled against the wall beside his duffel bag and computer.
Rory turned, extended his hand. “Rory Sinclair.”
O’Connell looked up, then pushed away from the doorjamb. “Charlie O’Connell.” The inspector’s handshake was dry and firm. Decisive. “What brings you to Prosperino, Sinclair?”
“I’m a chemist. Blake Fallon hired me to conduct independent tests on the water at Hopechest Ranch. Blake shut down the well there nearly two weeks ago. He’s anxious to find out what contaminated the water. And how it got there.”
Rory saw the instant caution kick into O’Connell’s eyes. “Getting answers to questions like those takes time.”
“True.” To cement his cover, Rory added, “According to Blake, with so many people having gotten sick, it’s possible the ranch might face some lawsuits down the line. The attorney for the Hopechest Foundation, which owns the ranch, wants independent testing done on the water.” Rory angled his head. “How about you, O’Connell? You vacationing in Prosperino?”
“Hardly. I’m an inspector with the EPA. The contamination on Hopechest Ranch is my case. My jurisdiction.”
Rory kept his expression somber. “I’m not looking to step on anyone’s toes.”
“See that you don’t.”
Setting his jaw, Rory watched O’Connell turn and cross the foyer.
“I’m sorry,” Peggy said after the inspector shut the inn’s front door behind him with a snap.
Rory turned his head, gazed down into her eyes. He imagined any number of men would be happy to permanently lose themselves in all that intriguing jade. Not him. He was a man for taking, enjoying and moving on. “What are you sorry for?”
“Mr. O’Connell has been a guest here for two weeks. At times, he can be decidedly unpleasant.”
Like when he’s trying to put the make on you. “I don’t see that you need to apologize for him.”
“You’re right, of course.” When she looked toward the small, private office, her mouth tightened, reminding Rory of the temper he had heard in her voice. “He’s responsible for his own actions. I just regret he directed his bad mood toward another of my guests.”
Rory shrugged. “Slid right off.”
“Good.” She shoved her dark hair behind her shoulders. “I’m sure you’re tired from your flight and drive. It will just take a minute to get you registered,” she added, then turned and walked to the registration counter, the long sweep of her skirt matching her flowing stride.
“Fine.”
“Blake told me the purpose of your visit, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Rory.”
She gave him a slight smile as she stepped behind the counter and slid open a drawer. “The whole town is holding its breath until we find out what contaminated the ranch’s water. Several pregnant teenage girls who live at the ranch drank tainted water. Now, they fear for the health of their unborn babies.”
“Blake mentioned those girls.” For Rory, hearing that was all it took to request the use of some of the massive amount of personal leave he’d accrued, pack his field kit, then head west.
“Mayor Longstreet assures us Prosperino’s water supply is tested daily, still we’re all nervous,” Peggy said. “The grocery stores can’t keep enough bottled water on hand to supply everyone, including me.”
“That’s understandable.” Rory stepped to the counter. “I have my field testing equipment with me. If you’d like, I’ll check the inn’s water every day while I’m here.”
She looked up from the drawer. “I appreciate that. Each morning when I go to the kitchen and turn on the water, I can’t help but wonder if what’s coming out is okay to drink. To cook with. Bathe in. Knowing for sure would ease my mind. Of course, I’ll pay you for the testing.”
“That’s not necessary. Since I’m a guest here, I have a vested interest in knowing the water is safe.”
“All right.” She pulled a key and a blank registration card from the drawer, then slid it closed. “All I need is your name and address.”
Rory reached for the pen in a brass holder on the counter. He signed his name and address on the card, then looked up. He noted Peggy’s gaze had settled on his hands. “Do you want to see my credit card now?” he asked quietly.
When her eyes jerked up to meet his, he saw edgy caution flicker across her face. She was an innkeeper, used to strangers in her home. Yet, instinct told him his presence made her uneasy.
“No, I don’t need your credit card. Blake told me to bill the Hopechest Foundation for your room.” Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, she dropped her gaze to the registration card. “I keep a list of where my guests live. You’re the first I’ve had who calls D.C. home.”
Throughout his entire thirty-five years, he had called nowhere home, yet Rory didn’t see the need to point that out. He was more interested in analyzing what it was about him that made her edgy.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you a native of Prosperino?”
“Actually, I was born in Ireland.”
He angled his chin. She had the dark hair, green eyes and pure creamy skin of her birthplace. “You don’t sound like Ireland.”
“I didn’t live there long.” Leaving the card on the counter, she retrieved the key. “I’ll show you to your room now.”
“Fine.” He felt her gaze on him, measuring and assessing, while he retrieved his gear.
“Your room is on the third floor. Do you need help carrying your things upstairs?”
“I pack light.” Rory knew the statement summed up his life. The bureau’s go-where-you’re-sent discipline fitted his lifestyle to a T. He’d never kept—or wanted—anything he couldn’t fit in a bag and take along with him.
“I serve breakfast between seven and ten.” She moved from behind the counter and started, brisk and businesslike, toward the staircase. “As an amenity to my guests, I provide wine and cheese in the library during the early evenings. If you’re interested, I can recommend several restaurants in Prosperino that serve an excellent lunch and dinner.”
“I’ll get those from you tomorrow. How many guest rooms do you have?”
“Five.” She paused, one foot on the bottom step, her hand on the carved newel post. “January is usually my slow month, except for the winter arts festival. That takes place this week. Two of the judges of the art competition are staying here. There’s also a couple spending a few days of their honeymoon with us. You and Mr. O’Connell have the other two rooms.”
As she moved up the gleaming oak staircase in front of him, Rory watched the subtle, elegant sway of her hips beneath her black skirt. Peggy Honeywell had one hell of a walk, he decided.
Tightening his grip on his field kit, he told himself to keep his mind on business. “Speaking of O’Connell, I hope I can persuade him to compare notes on what he’s found so far on the contaminated water. Are our rooms on the same floor?”
“No, in fact, that’s his there,” she said as they stepped onto the second-floor landing.
Rory’s gaze followed hers to a closed door with a brass 2 affixed to its center. Rory knew Blake well enough to give credence to his suspicions about O’Connell. Still, mere suspicions didn’t prove the EPA inspector was up to something nefarious. Also, O’Connell’s failure to identify the contaminant in Hopechest’s water could be due to its degree of rarity. Rarer substances took longer to isolate. Processes of elimination used in the lab could take weeks to make an ID.
Rory followed Peggy up another flight of stairs. Setting a quick pace, she led him down a hallway painted a soft yellow, its wood floor dark with age and polish. As they walked, they passed an antique credenza holding a pewter bowl from which a spiky-leaved plant sprouted.
When they reached the door at the end of the hall, she slid a key into the lock, then swung open the door. “I hope the room is to your liking.”
“It’ll be fine.” He gave the quilt-covered brass bed, prints of wildflowers on the walls and braided rug on the wood floor a cursory look. His surroundings usually suited him, from the lab in D.C. to his rented Virginia apartment to crime scenes all over the world. This room was no different from the hundreds of others he’d stayed in, then left behind.
It was his landlady who drew his attention as she moved toward a closed door, fingering the room key she’d yet to give him.
“The bathroom is through here,” she said, opening the door. “I usually change the linen and towels in the morning. That might not be a good time if you’re planning on working here.”
“Mornings are fine.”
Nodding, she slicked her palms down her thighs. “The closet is over there.”
Eyeing her steadily, Rory settled his gear on the bed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his presence made her jumpy. “Do I make you feel uneasy, Mrs. Honeywell?”
“Of course not,” she countered, then paused while a faint flush crept up her throat. “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression, Mr. Sinclair. I’m a little distracted, is all.”
“Mind if I ask by what?”
“I promised myself I would work on my income taxes this evening. Just the thought of tackling all those forms makes me jittery.”
He gave her a smooth smile. He didn’t believe her for one minute. “That’s understandable.”
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to set up for breakfast before I tackle the paperwork.” She glanced around the room, then walked toward him. “Your key also fits the lock on the front door. You’ll need it to get into the inn after nine at night. I hope you enjoy your stay. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
“I will.” Deliberately, he let his fingertips glide against hers when he accepted the key. As a scientist, it was his nature to try to logic out the intangible. As a man, he was becoming increasingly intrigued by her reaction to him.
“Good night, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Please call me Rory. Good night.”
When she turned away, a faint trace of her subtle flowery scent slid into his lungs.
He watched her go, continued staring at the door after it clicked shut behind her. He’d been wrong, he thought. This room was different from the hundreds he’d stayed in over the years. For the first time in his memory, a room he’d checked into smelled as softly sweet and alluring as a woman.
The thought triggered a quick, inner defense signal in Rory’s brain. He hadn’t checked into Honeywell House to sniff at the landlady, he reminded himself as he went through the automatic routine of unpacking his leather duffel. Granted, he would have to be in a coma not to appreciate Peggy Honeywell’s slim figure, emerald-colored eyes and lustrous dark hair that framed her gorgeous face. And, as a man who spent his life solving puzzles, her reaction to him made him curious. Damn curious.
All normal responses to a beautiful, intriguing woman, he assured himself. Still, just because the demands of his job had prevented him from being with a woman at all for some time, that didn’t mean he was going to allow himself to start thinking about the landlady with the mind-set of a randy teenager. He intended to keep his thoughts on the sole reason he had checked into Honeywell House.
Charlie O’Connell.
Rory furrowed his brow as he began setting up his computer and preliminary testing instruments on the small writing desk that sat opposite the bed. It had been evident the EPA inspector wasn’t happy that Hopechest had hired a private chemist to test the ranch’s water. Could be, O’Connell simply resented the fact that the EPA’s failure to ID the contaminant had prodded Blake Fallon to take action. Then again, if O’Connell had something to hide, Rory knew his presence would have sounded an alarm in the inspector’s head to which O’Connell would react.
That, Rory thought, was a reaction he planned to watch for closely. And, while he was watching O’Connell, he would keep his eyes and his thoughts off Peggy Honeywell.
Good Lord, Peggy thought as she leaned against the wall just outside the door to Rory Sinclair’s room. Weren’t scientists supposed to be harmless-looking people who wore thick glasses, used pocket protectors in their white coats and had pale skin from being shut up in sterile labs?
That description didn’t come close to the man she’d just snapped the door shut on! Rory Sinclair was tall and lanky, with jet-black hair, a tanned, narrow face hardened by prominent cheekbones and killer blue eyes. His looks—combined with the fact that he’d been dressed all in black—had made her think of a highwayman who’d checked into her inn to take a break for the night from pillaging the countryside.
And the women who lived there.
Peggy closed her eyes. She pictured his hands, those long elegant fingers as he’d signed his name and address across the registration card. Somehow, someway, she had known, just by looking at his hands, how they might feel if he touched her.
“Get a grip, Honeywell,” she muttered.
Shaking her head, she pushed away from the wall and set off down the hallway. What was wrong with her? Just because a man’s hard features and dark clothes made him look absurdly dangerous didn’t mean he was. Rory Sinclair was Blake Fallon’s friend, a scientist who had come to Prosperino on legitimate business—which in no way encompassed him putting his hands on her.
