Maggie Price - Protecting Peggy p.02

That, she thought on a sigh, was what made him so dangerously appealing.



“So, you never saw his face?” Sergeant Kade Lummus asked a half hour later from the chair nearest the couch on which Peggy sat. “Not even a glimpse?”

“No. Like I said, he stayed behind me with one of his hands in my hair, the other locked on the back of my neck. The only way I’m sure it was a man was because of his strength. For an instant, he nearly lifted me off my feet.”

When the sergeant arrived, Rory had settled on the end of the couch opposite Peggy. From there, he had answered the few questions Lummus had directed at him, then spent the remainder of the interview quietly observing. Lummus was in his mid-thirties, tall, with a tough, sinewy look about him. His uniform was pressed, the creases in his dark pants sharp enough to shave ice. He had a shrewd, intelligent face, thick black hair and observant brown eyes. It hadn’t been lost on Rory that, the instant Lummus strode into Peggy’s small living room, those eyes had filled with concern that went way past professional.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Rory shifted his gaze from Lummus to the opposite end of the couch. Sometime during the interview, Peggy had untied the bloodred ribbon that had held her hair loosely back. Now dark waves framed her face, tumbling down over the shoulders of her gray sweater. Her skin, which had looked sickly pale right after the attack, had regained its ivory creaminess.

He couldn’t ignore the fact that he liked looking at her. Any more than he could shrug off the kick of lust he’d felt when he’d settled her on the couch and his mouth had wound up an inch from hers. Or the need that had clawed inside him when he saw her pulse pounding wildly in her throat.

Pounding for him.

He had known, in that split-second of time, that he could have her.

The memory had Rory rubbing a hand across his face. It had been more than just the knowledge of how vulnerable the attack had left her that had made him take a step back. It was the realization that there was more involved. Something that went beyond the physical. Admiration, he decided. How could he not admire a woman armed only with garden shears who had the mettle to lunge at a man? A tightness settled in his chest as he pictured her with weapon raised and fire in her green eyes. Yes, whatever it was that had his insides knotted went way beyond physical.

And he damn well didn’t like it. Any more than he liked the feeling of restless discontent that had plagued him over the last couple of months. Once his job in Prosperino was done, he would call his supervisor, extend his leave, go off somewhere. He needed some quiet time to think, to logic out what the hell it was in his life that had changed. Then fix it.

“I should have done something to protect myself,” Peggy snapped at Lummus. “I took that self-defense class last year that you recommended. In the greenhouse, my brain locked up and I couldn’t remember a thing. That shouldn’t have happened.”

Focusing back on the interview, Rory conceded that Peggy’s reaction was normal. Enough time had passed since the attack that her fear had turned to anger.

Lummus apparently recognized that, too, since he nodded and said, “A woman trying to defend herself against a man twice her size doesn’t have a lot of options. Like you told me, the guy was big. Strong. You couldn’t exactly wrestle him to the ground.”

“I should have done something. I didn’t even scream.” Peggy’s voice quavered. Pressing her lips together, she looked down at her lap where her fingers had a death grip on a throw pillow.

Rory leaned forward, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You did do something. You survived.” His mouth curved. “And when you thought the creep had come back, you nearly put out one of my eyes with your garden shears.”

She nodded, pulled in a deep breath. “Maybe I did do okay.”

Lummus rose. “You did more than okay.” He slid the small pad on which he’d been jotting notes back into his uniform shirt pocket. “I need to get this information on the air. We’ve had a couple of reports over the past week of a transient hanging around in the area. This could be the guy who attacked you. Maybe he hid in your greenhouse to get out of the cold and fog.”

“That doesn’t explain why he attacked me.”

Lummus gazed down at her, his eyes concerned and intense. “The only place he could have hidden was under one of the potting benches. Maybe he figured it was only a matter of time before you spotted him. You had those shears. Could be he decided to go on the defensive and attack while you still didn’t know he was there.” The cop shrugged. “My guess is you scared him as bad as he scared you. He could be in the next county by now.”

Peggy sent him a weak smile. “I hope you’re right, Kade.”

Rising, Rory snagged her empty teacup from off the table. “How about more tea while you’re waiting for the doctor to arrive?”

She scowled. “How about you call Jason and tell him not to waste his time coming here?”

“How about I get you more tea?”

Lummus stepped to the couch, paused, then settled a hand on her shoulder. “Peggy, it won’t hurt for Jason to have a look at you,” he said quietly.

She smiled up at him. “Thanks, Kade. I appreciate you getting here so fast.”

When she placed a hand on the cop’s, a surge of emotion—feeling dangerously like jealousy—hit Rory in the center of his chest. Tightening his grip on the cup, he turned and walked down the short hallway, then into the kitchen.

With the late afternoon quickly transforming to evening, he flicked on the light switch. The copper pots suspended from the rack over the center island glowed in the instant illumination from the overhead lights.

It wasn’t the warm scent of baking that permeated the air, he realized. The whole room smelled like Peggy, that hot, spicy scent that made a man’s mouth water.

“You’re in big trouble, Sinclair,” he muttered.