She blew out a breath, having no idea where that crazy thought had come from. No doubt, the man had a wife and a couple of kids back in D.C., she reminded herself. Since it was getting late, she needed to rein in her imaginings and direct her attention to her own business, which included setting up for breakfast.
Her newest guest had caught her off-guard was all, Peggy reasoned as she reached the top of the staircase. When she’d first glimpsed Sinclair standing in the foyer, she had thought for the space of a heartbeat that he might be a ghost. After all, she hadn’t heard him open the inn’s front door. Hadn’t been aware of his footsteps as he crossed the foyer’s wooden floor. Yet, there he’d stood, watching in silence while she dealt with lecherous Charlie O’Connell. However mild Sinclair’s expression, she had seen in his eyes a quick and thorough measuring of the situation he’d walked in on.
How many times had she looked up and found Jay standing only inches away from her when she hadn’t even heard him walk into the room? How often had she seen her husband conduct the same instinctive evaluation of his surroundings as had Rory Sinclair?
Although she had used her skittishness over tackling her taxes as an excuse for her unease around Sinclair, she admitted to herself that her instinctive comparison of him to her late husband had knocked her off-balance.
Starting down the stairs, she pushed away the dull pang of the memory. Jay had been dead nearly five years; even after so long she sometimes wondered if the scars of grief she carried in her heart would ever completely heal.
She had healed, Peggy reminded herself as she shoved her hair behind her shoulders. She had carved out a new life for herself and Samantha. Her business was thriving—if she kept an eagle eye on the budget she would have two guest rooms added on to the inn before the end of the year. In her mind, expansion marked success.
Her mouth quirked when she reached the bottom of the staircase. She supposed she should give thanks that Rory Sinclair had arrived when he did. Successful innkeepers offered their guests openhanded hospitality, not slaps to the face like the one she’d been tempted to deliver to the EPA inspector.
Remembering the way Charlie O’Connell had slunk into her office, trapping her between the desk and his body while his hands gripped her waist had her temper spiking all over again. It took a real Neanderthal to assume that just because a woman was a widow she was lonely for a man’s touch. Granted, it had been a long time since she had stepped into a man’s arms, but that was by choice. If she decided she wanted physical contact, she was relatively sure she could make that happen.
Brow furrowed, she moved across the foyer into the book-lined study. Her gaze swept the oak floor, dotted by hooked rugs, then the small tables scattered about, checking to make sure everything was in place.
Satisfied with the state of the room and that Samantha hadn’t left any of her toys lying around, Peggy moved to the green-marble fireplace. There she crouched, her gaze going to the flames that ate greedily at the dry wood. Only to herself would she concede that on nights like this, when the wind turned sharp and a cold mist shrouded the inn, she felt her aloneness intensely. It was only human to long for someone to hold her, to again have a man to share her life with.
She knew she could pick up the phone, call Kade Lummus—a sergeant on the Prosperino Police Department—and he would come running. Kade was a good-looking man whose open expression and friendly brown eyes invited trust. More than once he had made it clear he was interested in getting to know her on a personal level. If she allowed herself to, she suspected she could become interested in him. Yet, that wasn’t going to happen. She had buried one husband who died because he wore a badge. That was enough for a lifetime.
She was twenty-eight; she didn’t intend to be alone forever. Someday, Peggy thought, shutting off the gas that fed the flames. Someday she would meet another man to whom she could give her heart. A man who would love her and Samantha equally. A man who didn’t have to strap on a bulletproof vest just to try to survive each workday. A man whose family didn’t have to wonder when he left each morning if he would walk back through the door that night. A safe man.
As if beckoned by some unseen force, her thoughts went to Rory Sinclair. He was a ruggedly handsome man who had an aura of danger about him, just as Jay had. An aura that had drawn her inexorably to the only man to whom she had given herself and her heart.
Never again, she vowed. The next time she got involved with a man, she wanted safe.
She was determined to have it, both for the sake of herself and her daughter.
Two
A persistent, unending droning penetrated Rory’s thoughts, dragging him from a deep sleep. When he pried his eyes open and waited for his brain to clear, he realized the noise was the wind. A brisk wind that battered the lace-covered windows that let in a gray morning gloom.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he lingered in bed. He wasn’t sure what kept him beneath the colorful quilt and crisp sheets that he suspected had been ironed. Maybe it was an uncharacteristic urge to familiarize himself with this one room when he’d never felt the need to conduct more than a cursory study of the hundreds of other unfamiliar places he’d woken in during his career.
He propped his back against the headboard while his gaze slicked over the wallpaper spattered with small roses, the braided rug that pooled color across the wood floor, the little porcelain dish that held mints on the bedside table. His brow furrowed. No, he decided, it wasn’t the room itself. Although he appreciated ambiance, he never took much notice of it, especially in a place where he didn’t plan to spend any measurable length of time. What had snagged his attention was the woman who had created the setting that he now examined as if it were evidence under a microscope. The woman whose flower-delicate scent clung to the linens that enveloped him in warmth.
For a brief instant, Rory wondered what it would be like to have that woman lying naked beneath him, her dark hair spread across his pillow, those compelling green eyes smoky with desire.
“Dangerous thought, Sinclair,” he muttered. Although he had spent little time in Peggy Honeywell’s presence, instinct told him she wasn’t his type. He preferred quick, uncomplicated contacts. Women who laughed and loved without any thought for the future. Because with him, there was no future.
Shoving back the covers, he settled his feet on the cool wood floor and moved his gaze slowly around the cozy room. The woman who had created this setting had clearly put down roots and sunk them in deep. He doubted there would be anything quick or uncomplicated about an affair with her.
Peggy Honeywell was on his mind solely because he was curious to find out what it was about him that made her so damn jumpy. After all, he was a man who loved solving puzzles.
So, what was the key to this puzzle? he mused while he headed to the bathroom. Why had she acted so uneasy in his presence?
His profession? he speculated, then instantly discarded the notion. She had no idea he was FBI. No clue he carried a gun and a badge. He doubted her knowing he was a scientist carried even an inkling of a threat.
A threat. Rory ran a palm across his stubbled jaw as he stared into the mirror over the sink. Maybe it hadn’t been him at all. Could be, she was even more concerned over the state of the inn’s water supply than he had picked up on. She was, after all, a single woman who, he assumed, supported herself. Her livelihood could come to a screeching halt if she had to close Honeywell House if its water supply became contaminated.
Turning on his heel, Rory went to the small desk opposite the bed. There, he retrieved a test tube and indicator strips from his field evidence kit. Last night, before he went to bed, he had checked the inn’s water and found no trace of a contaminant. It was time to run another test.
That way he could give the dark-haired, green-eyed Peggy Honeywell some peace of mind.
“I’m gonna draw a picture of Bugs.”
The mention of the beloved stuffed rabbit had Peggy sending her four-year-old daughter a smile from across the kitchen’s center island. As was their habit in the mornings while Peggy cooked breakfast for the inn’s guests, Samantha had climbed up on one of the long-legged stools, her crayons and drawing paper fanned out in front of her.
“Drawing a picture of Bugs is a great idea, sweetheart. The other day I found an empty frame in the storage closet. We’ll put your picture of Bugs in it and hang it in your bedroom.”
“Okay.” Samantha’s smile lit up her small face, with its pointed chin and pert nose, its big brown eyes mirroring the color of rich earth. Her thick jet-black curls hung past her shoulders, giving her the look of a gypsy.
Samantha selected a crayon that matched the bright pink quilted jumper she wore. “Do you think the lady in the booth can paint Bugs on my cheek tomorrow night? Maybe Gracie’s, too?”
“Probably,” Peggy said soberly. “But it might not be as good a picture as yours.”
“I know,” Samantha said with confidence. Her face set in concentration, she got down to work.
While Peggy used a long-handled wooden spoon to stir the second batch of pancake batter of the morning, she stifled a yawn. Because she’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, just the thought of the long day that lay ahead had fatigue pressing down on her. Thank goodness the winter arts festival wasn’t until tomorrow night, she thought. She had promised to take Samantha and her best friend, Gracie Warren, for a return visit to the face-painting booth they had discovered at last year’s festival. Peggy knew the girls would want to stay until the festival closed.
With the batter smooth of lumps, she turned to the window where colorful pots of herbs lined the sill. After examining the spearmint, she snipped off several sprigs to use for garnish on the serving platters. Instead of turning back to the bowl of batter, she let her gaze focus out the window.
The day had dawned gray and gloomy with a fierce wind that tormented the trees lining the ribbon of road that led up the hill to the inn. Lying awake in bed, she had known the exact moment the wind had intensified, sweeping in with its battering gusts and mournful howl. For some reason she couldn’t explain, the instant she heard that howl, loneliness had begun scraping at her like tiny claws.
She had not felt such a deep, hollow ache since those terrible days after Jay died nearly five years ago.
Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Peggy rinsed the sprigs of spearmint, then laid them on a paper towel to dry. Maybe the reason she felt so uncharacteristically empty was that Rory Sinclair had reminded her so much of the husband she had loved and lost. For that reason, too, it was only natural she hadn’t been able to put the tall, lanky scientist out of her mind.
Until right now, she resolved as she turned to the center island and poured the pecans she’d chopped earlier into the bowl of batter. She had guests to feed, rooms to clean and orders to place with two food distributors and a local winery. After four years, the running of the inn and the chores that went with it were so ingrained that they normally left her brain free to think about anything that struck her fancy.
Although musing about a man with the tough, intense face of a warrior might be pleasurable, she wasn’t going to allow herself that diversion. Her relationship with Jay had taught her that she was a woman readily drawn to a man with an aura of danger about him. She had no intention of again letting herself be tantalized by a man like that. Especially one who was just passing through.
“Good morning.”
Peggy’s stomach gave an intriguing little flip at the sound of Rory Sinclair’s voice. She looked up to find him with one shoulder propped against the doorjamb, his dark gaze focused on her in total concentration. He looked impossibly handsome in black jeans and a gray polo shirt, its sleeves shoved up on his forearms. His jet-black hair glistened wetly from what she assumed was his morning shower.
“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Rory.”
She gave him a cool smile even as heat crept up her neck. How long, she wondered, had he been standing there watching her and Samantha?
“There’s coffee in the dining room. Two of the guests—the ladies who are judging categories in the winter arts festival—are already there.” Peggy inclined her head toward the doorway opposite from the one in which he lingered. “You can get to the dining room through that door. I’ll serve breakfast in about fifteen minutes.”
“Whatever you’re cooking smells great.” Rory strolled across the kitchen, pausing when he reached the side of the center island from where Samantha sat eyeing him, the pink crayon gripped in a fist that had gone motionless above the paper.
“Momma’s making pancakes with nuts in ’em. They’re my favorite.”
“Pecans,” Peggy amended. “And cinnamon-apple sausage to go with the pancakes.” Since she was adamant about her daughter learning manners, Peggy added, “Samantha, this is Mr. Sinclair. He checked in last night after you were in bed.”
Having grown up in an inn constantly filled with strangers, there was nothing shy about the way Samantha scooted the piece of paper his way. “Do you like my picture, Mr. Sink…Mr. Sinkle?”
He smiled. “I think ‘Rory’ is a much easier name. It’s a great picture, Samantha.” He tilted his head. “How old are you?”
“Four,” she replied, holding up the accompanying number of fingers. “I’ll be five in May. What do you think my picture is of?”
Peggy raised a brow as he bent his head to examine the pink, misshapen drawing. Samantha had a habit of using her artwork to test the guests. Ordinarily, Peggy would have chided Samantha into telling what it was she was drawing, but for some reason she was curious to see how Rory Sinclair handled the situation.
“It’s a bunny,” he answered gravely. “With long, pink eyelashes.”
Samantha’s smile beamed like sunshine. “His name’s Bugs. Someday I’m going to have a real bunny. My momma says we’ll have to see about that. Now I have to draw Bugs a carrot ’cause he’s hungry.” Laying the pink crayon aside, she plucked an orange one, furrowed her brow, then started coloring.
Peggy lifted her gaze, met Rory’s blue one. “And I have to finish breakfast ’cause my guests are hungry. As I said, there’s coffee in the dining room.”
“And two lady art judges. I got all that the first time around.” He glanced down. “Samantha, are the ladies in the dining room going to judge your picture, too?”
“No, Momma wants to hang this one in my room.”
“Well, it would have been a sure winner. It’s a really good picture.”
“I know.” She paused, looking suddenly thoughtful as she stared up into his face. “Do you have a little girl, too, Mr. Rory? I could draw a picture for her room.”
“No. I don’t have a little girl or a little boy.”
“You’re not as lucky as Momma, then.”
“Clearly, I’m not,” he commented while Samantha shifted her attention back to the carrot.
Leaning a hip against the island, Rory moved his gaze to the copper pots and baskets hanging from hooks overhead. His attention then went to the butcher-block counters and oversized range and huge refrigerator behind where Peggy stood. “Nice kitchen, Mrs. Honeywell.”
“Thank you.” In an unconscious gesture, she ran her fingertips across the island’s dark granite top. “This was my grandmother’s house.”
“Was she born in Ireland, too?”
Peggy was vaguely surprised he remembered her brief mention of her birthplace. Jay had also been skilled at filing away small details about people.
“No. My birth mother lived in Ireland. I was adopted by an American couple when I was four months old.” Her mouth curved. “Gran used to say I was a special gift from the Emerald Isle.”
“With eyes to match.”
Was it simply her imagination that his voice had lowered, become richer? “I…used to come and stay with Gran in the summers,” she continued, trying to ignore the jump in her pulse. “I spent hours in here helping her cook, my mouth watering from all the delicious scents. This room always felt so homey to me. The whole house, in fact. I want my guests to feel that Honeywell House is more a home than an inn.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do they feel that way?”
“Most say they do.” She tilted her head. “When you check out, maybe you’ll let me know your take on the subject.”
“You’ll want to ask someone other than me about homey feelings. I tested the inn’s water last night and this morning.”
She blinked. His sudden change of subject had her mentally stumbling to catch up. Putting a hand to her throat, Peggy shifted her gaze to her daughter. Samantha hunched over her drawing, the point of her small tongue caught between her teeth while she put the final touches on Bugs’s oversize carrot.
A wave of uneasiness swamped Peggy. Despite reassurances from city officials, she had spent countless hours worrying about the town’s water supply and wondering if she should take her daughter out of harm’s way until the crisis was resolved.
“Is the inn’s water safe?”
“Yes. Everything checks out.”
She closed her eyes. Opened them. “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It’s been two weeks since they found out the water on Hopechest Ranch was contaminated. Some of the kids who drank it are still sick.”
“Do you know any of those kids?”
“No. I’ve only been to Hopechest a few times because the inn keeps me so busy. I do know, though, that Blake Fallon is terribly worried about those kids.” As she spoke, Peggy resumed stirring her pancake batter. “After the agony he went through last year over his father, this is the last thing Blake needs.”
“What agony?”
Peggy looked up. “I thought you said you and Blake were friends.”
“We are.” A look of unease slid into Rory’s blue eyes. “We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“Well, it sounds as if you have some catching up to do.”
“You’re right. I have an appointment to see him after breakfast.”
Nodding, Peggy decided to voice the concern she’d had since shortly after the EPA inspector checked into Honeywell House. “Charlie O’Connell claims there’s no way to predict how long it might take to find out what it was that contaminated the ranch’s water supply. And how it got there.”
Rory settled a palm on the counter. “Are you asking me if I agree with him?”
“Yes, I guess I am.”
“If O’Connell is conducting his study by the book, he will have taken water samples at the ranch on the day he arrived in Prosperino. Those samples should have been sent to the EPA lab for analysis. Depending on the rarity of the contaminant, it could take weeks to break down its components and make an ID.”
“That just seems like an awfully long time.”
“I know it does.” Rory angled his chin. “To put things in context, the breath you just exhaled contains one hundred and two different composites. To conduct a scientific analysis of that one breath, each composite has to be separated, then analyzed. Contaminated water has to be broken down that same way. In a lab, you can’t rush tests, can’t skip steps. That’s why I agree with O’Connell. There’s no way to predict how long it might take to find out what it was that wound up in the ranch’s water. And how it got there.”
Although she knew next to nothing about Rory Sinclair, instinct told Peggy she could trust what he said. Her gaze went to his hand resting on the countertop, his long, elegant fingers splayed against dark granite. Those long elegant fingers that she somehow knew would work slow, sweet magic against a woman’s flesh.
A dry ache settled in her throat. For so many years she had ignored her physical needs. Now those needs seemed to double and triple when she was in the same room with this one man.
“Something wrong?” he asked quietly.
Peggy looked up, realized he was watching her with the same intense assessment she had seen last night when he walked in on her and O’Connell.
“Of course not,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded steady. She ran her palms down the thighs of her gray flannel slacks. “It’s just a relief to know the inn’s water is safe.”
“I’ll continue to test it twice a day as long as I’m here.”
“I feel guilty not paying you for the testing.”
“Well, I don’t want your guilt on my conscience.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he flashed her a grin. “I’ll take my payment in dessert.”
“Dessert?” She’d have to be careful of that grin, Peggy told herself. It oozed recklessness and charm. Made you want to put down your guard and relax in his presence. She knew instinctively he was a man it would be unwise to relax around.
“Blake says you cook like an angel and that your apricot cobbler is a direct route to heaven.” Rory lifted a shoulder. “I’ve got a sweet tooth that would like to take that trip.”
He didn’t look like he had a sweet tooth. He looked incredibly fit, his stomach washboard flat, his forearms toned and muscular. What would it be like, she wondered, to feel that well-maintained body pressed against hers?
The thought brought all of her nerves swimming to the surface. She picked up a jar of herbed vinegar, set it back down. He would not be good for her, she knew that. Still, knowing something wasn’t good for you didn’t stop you from wanting to sample it.
Which was something she wasn’t going to do. A week from now Rory Sinclair might possibly be back in D.C., working in his lab. And, just because he didn’t have children didn’t mean there wasn’t a Mrs. Sinclair waiting for him at home.
That she suddenly found herself hoping he didn’t have a wife had Peggy scowling. She had no clue what it was that made her thoughts about one of her guests turn totally idiotic. Whatever it was, she was done with it. She was a professional. A businesswoman.
“It’s agreed, Mr. Sinclair,” she said in her most efficient tone. “I’ll prepare whatever dessert you’d like each evening in exchange for your testing the inn’s water every day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to deal with breakfast.”
He opened his mouth to respond when a loud clatter came from the hallway. An instant later, a masculine voice filled the air with vicious curses.
Panic tripped Peggy’s heart. “That sounds like Mr. O’Connell. Samantha, stay here.”
Peggy darted to the kitchen door on Rory’s heels, raced down the hallway at his side. Just as they reached the foyer, the two caftan-clad art judges burst from the hallway that led to the dining room, the mass of metal and wood bracelets both women wore clanking in unison. When Peggy saw the EPA inspector sitting on the bottom stair, massaging his right ankle, she realized he must have taken a tumble down the staircase.
She rushed to him, placed her hand on his arm. “Are you all right, Mr. O’Connell? Do I need to call a doctor?”
He jerked away, anger shimmering in his eyes as he surged up on one foot and leaned against the newel post. “Dammit to hell, woman, what kind of place are you running here?”
Peggy’s chin rose. “One in which you don’t have to yell at the top of your lungs for me to hear you. Now, please calm down and tell me how badly you’re hurt. Do I need to call a doctor?”
“No, dammit, I don’t need a doctor. I need a safety inspector.”
Peggy shook her head. “What for?”
“Oh, Bugs!”
Peggy had no idea Samantha had disobeyed her instructions to stay in the kitchen until she heard her daughter’s high-pitched wail.
“That’s what for.” Propping against the banister, O’Connell jerked his head toward the floor at the bottom of the staircase.
Peggy’s heart sank when she saw Samantha bent over her beloved pink rabbit, its head torn off and stuffing strewn on the wood floor.
“Damn thing was at the top of the stairs,” O’Connell said. “Caused me to slip and fall.”
Samantha glared up at O’Connell, tears streaming down her cheeks while she hugged the bunny’s torso. “You broke Bugs’s head off!”
“Hey, it’s a miracle I didn’t break my own neck.”
Peggy crouched, pulled her sobbing child into her arms. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart.” She would have to have another stern talk with Samantha about leaving her toys lying around the inn. Now, however, was not the time.
“Your kid’s not hurt.” O’Connell delivered the words in a steel tone. “I am. You ought to keep that in mind.”
Peggy lifted her gaze to his. From where she crouched, he looked disconcertingly big. And strong. She hated the fact she was nearly kneeling at his feet, but she couldn’t do anything about that. Not while Samantha clung to her while she sobbed hot tears against her shoulder.
“It’ll be okay, Bugs,” Samantha murmured between watery gasps as she rocked the animal. “I’ll fix you.”
Peggy ran a soothing palm down the child’s dark curls. “Mr. O’Connell, I am very concerned about you. Do you need a doctor?”
“A lawyer’s more like it.”
“I’ve got a question, O’Connell,” Rory said as he stepped between them. Peggy sensed that a protective barrier had suddenly risen in front of her and her child. Still crouched on the floor with Samantha crying against her shoulder, she leaned forward so she could see each man’s face in profile.
“What’s the question, Sinclair?” the EPA inspector asked.
“Why do you want a lawyer?”
“The kid—”
“Samantha,” Rory said evenly. “Her name’s Samantha.”
“Yeah, well, she left that rabbit in the middle of the stairs. The fall I took could have killed me.”
“So, you want a lawyer because you’re thinking of suing Mrs. Honeywell?”
O’Connell looked at Peggy. “Maybe.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Unless we can work out something.”