Shaking his head, he sat the cup on the island beside the paper sack he had lain there earlier that afternoon when he’d arrived back at the inn. The item in the sack was the reason he had ventured out to the greenhouse in search of Peggy.

When Lummus strode into view, Rory forced back the notion that the cop had lingered down the hall because he’d put a liplock on the inn’s proprietress. Some thoughts were better ignored.

“Do you really have reports of a transient in the area?” Rory asked.

Lummus flicked him a look while shrugging on his quilted uniform jacket. “Two reports. Both from last week.” He glanced back at the hallway, then remet Rory’s gaze. “Both sightings occurred on the other side of Prosperino. Still, the guy could have made his way to this part of town by now.”

“Could have.” Rory leaned a hip against the counter. “Your theory of a transient makes sense when you take into account that the attack occurred in a greenhouse. We know for sure the guy was there before Mrs. Honeywell went inside, otherwise she’d have heard him come in. There’s nothing in there worth stealing, so it wasn’t someone looking for loot to pawn.”

Lummus angled his head. “You said you’re a chemist, here working for Blake Fallon. Checking out the water at Hopechest Ranch.”

“That’s right.”

“You mix in some law enforcement training with that science degree, Sinclair?”

Rory smiled. He figured Lummus would call Blake to check him out. “Like you said, Sergeant, I’m a chemist. I like to work out solutions to puzzles. I’m puzzled by what the man was doing in the greenhouse. What you said sounds logical.” He raised a palm. “It computes.”

“Yeah, computes.” Lummus glanced back at the hallway, his mouth tightening. “I figure the guy took off because he heard your car drive up. I don’t like thinking about what he might have done to Peggy if he’d had more time.”

Rory let out a slow breath. “Neither do I.”

“How long you planning on staying in Prosperino?”

“Until I get an ID on what contaminated the water at Hopechest. That could take a few more days, maybe a couple of weeks.”

Lummus reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a business card and handed it to Rory. “I’d appreciate it if you keep your eyes open while you’re here. Call me if anything doesn’t seem right or if you spot someone hanging around the inn who doesn’t fit. My home number’s on the back of the card.”

“Sure.”

Nodding, the cop turned, strode to the door and pulled it open. Rory stared down at the business card while wondering if Peggy knew the guy had a thing for her. Wondering, too, if she had a thing for Lummus.

Footsteps coming from the dining room had Rory turning just as Charlie O’Connell stepped into the kitchen. The EPA inspector was still favoring the ankle he’d twisted during that morning’s tumble down the stairs. His tan overcoat was draped over one shoulder.

“What’s the patrol car doing outside?” O’Connell asked.

Rory slid Lummus’s card into his back pocket. “A man attacked Mrs. Honeywell while she was working in her greenhouse.”

“Attacked her?” O’Connell blinked. “She okay?”

The EPA inspector was wearing the same crimson sweater and khaki slacks he’d had on that morning, Rory noted. He couldn’t see any evidence of the greenhouse’s dirt floor on the light-colored slacks.

“Shaken up. To be on the safe side, Dr. Colton is coming over to take a look at her.”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

Rory angled his chin. “Mind telling me where you were around three o’clock this afternoon?”

O’Connell’s mouth tightened. “I take it that’s when she got jumped?”

“Yes.” Rory raised a shoulder. “No offense. The cop who took the report asked me to check some things out. That’s what I’m doing.”

“I was at the res.”

“Crooked Arrow?”

“Yeah, Crooked Arrow Reservation. There’s a new water well being dug there, near where the res borders Hopechest Ranch property. I’ve been out there before, but I wanted to have another look at that well. Plenty of people saw me.”

“In that case, you’re in the clear.” Although Rory had no real reason to think that O’Connell had been the man who assaulted Peggy, he planned to check his alibi. “Find anything of interest at the well?”

O’Connell’s mouth curved. “Remember what I told you this morning, Sinclair? I’m not doing your work for you. You go take a look at that well, then let me know what you find.”

Rory shook his head. “Far be it for us to cooperate.”

“We aren’t cooperating, I keep telling you that.” O’Connell glanced around the kitchen, then frowned.

“Something wrong?”

“The two art biddies drove into the parking lot right behind me. They always make a point to be back here in time for wine and cheese in the study, unlike those honeymooners who never show their faces. Peggy always lights the fire and puts on music. I came through the study—no cheese, no fire, no nothing.”

Rory lifted a brow. “So you decided to come in here and see why?”

“That’s right.” O’Connell stuck a hitchhiker-like thumb in the direction of the study. “Between them, those two dames must wear a hundred bracelets. The clacking noise drives me nuts. Checking on this evening’s snack was the quickest way for me to get away from them.”

More like give yourself another opportunity to hustle the landlady, Rory thought. Sorry, pal, not tonight.

O’Connell shrugged. “I’ll go tell them about Peggy’s accident and that they should just go on out to dinner.”