She gritted her teeth while heated anger pooled in her cheeks. If Samantha and her other guests weren’t present, she would ask the idiot if he actually thought his threatening her with a lawsuit would compel her to sleep with him.
Rory hooked a thumb in the front pocket of his jeans. “Here’s the deal, O’Connell. If you call a lawyer, I’ll have to talk to him, too.”
A guarded look settled in the man’s eyes. “About what?”
“I came down to breakfast ten minutes ago. I saw the pink bunny at the top of the staircase.”
“See—”
“Not in the middle of the staircase. Off to one side. Against the wall, in fact.” Rory shrugged. “Didn’t look like a safety problem to me. It sounds more like you just got clumsy. If you had gotten hurt, it would have been your own fault. Besides, what does it say about an inspector who trips over something hot pink?”
“We saw the bunny, too, Mr. O’Connell,” one of the art judges volunteered while the other nodded in agreement. “This gentleman is right. The bunny was against the wall. You must not have been looking where you were going.”
Apparently realizing he was outnumbered, O’Connell scowled. “Yeah, okay. I guess I’m more shaken up than anything.”
Peggy swiveled her head, gave the women a grateful smile. “Ladies, would you please escort Mr. O’Connell into the dining room? I’ll have breakfast ready in just a few minutes.”
O’Connell limped across the foyer between the two women, their bracelets clanking as they each patted one of his arms. Murmuring their sympathies, they steered O’Connell down the hallway that led to the dining room.
Peggy gave Samantha a hug, then settled on the bottom step. “Sweetheart, why don’t you take Bugs to your room? While you’re at preschool, I’ll see if I can sew him back together.”
“Can you fix him, Momma?” Voice hitching, Samantha stared at her through swollen, tearful eyes. “Can you really fix him?”
Cupping the small, tearstained face in her hands, Peggy placed a light kiss on her daughter’s trembling lips. “I can try.”
“Okay.” Samantha bent and gathered up the bunny’s head. Snuggling it and the fuzzy, pink body against her chest, she headed toward the hallway.
Peggy shook her head. “Dear Lord, give me strength.”
Chuckling softly, Rory offered his hand. “All this before breakfast. Are things always this eventful around Honeywell House?”
She hesitated an instant before sliding her hand into his. His flesh felt warm and firm against hers as he helped her to her feet.
“No, thank goodness.” Because his fingers had tangled with hers, she took a step back, disengaging her hand from his. “Usually things are on the sedate side.” She flicked a look toward the hallway in which O’Connell had disappeared. “I appreciate you stepping in. I doubt I would have been quite so tactful.”
“A lioness defending her cub doesn’t worry about tact.”
Peggy pulled in a deep breath. “No, she doesn’t. Samantha comes first with me.”
“That’s the way things should be.”
Peggy knew she had guests waiting for their breakfast, knew she needed to get to the kitchen. Still, she lingered inches from him, the spicy male tang of his cologne pervading her lungs.
“When Samantha showed you the picture she drew, I wondered how on earth you guessed it was a bunny. You knew because you saw Bugs at the top of the stairs.”
“The rabbit and the picture are both hot pink.” He shrugged. “I made a wild guess.”
“An accurate one.” She smiled as she fingered a wayward wisp of hair off her cheek. “Thank you again for defusing what might have turned into an even more unpleasant situation, Mr. Sinclair. If you’ll join the other guests in the dining room for coffee, I’ll see to breakfast.”
“You’re always so polite while you’re trying to get rid of me.” He smiled, a slow curving of the lips that gave his strong-featured face a devastating appeal. “What’s it going to take for you to call me Rory?”
She slid her tongue along her bottom lip. She didn’t want to picture herself in his arms, breathing his name against his heated flesh, but she did. “I think…” Her voice hitched, and she cleared her throat. “It would be wise for us to keep things between us on a business level, Mr. Sinclair.”
He said nothing for a moment, just stared down at her with those off-the-chart blue eyes until she had to fight the urge to squirm.
“You’re right, Ireland,” he said softly. “That would probably be the wise thing to do.”
Three
His appetite sated from a breakfast of melt-in-the-mouth pecan pancakes and apple cinnamon sausage, Rory stood in the gravel parking lot that bordered Honeywell House, a hip leaned against the front fender of his rental car. For the past hour he’d been telling himself that he couldn’t argue with what Peggy had said before she left him in the foyer. Keeping their dealings on a business level would be wise.
He just wasn’t sure that wise was the course he wanted to follow.
After all, wise wouldn’t get the woman into his arms. Wouldn’t have him feeling her ripe, sexy mouth softening and heating under his. Wise wouldn’t get her into his bed.
Which would definitely put an enjoyable twist on his stay in Prosperino.
Ireland. Why the hell had he called her that? He’d never before even thought about giving any female a nickname, especially a woman he had known less than twenty-four hours. It was those eyes, he decided. Cool jade that sparked liquid fire when her temper kicked in. Eyes that he suspected would go dark and smoky when she stepped into a man’s arms.
His arms.
Frowning, he jerked up the collar of his battered leather jacket. It did little to block the bite of the wind that blustered off the sea churning at the base of the cliff. A thin, damp fog crawled over the gravel parking lot, creeping up the steps that led to the inn’s wraparound porch. The gray morning gloom nearly obscured the small greenhouse that sat only a few yards from the parking lot.
In his mind, Rory pictured again how Peggy had looked when he first walked into the kitchen where the scents of baking had started his mouth watering. Standing there at the work island, dressed in a gray sweater and slacks, her dark hair pulled loosely back with a red ribbon, she had looked outrageously sexy. She’d been stirring pancake batter, for Christ’s sake, but that didn’t stop a kick of lust from heating his blood.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he gazed at the inn’s front porch with a stare as brooding as the gray clouds overhead. When he arrived last night, he hadn’t noticed the chairs there, fashioned out of rustic wood or the table covered with a floral, lace-edged cloth. It had been too dark to see the orange and yellow mums that spilled from colorful pots lining the porch’s rail. And the pink bicycle with training wheels that nosed into an alcove away from the front door.
The woman over whom he was currently obsessing had created that welcoming scene. Not only had she made herself and her young daughter a home that apparently kept body and soul anchored, she made a point to create a temporary home for those who passed her way.
A home—even a temporary one—was something he’d never had and he didn’t want one now. What he did want—on a short-term basis—was her.
“Not going to happen.” Even as he spoke the words, the wind snatched them away.
That he was intensely attracted to a woman so unlike those he habitually sought out caused a feeling of unease to creep over him. For months he had been trying to understand the source of a restless discontent that had settled around him. A feeling that his life had somehow gotten a half beat out of synch. This added disquiet over Peggy Honeywell didn’t help.
He did, however, understand what it was that drew him to her.
In the world of science, like charges repelled each other. Unlike charges attracted. He was one of the nomads of the world with no roots, no family, no woman waiting for him to return. Just looking at the inn told him Peggy had dug in and was there to stay. She had a daughter to raise, and he would bet that more than a few of Prosperino’s male residents had their eye on the innkeeper and their thoughts on a future with her.
Rory knew he couldn’t have found a woman more his opposite if he’d run an ad listing the qualities he preferred to avoid in the opposite sex.
The uneasiness churning inside him hitched up a notch when he thought about the unpleasant consequences of having to disentangle himself from an affair with a woman who put stock in permanence. Common sense told him it would be best for everyone involved if he simply avoided Peggy Honeywell. So, avoid her, he would.
That shouldn’t be too difficult since he had plenty on his plate to deal with. Like identifying what substance had contaminated the water on Hopechest Ranch. That unknown substance had sent innocent kids to the hospital and put fear in the hearts of young pregnant girls.
The sobering reality shifted Rory’s thoughts to the reason he was now in Prosperino.
Glancing at his watch, he calculated he had a few minutes before he needed to leave for his meeting with Blake Fallon. At breakfast he’d overheard Charlie O’Connell mention to one of the art judges that he had an appointment this morning. Rory figured now was as good a time as any to chat.
Just then, the inn’s front door swung open and the EPA inspector stepped onto the porch.
“Bingo,” Rory said softly. He narrowed his eyes against the wind and watched O’Connell make his way along the cobblestone walk, his slight limp the apparent aftereffect of his tumble down the stairs. His tan gabardine overcoat hung open over his crimson sweater and khaki slacks. Gusts of wind picked up strands of his brown hair.
Rory waited until his quarry reached the gravel lot before pushing away from the car’s fender. “Got a minute, O’Connell?”
The EPA inspector flicked him a look as he walked to a black sedan that displayed the logo of a rental car company on its back bumper. “A minute’s about all I have. I’m running late for an appointment.”
“I want to talk to you about the water on Hopechest Ranch.”
O’Connell twisted the key in the lock, pulled the door open, then turned and met Rory’s gaze. “What about it?”
Rory raised a brow. “I don’t guess I need to remind you it’s contaminated. I’d like to know what your findings are so far.”
“I bet you would.”
“Meaning?”
Resting a forearm along the top of the car’s door, O’Connell pursed his lips. “I don’t have time to beat around the bush, Sinclair, so I’ll lay this out for you. I’ve worked a lot of cases where private consultants were involved. It’s my opinion you’re all alike. You get hired by your client after an investigation is in full swing. You show up in your nice clothes and leather jackets with your state-of-the-art instruments, and expect us government drones to hand over the results of the work we’ve already done. That isn’t going to happen here.”
Rory wondered what the man would say if he knew he was talking to a fellow government drone. “I don’t expect you to do my work for me, O’Connell. All I’m asking is that you discuss with me what you’ve found out so far.”
O’Connell flicked an impatient glance at his watch. “Like what?”
“Hopechest Ranch gets its drinking water from an underground source. Have you made any headway figuring out how the water became contaminated?”
“Not yet.”
Rory took a deep breath. It was clear the man wasn’t inclined to share information. Still, he had to try. “From talking to Blake Fallon on the phone, it sounds like all the victims came down with acute bacterial infections. Has the EPA’s lab ruled out the vibrio cholerae bacteria? If not, we might be looking at a potential cholera epidemic.”
“We ruled out cholera two days ago.”
“What about traces of mercury in the water? Lead, cadmium, arsenic or beryllium? Find any of that?”
“When I issue my final report, I’ll make sure you get a copy.”
“Your final report is considered public record. I can get a copy for myself.”
“I’ve got to go, Sinclair.”
Rory watched as O’Connell slid into his car, then slammed the door shut. The engine coughed once, then hummed to life.
Despite Blake’s suspicions, Rory knew just because the man wasn’t forthcoming with information didn’t mean he was involved in anything nefarious. In truth, O’Connell sounded like a disgruntled government worker—the FBI’s lab had a few of those, too. If, on the other hand, Blake was on target and O’Connell was up to no good, Rory had no clue what the hell that might be. Or what O’Connell might stand to gain.
Shaking his head, Rory slid into his own rental car. He knew, like in any other investigation, the answers would come in their own time.
With Blake Fallon’s faxed map on the seat beside him, Rory steered his car over a narrow bridge that spanned the rushing Noyo River. He had driven far enough inland that the fog had dissipated. A heavy cover of grim, gray clouds still obscured the January sky, but at least he could now see the countryside.
A neat, white-railed fence lined the curving road that skirted Hopechest Ranch property; beyond the fence were rolling hills covered with a thick blanket of grass where cattle grazed. In the distance, towering redwoods speared, straight and strong, into the clouds.
Peaceful was the word that slid into Rory’s mind as he glanced at the serene landscape. He frowned, wondering again what it was that compelled him to notice the scenery when he’d taken so little notice of it for years.
A sign pointed him toward the turnoff for the ranch’s main entrance; in the distance, several barns, a stable adjoined by neat, white-railed paddocks and what looked like a handful of long bunkhouses huddled beneath the gray sky. From his conversation with Blake, Rory knew that Hopechest Ranch was not only a haven for kids from troubled homes, but also a full working ranch with a permanent staff. The thirty to forty kids who lived there at any given time were all assigned chores that allowed them to experience the challenges and triumphs of hard work. In addition to the operation of a nationally known counseling program, Hopechest Ranch was home to a school, state-of-the-art gymnasium, archery range and art studio.
Impressive operation, Rory decided as he pulled his car to a halt beside a sign that identified the administration building. Blake had told him the ranch had once belonged to a private family. The structure in which Blake both lived and worked had been the family’s dwelling.
That was what it looked like, Rory thought as he took in the two-story wood-frame house with a porch that wrapped around two sides and part of a third. The structure was old, but well-maintained with what looked to be a fresh coat of white paint and shiny white blinds in the windows. A thin curl of smoke rose from the chimney. Just like at Honeywell House, several chairs and a small table took up one corner of the front porch.
Rory climbed out of his car and started up the brick walk. He noted several nearby oaks standing sentinel just outside the long hedge that bordered the yard. Two planters on either side of the front door held trimmed shrubs; beside the door was a discreet brass plaque: Hopechest.
The reception area was done in gray-blue and ivory. Polished tables flanked a comfortable-looking couch upholstered in a dark fabric. The floor was hardwood and gleaming. A mantelpiece held an antique mirror and an arrangement of dried flowers. Below it a fire crackled eagerly.
Behind an uncluttered desk sat a rather plain young woman who peered at a computer monitor through a pair of understated glasses. She had long, straight brown hair that nearly concealed the phone’s receiver she held tucked between one shoulder of her navy blazer and her ear. While she spoke into the phone, her fingers flew across a computer keyboard. The surface of the desk was neatly stacked with printouts and brown accordion files tied with string. The nameplate aligned with the front edge of the desk read Holly Lamb. She gave Rory an engaging smile and held up a finger to indicate she’d be with him in a moment.
The smile that lit up her face had him rethinking his initial assessment. She wasn’t plain, he realized, not with that classical-shaped face, high cheekbones and perfectly shaped nose. But her skin was bare of makeup, her brownish-green eyes nearly lost behind the lenses of her glasses. He suspected, with the right makeup, the woman would be stunning.
“Mr. Fallon has a meeting that morning,” she said into the phone, “but I can give you an appointment for two o’clock the same afternoon.” Her fingers paused over the keyboard, then started moving again. “Fine. He’ll see you in his office on Wednesday at two.”
She smiled up at Rory as she replaced the receiver. “Good morning, may I help you?”
“I’m Rory Sinclair—”
“Oh, yes, Blake’s scientist.” She rose, tall and slender, moving around the desk with easy grace. The skirt that matched her navy blazer ended just above the knee; her navy shoes were low-heeled and sensible. “I’m Holly Lamb.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Lamb.” Rory returned her firm, brisk shake.
“Holly. We’ve got our fingers crossed that you’ll be able to identify what got into our water.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Her gaze darted to the hallway behind her desk. “I don’t think Blake has gotten a good night’s sleep since this whole thing started.” She looked back at Rory. “It’s been awful with so many of the kids and staff getting sick.”
“How about you? Has the water made you sick?”
“No. I live in downtown Prosperino. The water there is fine. Well, so far it is, anyway. My saving grace is that I drink a lot of canned soda instead of water. Not the healthiest thing to do, but in this case my bad habit kept me from drinking the ranch’s water and getting sick. Maybe winding up in the hospital.”
Using a hand that sported short, unpolished nails, she shoved her long brown hair behind her shoulder. “Blake asked me to bring you back to his office the minute you got here.” Turning, she led the way past her desk, Rory following. “I understand you and Blake were roommates in college.”
“That’s right.”
Her mouth curving at the edges, she slid Rory a sideways look. “I bet you could tell me some good stories about Blake.”
Rory cocked his head. Although she kept her tone light, he picked up on a personal thread that had him wondering if there was more than just the job between Holly and her boss.
“I could. Problem is, Blake knows some good stories about me, too. I’d better keep my mouth shut.”
“I had to try.” She gave a brisk tap on a door at the end of the hallway. After a muffled “Come in,” she pushed the door open and stepped back for Rory to enter.
“Blake, you have company.”
“I’ll be damned.” Smiling, Blake rose from behind a wide expanse of polished desk and strode across the office. Gripping the hand Rory offered, Hopechest Ranch’s director delivered a resounding slap to his friend’s shoulder. “How many years has it been?”
“Too many to count.”
“I agree.”
Blake Fallon had changed little since their college days, Rory decided. His tall, athletic build evidenced the frequent workouts Blake had stuck to when they’d shared a dorm room. The only difference seemed to be that he now wore his dark, thick hair shorter. His skin carried a healthy, golden tan that told Rory his friend didn’t spend all of his time behind the neat-as-a-pin desk where a single file folder lay open.
Rory inclined his head toward the desk. “I see you’re still chronically neat, Fallon. You still polish your stapler every day?”
Blake chuckled. “At least I can find my stapler. I bet you still keep a desk that looks like an avalanche hit it.”
“Some things never change.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Rory noted that Holly’s gaze lingered on her boss for an extra beat before she shifted her attention. “Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Sinclair? Tea?”
“Call me Rory, and I’ll pass. I had breakfast before I left the inn.”
“Let me know if you change your mind. How about you, Blake?”
“Nothing for me, Holly. I’ll let you know if we need anything.”
Rory waited until the door clicked shut on Holly’s departing form. “Did you tell her I’m FBI?”
“No. You and I are the only ones who know. Until we get to the bottom of things around here, I figured that was best.” All of a sudden, Blake’s voice sounded deathly tired.
Rory glanced at the office’s far corner where two green leather wing chairs and a matching sofa angled around a low coffee table. “We going to stand the whole time I’m here, or are you going to offer me a place to sit?”
Blake shoved a hand through his dark hair then gestured Rory toward the grouping of furniture. “Sorry. My hosting skills are a little off. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“More than just last night, I’d say,” Rory observed as he pulled off his leather jacket and tossed it over one of the visitors’ chairs that sat in front of the desk. The strain his friend felt showed in the dark circles under his eyes. “You look the same way you did during finals when we crammed a full semester of textbook reading into one week.”
“That, in addition to working in a date or two,” Blake added as he and Rory settled into wing chairs.
“Those were the days.”
Focusing his thoughts on business, Rory rested one ankle on the opposite knee as he leaned back in the chair’s leathery softness. “On the phone you gave me an overview of what’s happened over the past weeks. I need you to start at the beginning and fill in the details.”
“It all seems like a bad dream.” As he spoke, Blake rubbed a palm over his face. “Like I told you, back in late November a litter of kittens was born dead. A while later another barn cat and a dog dropped dead on the same day. The dog was old, he’d been around for years, so everyone thought it was age that got him. The cat was only about a year old. Neither did it show signs it’d gotten into a fight, no cuts, wounds or anything. One morning it was chasing mice in the stables, that afternoon it was dead. The ranch foreman found it and buried it. He told me he figured the cat had gotten hold of a mouse that carried some disease or had been poisoned, and that’s what killed it.”
“Sounds like a logical assumption.”
“Yeah. Shortly after that, two kids woke up sick. They’re both younger, smaller in build. They bunk next to each other in the building we call The Homestead. It’s a dormitory-style lodge where our temporary residents awaiting fostering or adoption stay. Both kids had the same symptoms—headache, vomiting, high fever, muscle aches, disorientation. It was winter, so we’d assumed they’d come down with the flu. At first, the doctor who treated them thought that, too.”
“I want to talk to that doctor about the symptoms. What’s his name?”
“Jason Colton. He’s a GP. His office is across the street from Prosperino Medical Center. I’ll give him a call and set up a time for you to see him.”
“Good.” Rory lifted a brow. “He any relation to the foster family you lived with after your parents split up?”
“Good memory, pal.”
“Comes in handy in my job.”
“Joe and Meredith Colton are the doc’s aunt and uncle.”
Rory nodded. “After those first two kids, how long did it take others to start getting sick?”
Blake furrowed his brow. “Not long. They all lived in The Homestead. The floors used there for the sleeping areas are all open and lined with bunk beds. The living room, dining room and kitchen are communal, so everyone intermingles.”
“I take it you thought the flu was spreading fast, like it always does.”
“Yes. A couple of the counselors got sick, too.” As he spoke, Blake knocked a fist lightly against the chair’s arm. “I should have figured out the connection to the water sooner.”
“The doctor thought it was the flu. From the sound of things, everyone else did, too. I don’t know why you should have thought any different.”
“I’m director of Hopechest Ranch. That makes me responsible for everyone who steps foot on this property.”
“That’s a big responsibility for one man to shoulder.”
“Yeah.” Blake blew out a breath. “Anyway, after about a week, it dawned on me that the only people getting sick were those who live or work on Hopechest Ranch. Some of my employees live in downtown Prosperino, others on the Crooked Arrow Indian Reservation, which borders the ranch’s land. Some of the staff who live here drive into downtown daily to buy supplies. It kept nagging at me that if a rampaging flu was what was making the ranch’s people sick, surely it would have spread to the town or the res.”
“One would think.”
“So, since only the people here were sick, it stood to reason that the cause was something on the ranch. I thought maybe it could be low levels of carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty heater in one of the lodges. E-coli from contaminated meat. Anthrax. Asbestos. I considered everything but the water.”
“Why?”
“We test it. The last time was two days before the dog and the kittens died. Everything checked out.”
“So, if the contamination was intentional, that gives us close to an exact date when it occurred.” Rory pursed his lips. “What about your water pump? What sort of filter do you have?”
“A gas chlorine injector.”
“So, even if whatever got into the water had a distinctive odor or taste, the injector would have masked that.”
“For a while, anyway. But this stuff is odorless and tasteless. Otherwise, with the number of people we’ve got around here, someone would have noticed a difference in the water.” Blake leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. “One morning, I got a call from a counselor at Emily’s House—that’s our dorm for unwed mothers. Five of the girls had woken up deathly ill. One was having premature labor pains. Doc Colton admitted all of them to the hospital for tests. At that point, I knew time was running out. I couldn’t wait around until someone died before I got to the bottom of this. I called the health department and the EPA.”
“What happened after that?”
“The health department tested all the food, the heaters and the air inside all the facilities, everything. While they did that, Charlie O’Connell showed up and checked the water. Bingo, we had the source of contamination. I shut down the well. Since then, I’ve had water trucked onto the ranch.” Blake stared down at his hands dangling between his thighs. “You meet up yet with O’Connell?”
“A couple of times.”
“What’s your impression?”
“That his favorite pastime is putting the moves on my landlady.” Rory’s brows drew together, the annoyance self-directed that the comment had been the first thought to pop into his head. It sure as hell wasn’t what Blake needed to know.
His friend’s brows lifted. “O’Connell making any progress?”
“Mrs. Honeywell has threatened to toss him and his belongings out in the street.”
“Good for Peggy.”
“Yeah.” Shifting in his chair, Rory heard again the edge that had settled in her voice, pictured the heat of temper that had sparked in those compelling green eyes when she laid down the law to O’Connell. Dangerous territory, Rory cautioned himself before steering the conversation back to business. “I talked to O’Connell for a couple of minutes this morning about the ranch’s water.”
“He give you any information?”
“Only that the bacteria that causes cholera isn’t what put your people in the hospital.”
Blake blinked. “Holy hell, I never thought of cholera.”
“Don’t, because the EPA has ruled it out. They’ve probably ruled out other things, too, but O’Connell isn’t forthcoming. The bottom line is, he isn’t happy about your hiring a private consultant to do the same testing he’s doing.”
“Too bad. I can’t shake the feeling he’s up to something. And that something doesn’t concern the well-being of Hopechest Ranch or its people.”
“You mentioned on the phone you caught O’Connell having some sort of clandestine meetings at one of the ranch’s hay sheds.”
“Right, it was late evening when I drove by and saw his rented car parked there.”
“You didn’t get a look at who he was with?”
“All I saw was the rear of their car. It was white.”
“Maybe he met a woman there,” Rory pointed out. “O’Connell could have been enjoying a literal roll in the hay.”
“Possible.”
“Since he isn’t inclined to share information, I’ll have to run duplicate tests that he’s already had the EPA’s lab run. That’ll take time.”
“Dammit, Rory, we may not have time.” Blake clenched his hands into fists. “If someone purposely contaminated the ranch’s water, they might have done it to get back at me, at my family. God knows what the hell they might do next.”
Rory’s thoughts went back to what Peggy had said in the kitchen that morning when she discovered he knew nothing about the trouble that had befallen Blake the previous year. I thought you and Blake were friends.
The echo of her words, and the angry frustration he now saw in his friend’s face, had guilt balling in Rory’s throat. If he had been any kind of friend to Blake, he would already know what that trouble was.
Setting his jaw, Rory shifted his gaze to the far side of the office where a bookcase sat, its shelves lined with obsessively neat rows of leather volumes. Over the years, there had been many times when he could have phoned Blake, just to say hello. Should have phoned him. Rory hadn’t, not once. After all, he was a man who shrugged off relationships. He didn’t like maintaining ties. He always felt it was pointless to look back toward the past or to give much thought to the future. He lived for the moment. The now.
For the first time in his life, Rory felt the sharp blade of regret for having taken for granted the closest friendship he’d ever had. “I’m sorry, Blake,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what happened to you or your family. Or the reason someone might have to get back at you.”
Blake rose, moved to the nearest window and stared out. “We haven’t exactly kept in touch, have we?”
“My fault,” Rory said. “I always put the job first.”
Blake slid him a look across his shoulder. “Thanks to your dad, you never learned how to do anything else.”
“True.” Rory eased out a breath. Blake was one of the few people who knew the history between him and his late father. It was a history that Rory had no desire to discuss.
“Look, we’re not talking about me right now. If you think someone contaminated the water on this ranch as revenge against you, I need to know about it. Everything.”
Blake ran a palm across the back of his neck. “Christ, you’d think with time, this would get easier to talk about.”
“Some things never get easy.”
“This is one of them.” With a restless move of his shoulders, Blake walked back to his chair. “My dad’s gone through three wives—my mother, and the other two left him because of his drinking. I’ve got three stepsisters I barely know because we all got shuffled from household to household while we were growing up.”
Blake paused, as if collecting his thoughts. Rory waited in silence.
“I don’t know if I ever told you any of this, but my dad served in the army with Joe Colton. After their discharge, they went to Wyoming where Joe started Colton Mining. A couple of years after that, Joe branched into oil. Later on, shipping. Dad always considered himself Joe’s equal partner, but that’s not the way things were. Joe’s brother, Graham, was his legal partner in Colton Enterprises.”
“I take it your dad resented that?”
“Yes. Even when I was little, he felt that Joe and Graham had cheated him out of what was rightfully his. That made him drink more. When my parents’ marriage started falling apart, they fought and screamed at each other constantly. Home became a war zone.”
“With you in the middle,” Rory added.
“Right. I still don’t know how, but Joe and Meredith Colton figured out what was going on. They insisted I move in with them at Hacienda de Alegria, their ranch in Prosperino. If they hadn’t done that, I would have eventually run off and never come back.” Blake shrugged. “Joe took me under his wing, gave me a foundation. He became more of a father to me than Emmett Fallon ever was.”
“In college, whenever you mentioned Joe Colton, I got the impression you thought he walked on water.”
“I did. Do. Unfortunately, you’re not the only one who formed that conclusion. My dad did, too. My going around singing Joe’s praises only fed his anger. Last year his drinking got so bad that Joe forced him into retirement. That pushed Dad over the edge. On two separate occasions, he took a shot at Joe. Nearly killed him both times.”
“Jesus,” Rory said softly. “What happened to Emmett?”
“After evidence against him surfaced, he confessed. Waived a trial and pled guilty. He’s at the prison in San Quentin.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Blake shook his head. “To the people in this town, Joe Colton is a saint. My dad’s in prison where no one can get to him. The water on Hopechest is contaminated—so far, it’s the only water around with a problem. What if this is all about my dad trying to kill Joe? What if someone contaminated the water here solely to get back at me?”
“The sins of the father visited on the son?”
“Exactly.”
“Until we know what got into the water and how it got there, we can’t discount anything.” Rory furrowed his brow. “Have you received any threatening letters about what your dad did? Any phone calls?”
“A couple of calls.”
“Did you report them to the police?”
“No. They came in at night on my private line when I was upstairs in bed. The caller didn’t actually threaten me, just railed against Dad and called him names. I figured a few people needed to blow off steam.”
“There’s always a chance one of those people decided you need to suffer, too.” Rory tilted his chin. “What about a family member of Joe’s?”
“No. The Coltons bent over backward to help Dad after his arrest. Joe even persuaded the judge to give him a light sentence.”
“Colton does sound a little saintlike.”
“Trust me, he is. He and his wife are paying the cost of all medical expenses for anyone who drank contaminated water.”
Rory expelled a soft whistle. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Right. So, I doubt Joe would have contaminated the water, then turned around and offered to pay everyone’s medical expenses. You can cross off everyone close to him, too.”
“Your dad was close to him,” Rory said quietly. “Sometimes the guilty party is the last person you’d suspect.”
“Yeah. I sure as hell didn’t suspect my dad of taking those potshots at Joe.”
“I need a list, Blake. I want the name of every person who stands to profit in any way if you lose your job. I also want the name of anyone who might hold a grudge against you or your family for what Emmett did. That includes all the Coltons, everyone connected with them and the people who might take offense at your father trying to kill Prosperino’s favorite citizen.”
“That would be about everyone in town.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll get the list from you later today.” Rory checked his watch. “I’ve got my evidence kit in the trunk so I’ll take samples from your well before I leave. If possible, I’d like to see Dr. Colton after I’m done here.”
“I’ll set it up.” Blake sat back at his desk.
“Will he balk about releasing copies of toxicology reports on everyone who got sick?”
“No. The kids are legally in the care of Hopechest Ranch so we have access to all their medical information. I’ll call Suzanne Jorgenson and have her get the reports. She’s one of our counselors who’s sitting in on this morning’s city council meeting.” Blake smiled. “Suzanne has a knack for keeping Mayor Longstreet on his toes.”
Blake settled into the chair behind his desk and reached for the phone. In a few minutes, he hung up. “Jason will be at his clinic all day. His receptionist said for you to just drop by and she’ll squeeze you in to see him between patients. Suzanne will get the copies of the tox reports for you and drop them off at Honeywell House.”
“Fine.”
Leaning back in his chair, Blake gave Rory a tired smile across the expanse of polished desk. “You mentioned you ate breakfast at the inn.”
“That’s right.” Rory retrieved his leather jacket off the chair at the front of the desk. “It is a bed and breakfast, you know.”
“Do I. Sometimes, when I have an early meeting in town, I drop by Honeywell House first. I always make sure I show up hungry so Peggy will take pity on me and feed me. What did she serve this morning?”
“Pecan pancakes and apple cinnamon sausage.” Rory’s mouth curved. “I thought I had died and gone to heaven.”
“Wait until you taste that apricot cobbler I told you about.”
“That’ll be tonight.”
“Oh, yeah? You already manage to charm the charming Mrs. Honeywell?”
“My charm, although considerable, had nothing to do with it,” Rory said dryly as he shrugged on his jacket. “I made a deal—I test the inn’s water twice a day, Mrs. Honeywell bakes me a different dessert every night.”
“That’s some deal.” Blake’s smile faded. “So, how is the inn’s water?”
“Fine. No problems.”
“I hope we’ll be saying that soon about the ranch’s water. Then we can all go back to our own lives.”
“Let’s hope.”
Rory slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, fisted them. Once he identified what had contaminated the water, he would leave Prosperino, as he had left dozens of other places, hundreds of other people, and go on to the next.
That just the thought of leaving tightened his gut was something he filed away to think about later.
Four
“I hope he’ll make a difference.”
Peggy glanced at Suzanne Jorgenson who sat sipping tea across the small polished span of the table in the alcove just off the kitchen. “Who?”
“Your scientist.”
“Mr. Sinclair is your boss’s scientist. Blake hired him.” As she spoke, Peggy used her gardening shears to snip off the end of an iris stalk. Earlier, she had decided to treat her guests to a touch of spring on this gloomy January afternoon. She had headed to the greenhouse she’d had built on one side of the inn’s parking lot and clipped stalks from the bulbs she forced year-round. Now the lush green stalks sporting purple and pink blooms lay like colorful blobs of paint on the newspapers spread across the table.
“Right, Blake’s scientist.” Violet eyes shadowed by fatigue met Peggy’s gaze over the rim of the teacup. “I’m keeping my fingers crossed that he can figure out what contaminated the ranch’s water.” Replacing the teacup on its saucer, Suzanne settled a palm on the manila envelope that contained the toxicology reports Blake had asked her to pick up and deliver to Honeywell House. “Watching so many of the kids get sick, then some of the other counselors and staff members has been a nightmare.” She shook her head. “Jason Colton still has two of our pregnant teens under observation until he knows for sure what they consumed in the water. Let’s hope Sinclair figures it out fast.”
“Let’s hope.” Peggy knew that Rory would immediately check out after he identified the contaminant. Leave Prosperino. She would never again be forced to gaze up into those extraordinary blue eyes while her heart pounded against her ribs. Never feel his long, firm fingers tangle with hers when he helped her to her feet. Never have to stand inches from him while a single, mesmerizing word rolled off his tongue. Ireland.
She had never known one word could sound like that—soft and smooth and vaguely exotic. A part of her yearned to wallow in the silky feel of it. Another part cautioned her to keep her distance.
The jolting pleasure at hearing him voice that one word had been followed by a flash of heat that had shocked her by its intensity. She knew that kind of reaction, the depth and suddenness of it, held its own special danger. She had felt that same instant, flash-fire pull to Jay. Then, she had been unable to resist the attraction, powerless to fight it.
She knew, with every instinct she possessed, that if she didn’t keep her distance from Rory Sinclair, she would find herself helplessly drawn in by the aura of danger she sensed in him. The thought allured, and at the same time scared the hell out of her.
“Peggy?”
Her gaze whipped up to meet Suzanne’s. “I… What?”
“Something wrong?”
“No.” Clearing her throat, Peggy forced back images of the man who had consumed her thoughts since he’d walked into her life the previous night. She had to stop fantasizing over Rory Sinclair. She had to.
“I’m sorry, Suzanne, I’m a little distracted. What did you say?”
Her friend pursed her mouth as she watched Peggy stab two iris stalks into a cut-glass vase. “I said, at today’s city council meeting, Longstreet announced again that Prosperino’s water supply is safe. Says he’s sure of that because it’s being tested twice a day. The mayor had a couple of pitchers of ice water on the dais that he said came right from the tap. During the meeting, he and the council members all drank their fair share.”
“I don’t suppose that will stop people from stocking up on bottled water.”
“I agree. I think Longstreet is worried that history will repeat itself. Last week, when the delivery of bottled water was late getting to the grocery store, the police had a near riot on their hands.”
“I heard.” As she spoke, Peggy slid the last of the iris stems into the vase. The arrangement needed some sprigs of her homegrown baby’s breath as a finishing touch, she decided. “I won’t miss having to stand in the line at the store to buy my ration of bottled water.”
“You decide to put all your faith in Prosperino’s water testing abilities?”
“That, and Mr. Sinclair’s. He’s agreed to test the inn’s water twice a day.”
“Must be nice to have your own private chemist.”
“He’s not my chemist,” Peggy blurted, then snapped her jaw shut. Suzanne hadn’t meant anything by the remark, yet for reasons Peggy didn’t want to acknowledge, she’d found it necessary to make instant denials about her relationship with Rory. There is no relationship!
With embarrassment forming a hot ball in her stomach, Peggy met her friend’s gaze. “But you’re right, it is reassuring to have the inn’s water tested daily.”
Arching a dark brow, Suzanne leaned in. “Okay, Peg, spill it. What’s going on between you and the chemist?”
“Nothing. He just… Nothing.”
“Uh-huh.”
Peggy laid the shears aside. “He just…he reminds me of Jay, is all.”
“You mean, Sinclair looks like Jay?”
“No. I mean Rory…Mr. Sinclair resembles the cop side of Jay.”
“Cop side?”
“He’s observant. It’s like he takes in everything in one look and instantly sizes up a situation.”
“Think he might just be a scientist with the eyes of a microscope?”
“It’s more than that. He moves like a shadow. Soundless. Last night I didn’t hear a thing when he came through the front door—not even his footsteps on the wood floor. I had no idea he was in the foyer until I turned around and saw him. Jay had that same stealthy way about him.”
Suzanne tilted her head. “Does it upset you to be around a man who reminds you of your husband?”
“No. Jay’s been gone nearly five years. It’s easier now to focus on all the good times we shared.”
Silently, Peggy conceded that what having Rory around did do was make her feel nervous, unsettled and far more interested in him than she had a right to be. After all, the possibility still loomed that there was a Mrs. Sinclair waiting for him in D.C.
Frowning, Peggy sat the cut-glass vase aside, then rolled up the newspapers that held the pieces of stem she’d clipped. “I guess all the worrying over the water is getting to me. I don’t know how many hours of sleep I’ve lost while I’ve agonized over whether I should take Samantha someplace safe until this crisis is over.”
“I think everyone in town has lost sleep over the water.” Suzanne rose, carried her cup and saucer to the sink. There, she turned and gazed at the crayon drawings attached by magnets to the refrigerator door. “Speaking of Samantha, how is she?”
“Wonderful.” Peggy smiled as she dumped the newspaper in the trash, then carried the flower arrangement to the center work island. “Of course, I’m prejudiced.”
“That’s a mother’s right.” Suzanne moved to the refrigerator, slid a fingertip along the edge of one of the drawings. “You can’t always know where a safe place is for your child, can you? Until two weeks ago Hopechest Ranch fell into that category. Overnight its water supply turned into an environmental nightmare.”
“True.” Peggy paused. She saw worry and concern in Suzanne’s eyes…and a wistfulness she’d never before seen. “Is something wrong? I mean, other than what you and everyone else who works at Hopechest are having to deal with?”
Suzanne opened her mouth, then closed it. Shaking her head, she retrieved the multicolored wool jacket she’d hung on the coatrack by the back door. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. A couple of things to figure out. Plus, all those hours I’ve spent with our two pregnant teens are catching up with me. My brain is toast.”
Peggy retrieved her shears off the table, then joined her friend at the door. “You’ll let me know if I can help?”
“Sure.” Smiling, Suzanne squeezed Peggy’s arm. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Anytime. I’ll walk you out. I need to get some baby’s breath from the greenhouse.”
The women stepped onto the back porch into the fog-enshrouded afternoon. The rumble of the surf at the base of the nearby cliffs permeated the thick, humid air. Beyond the porch lay the gravel lot. Peggy could barely make out the outline of her black station wagon, which, other than Suzanne’s, was the only vehicle parked there.
When she found herself wondering when Rory would return, Peggy tightened her grip on the shears. It wasn’t any of her business when he would get back. Didn’t matter if he ever returned.
Suzanne shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket while she shot a disparaging look at the gray, overcast sky. “Whoever dubbed this ‘sunny California’ must have been smoking something at the time.”
Laughing, Peggy watched her friend descend the porch steps. “You’re right. Come to think of it, we haven’t seen the sun for a week. Maybe longer.”
“I guess the mood of the town matches the weather these days,” Suzanne observed. When she turned to look back up at Peggy, the wind whipped through her dark hair. “Are you bringing Samantha to the arts festival tomorrow night?”
“Definitely. She’s been talking for days about her and Gracie making a return visit to the face painting booth. Samantha would never forgive me if we missed the festival.”
“See you there, then.” Suzanne walked the few steps to her car, slid in, then started the engine.
Peggy lingered on the porch, snipping off several wilted sprigs from the pots of orange and yellow mums that lined the rail. Satisfied, she descended the steps, gravel crunching beneath her shoes as she traversed the parking lot. With each step, the wind whipped at the red velvet ribbon that tied her hair loosely back.
The unremitting gray clouds that blocked the sun transformed the interior of the greenhouse into a dim space where the smell of damp earth mixed with the scent of delicate blooms. Wooden, waist-high potting benches lined both sides of the greenhouse and the wall opposite the door. That bench held empty pots, packets of seeds, a long-spouted watering can and hand tools. Large bags of peat moss and potting soil shared space in a shadowy corner beside the bench.
The wind battered against the structure’s walls and roof, rattling the glass panes. Beneath her gray sweater and slacks, Peggy’s skin prickled from the wind’s mournful howl and a sensation she couldn’t identify.
Another presence? Immediately she dismissed the unsettling thought as her gaze raked the dim, tidy interior, taking in the colorful irises that burst from bulbs planted beside pots of delicate baby’s breath and pink tulips. The disconcerting sensation that had suddenly descended around her no doubt came from the wind’s forlorn moan.
Shaking her head, she moved to the bench that held rows of small peat pots in which she’d sown seeds the previous week. Although she’d glanced at the pots when she was there earlier, she’d been in a hurry to snip the iris stems and get back to the kitchen to take her sourdough bread out of the oven before it burned. Now that all the baking and cleaning were done for the day—and poor Bugs’s head was stitched back on—she lingered over the peat pots, examining the tender sprouts that had just begun to push through the soil.
Peggy’s mouth curved with the sense of pleasure she always felt amid the fragrance of loamy earth and delicate blossoms. She could think of few things more intensely satisfying than growing things, giving them life, then watching them flourish in her care.
After a few moments, she glanced at her watch. It was nearly three o’clock. Normally, Samantha would be getting off the bus from preschool about this time. Today, however, was special. Gracie’s mom had called and invited Samantha to their house for a session of cookie baking.
Samantha’s absence gave Peggy a few extra minutes to linger over her plants. Still, she couldn’t get any real work done since it was nearly time to prepare that evening’s cheese plate and the accompanying wine to serve her guests in the study.
Turning to the bench opposite the one that held the peat pots, Peggy used the shears to clip a sprig of baby’s breath. She had just laid the sprig aside when a vague noise that seemed to come from somewhere behind her sent a chill zipping up her spine. Swallowing hard, she told herself the noise had been nothing more than the wind rattling the panes of glass. Or maybe a car pulling into the parking lot. Those reassuring thoughts didn’t stop her from looking across her shoulder while her heart banged against her ribs like a moth against a screen.
The only thing behind her was the bench covered with peat pots. Beyond the glass walls, the fog seemed to have grown more dense. It pressed against the panes, obscuring the parking lot, heightening her sense of isolation.
Turning her attention back to the task at hand, Peggy expelled a slow breath. The half sigh ended in a choked gasp when a hand grabbed her hair in one hard yank that snapped her head back. The pain that stabbed into her skull was like an explosion, as clear as a star on a cold night.
From behind, thick fingers locked like a vise on the back of her neck and lifted. She was nearly on tiptoe, and bent so far backward that her spine threatened to crack.
The strength necessary to raise her almost off her feet told her that her assailant was a man.
She had a sickening half moment to think about rape while she struggled, her body twisting while her blood pounded in her ears. Her hand, still gripping the shears, flailed, stabbing futilely at the air behind her.
Fear screamed through her head, shrieked toward her throat. Before she could make a sound, she was spun toward the rear of the greenhouse then shoved forward. Staggering off-balance, she slammed sideways into the potting bench; the force of the blow sent the shears flying from her grasp. The bolt of pain that exploded in her hip blurred her vision and turned her legs as spindly as a foal’s.
She fell hard on her hands and knees to the dirt floor. Dazed, she was vaguely aware of movement behind her, heard the door bang outward, felt the cool wind sweep into the greenhouse’s dim recesses. Through a haze of pain and fear, she heard footsteps scrambling across the gravel lot. Then nothing.
He was gone. Had something scared him away? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was alone. Shaking, scared and alone. Until he came back.
Sheer black waves of terror threatened to engulf her. What if he came back? He’d been immensely strong, could have snapped her neck with one twist of his powerful hands. What if he killed her next time? Samantha had no other family, she would be alone. Who would take care of her child? Love her?
Sobbing, Peggy raised a trembling hand above her head and gripped the edge of the bench. Her fingers slipped, leaving a streak of dirt. She tried again, using both hands. When she pulled herself up, pain seared up and down her thigh from the spot on her hip that had smashed against wood.
Eyes watering from the pain, short breaths scraping at her throat, she took an unsteady step forward. Then another. Her instinct for survival shrieked for her to get inside the inn, get away. Lock herself in before he came back.
Reaching out, she gripped the bench that held the peat pots. She saw that her garden shears had landed in the middle of the small pots, scattering them. Her fingers numb and stiff, she gripped the shears as though they were a weapon. If her attacker came back, if he tried to touch her again, she would use them.
Leaning her weight against the bench, she inched toward the open door, her heart hammering wildly. Fingers of fog crept across the dirt floor, sliding around her ankles like shackles, making her progress seem more of a crawl than an unsteady walk.
Even as she told herself she was more frightened than hurt, her brain registered the sickening crunch of gravel coming from just outside the door.
She went still, her body rigid, every muscle and tendon taut. The fog-obscured silhouette that darkened the doorway sent claws of terror digging into her throat.
He’s back.
Panic threatened to swamp her, and she forced it away. She could panic later…if she survived his next attack.
With the quick, instinctive fear of a cornered victim, she raised the shears. When the dark form advanced through the door, she lunged.
It happened fast, a blur of motion and sound. One second, Rory was striding across the gravel parking lot, his mind half focused on the microbiological quality of Hopechest Ranch’s water. The instant he stepped through the door of the greenhouse, adrenaline surged through his chest as he dodged the business end of viciously sharp garden shears.
“What the hell…?”
“Oh, God, it’s you. I thought…”
When he saw the shockingly white sheen of Peggy’s skin, the pure fear in her moss-green eyes, his heart stopped.
He gripped her shoulders. “What happened?”
“A man grabbed me.” She burrowed into Rory’s arms as if he were a lifeline. “Did you see him out there?” Her breath came out on a broken sob. “He’s out there.”
Rory looked toward the door and quelled the urge to go after the guy. With the fog so thick, it would be like searching for someone on a moonless night.
“I didn’t see him,” Rory said quietly while cursing the fact his gun was upstairs, hidden in his room.
Sliding his arms tighter around Peggy’s trembling body, he swept his gaze across the greenhouse’s dim interior. Nothing. He saw nothing amiss, except the small pots with tiny green sprouts scattered across one of the wooden benches.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not really.”
“Tell me what happened.”
She shuddered. “I…thought someone…was behind me. No one was. Then…he grabbed my hair. The back of my neck.” Against his chest, Rory felt her hands fist. “He nearly lifted me off the floor. I thought… Oh, God, I thought he was going to…”
Setting his jaw, Rory eased her back. Her sweater was buttoned to the neck, and the only damage to her slacks were smudges of dirt on both knees. If she’d been raped in this setting, her clothing would be soiled, torn.
“I’ve got you.” He closed his eyes, slicked his palm down the length of her ponytail and chose to ignore the hard, jerky beat of his own heart. “He can’t hurt you now.”
“Samantha. All I could think about was Samantha. How alone she’d be if I died.”
Rory’s chin jerked up. Dammit, for the first time in his life he’d broken one of the ironclad rules of being a cop. He had let himself feel instead of think. Less than five minutes ago, he’d parked his rental car in the lot, gone into the inn through the front door and immediately started looking for Peggy. When he got to the kitchen, he spotted the flowers in the vase. Since her station wagon was parked outside, he figured she was around somewhere, so he took a chance she might be in the greenhouse. During his short time indoors, he hadn’t heard or seen Samantha.
The thought that some scum had attacked the mother to buy time to snatch her child put a sick feeling in Rory’s gut. He’d worked enough crime scenes that involved kidnapped children to last a lifetime. Swallowing hard, he forced his voice to remain steady. “Where’s Samantha?”
“At a friend’s house.”
Relief rose in him like a wave. “Do you know who attacked you?”
“I…never saw his face.”
“Did he use a weapon?”
“Just his hands.” Her voice quavered. “They were enough.”
“Okay.” Nudging her gently back a step, Rory peeled off his leather jacket, settled it over her shoulders. “I’m taking you inside, Ireland.” In an unconscious gesture, he skimmed his long fingers over her pale cheek. Even her lips had lost color. “You need to lie down while I call the police.”
“I… Fine.”
They started toward the door. With his arm draped around her thin waist, Rory not only saw but felt the limp in her walk. His eyes narrowed as he halted.
“You are hurt.” That knowledge sent fury pounding through him.
“He shoved me.” When she looked up, he saw a flash of pain in her green eyes. “My hip rammed into the potting bench.”
“The son of a bitch.” Teeth set, Rory tightened his arm around her waist. “I’m also calling a doctor.”
“My hip’s bruised, is all. I don’t need a doctor.”
“Why don’t we let someone with the letters M.D. after their name confirm that?”
“I don’t need a doctor. Really.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “Some tea, a couple of aspirin, a hot bath and I’ll be fine.”
When she leaned into him, Rory felt something move inside him. Something he was at a loss to identify. “I’ll make sure you get all of those things,” he said quietly. “Plus a session with a doctor.” Never before had he felt such a searing need to protect. To rescue.
“I’m fine.” She was shaking like a leaf. “I just…need to get off my feet for a minute,” she said, then closed her eyes.
“I can help you there, too, Ireland.”
Sweeping her into his arms, Rory carried her out into the fog and the wind.
Five
“You can set me down at the table,” Peggy said when Rory shouldered open the back door and stepped into the kitchen. She knew her voice still sounded shaky. She couldn’t help it.
“You need to lie down.” With her tucked firmly in his arms, he used one foot to shove the door closed behind them. “Where’s your room?”
“I just need to sit—”
“Through there?” he asked, inclining his head toward a dim hallway that jutted off the back of the kitchen.
She raised a hand, intent on protesting. When she realized she was still trembling from the attack, she expelled an unsteady breath. Maybe she did need a little more comfort than what a kitchen chair had to offer.
“Yes, through there.”
He carried her effortlessly down the hallway, then through the open door into the sitting room painted in soft white where a forest-green, button-tufted couch and matching chairs grouped around a low coffee table. Bugs, his pink fur looking worn and matted, lay on the table. After she’d stitched the poor rabbit’s head back on, Peggy had looped a length of white gauze around his neck, tourniquet-style.
Rory paused, his gaze flicking between the two closed doors at the rear of the room. “Which is your bedroom?”
The thought of him venturing into the intimate confines of her bedroom tightened Peggy’s throat. “Just put me on the couch.”
“You need to lie down.”
“I will. On the couch.”
When he hesitated, she pressed her palm against his chest and attempted to push from his arms. The feel of rock-hard muscles beneath her fingers told her she would have as much luck trying to move a brick wall.
His arms tightened around her. “Okay, the couch,” he said, turning on his heel.
He leaned, settling her gently into a V of soft cushions and throw pillows at one end of the couch. The gesture put his nose, his eyes, his mouth even with hers. Although she was still feeling the effects of the attack, that didn’t prevent her heart from flipping straight into her throat and blocking any chance of air.
When her breath hitched, his blue eyes narrowed. “You okay, Ireland?”
Her lips parted. If he leaned the slightest bit forward, his mouth would be on hers. His eyes had flecks of aquamarine in them that she hadn’t noticed before. His tangy scent rose from his leather jacket that still covered her shoulders. The clean, salty smell of his skin seeped into her lungs, reminding her what it was like to be this close to a man. It had been so long, so very long, since she’d been held. Just held.
“I’m fine.” Her voice wavered as she tried to ignore the ache in her throat where her pulse had begun to pound. “I’m…a little shaky.”
His gaze dropped to her throat, lingered there. With quiet deliberation, he lifted his eyes to hers. Their lethal blue color had gone one shade darker. “So am I.” He cupped his hand to her cheek too gently for her to refuse the contact. “Right now, I need to call the police. If the guy is still anywhere near, the cops might get lucky and pick him up.”
“True.”
When he straightened and headed across the room for the phone that sat on the small writing desk tucked into a corner, Peggy raised a hand to her throat. Her pulse hammered madly beneath her fingertips. If he hadn’t moved when he did, she knew she would have started shaking like a leaf again.
Not from fear this time. Any question about whether Rory was as attracted to her as she was to him had been answered when his gaze lifted to hers and she’d glimpsed raw need in his eyes.
Nothing could come from that attraction, she reminded herself while she worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She wouldn’t let it. Even if Rory wasn’t married—which he might be—he was just passing through. He could be packed and gone within a week, maybe even a few days.
“I need to report an assault.”
The cold reality of the words Rory spoke into the phone focused her thoughts. She gripped one of the throw pillows that littered the couch and pulled it against her chest. Jay had died one week after she found out she was pregnant, yet she had not felt as vulnerable then as she did right now. Someone had attacked her, could have done unspeakable things to her. Killed her. Her emotions were roiling, her senses reeling. She was simply having a natural reaction that made a part of her want to cling to the man who had swept her into his arms and carried her to safety.
She had to get her balance back. Intended to get it back. She had an inn to operate and a daughter to take care of. She was going to report what had happened to the police and later, soak in a hot bath to ease the stiffness that had already settled into her hip. She had never treated intimacy casually and she was not going to get involved with a man she barely knew whose long, narrow face looked akin to a pirate’s.
“Dispatch is sending a uniform by.”
“Good.” Her eyes narrowed. “You sound like a cop.”
“Just repeating what the dispatcher told me.” As he spoke, Rory slid his fingertips into the back pocket of his black jeans and pulled out a business card. “I need to make another call. After that, I’ll bring you some tea and a couple of aspirins.”
“Thanks.”
He checked the card, then punched a number into the phone. “This is Rory Sinclair, I was there a couple of hours ago. It’s important that I speak with Dr. Colton again. Yes, now.”
Peggy ignored the pain that jabbed in her hip when she leaned forward. “I told you, I’m fine. A little bruised and stiff, is all. There’s no need to bother Jason.”
Rory flicked her a look out of the corner of his eye, then turned his back on her and began talking into the phone.
Eyebrows knitted, she tugged his leather jacket off her shoulders, laid it across the top of the couch then leaned back. That was the problem, she reasoned. The instant she’d seen him standing in the foyer last night, watching in silence while she put that lech, O’Connell, in his place, she had sensed that Rory Sinclair always did exactly what he pleased. He was tough and authoritative, a man whom a woman would be helpless to guide…or control.
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