“No, you don’t.” If Rory knew anything about Peggy, it was that she prided herself on seeing to the needs of her guests. That she hadn’t yet remembered to serve that evening’s wine and cheese spoke volumes about how shaken the attack had left her. The minute she remembered, she’d be on her feet, scurrying around. He closed his eyes for a brief instant. He hadn’t forgotten how impossibly pale her skin had been, the absolute fear in her eyes. The knowledge of what the bastard could have done to her twisted in Rory’s gut.

He blew out a breath, pulled open the door of the refrigerator. “I don’t know about you, O’Connell, but I learned a long time ago how to open a package of cheese.”

“Guess it doesn’t take a rocket scientist,” O’Connell observed while Rory pulled open drawers filled with fresh produce and vegetables with such deep color they looked like they were still hanging on the vine.

“Just a mere scientist.” Rory snatched two blocks of plastic-wrapped cheese out of the third drawer he tried. “Grab a plate. And a knife.” He nudged the refrigerator door shut with an elbow, moved to the center island. “Where does Mrs. Honeywell keep the wine?”

“There’s a rack in the study. Glasses are in a cabinet there.”

“Perfect.” Rory unwrapped both blocks of cheese then plopped them on the plate O’Connell had pulled out of a cabinet. For the finishing touch, Rory stabbed a knife into the center of one of the blocks. “When you get to the study, pick out a bottle of wine. Serve yourself and the art ladies.” As he spoke, Rory shoved the plate into the man’s hands. “Have a great happy hour.”

O’Connell gave the plate a disparaging look. “Anyone ever tell you that you leave a lot to be desired when it comes to aesthetics, Sinclair?”

“Yeah, and it broke my heart.”

“I’ll bet,” O’Connell muttered as he limped out the door.

Rory checked his watch. It was nearly six. Jason Colton had promised he would drop by the inn after he finished his rounds at the hospital—probably around six-thirty.

“I can’t believe I forgot!”

Rory turned in time to see Peggy walk stiffly out of the rear hallway. He scowled. “You’re supposed to be on the couch.”

“I can’t be on the couch,” she said as she moved toward the refrigerator. “Not when I have guests to serve.”

He reached the refrigerator before she did and leaned a shoulder against its door where magnets anchored a myriad of crayon drawings. “You don’t need to serve your guests.”

“Says who?”

“Me.”

She lifted her chin. “Look, Sinclair, I’ve gone after you once today with a sharp implement. Don’t make me do it again.”

Chuckling, he ran a fingertip down her cheek. “You’re tough, Ireland.”

“I’m not trying to be tough. I’m trying to operate a business. You’re not helping.”

“A lot you know. Your guests are already taken care of.” He inclined his head in the direction of the study. “They’ve got a cheese plate. Wine.” At that instant, a soft stirring of classical music drifted in on the air. He gave her a self-satisfied grin. “Music. They’re fine.”

A crease formed between her brows. “You fixed a cheese plate?”

“To tell you the truth, I can’t take all the credit. O’Connell helped.”

“Are you serious?”

“Totally. He’s also in charge of lighting a fire.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Placing his hands on her shoulders, Rory steered her toward the small table in the alcove just off the kitchen. “Don’t act so shocked, Ireland. Some men are perfectly capable of getting around a kitchen.”

“And there are some who won’t lift a finger and depend on their wives to do everything.”

“Well, there is no Mrs. Sinclair. That means I have to fend for myself. Like unwrapping a hunk of cheese and cutting off a couple of slices. It’s not a big deal.”

When he pulled a chair out from the table, she hesitated. “Oh.”

“Oh, what?”

“Nothing.” She settled stiffly into the chair.

“I still owe you that second cup of tea.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Sinclair. In fact, I owe you.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “What exactly do you think you owe me, Mrs. Honeywell?”

“For one thing, my thanks. For rescuing me in the greenhouse. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said smoothly. “Although, by the time I got there, you didn’t need rescuing.”

“I also owe you dessert tonight.”

Rory stared down at her, saw the shadows beneath her eyes. “I figure you’ve had a full day already.”

“A deal’s a deal.”

“True.” Turning, he walked back to the center island. There, he filled the cup with water, slid in a tea bag, put the cup in the microwave and punched its controls. “Tell you what. I’ll trade tonight’s dessert for lunch tomorrow.”

“Lunch.”

“Right. I plan to work in my room most of the day, running preliminary tests on the water samples I collected at Hopechest Ranch.”

“Speaking of that.” Peggy patted a manila envelope lying beside her on the table. “Suzanne Jorgenson brought this by. She said they’re the toxicology reports you asked for.”

“Good. Add those to the list of things I need to take a look at tomorrow. With all the work I’ve got ahead of me, it would be a real inconvenience to have to go somewhere and pick up lunch.”

Peggy ran a fingertip across the envelope. “It’s a deal, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Rory.”

“Momma!” Samantha burst through the back door, then swung it shut with a clatter. “Guess what Gracie ’n’ me baked?”

Clad in a powder-blue thermal jacket and gripping a paper plate covered with foil, the little girl rushed across the kitchen to her mother’s side.

“Gracie and I, sweetheart,” Peggy said, deftly accepting the plate tilted precariously toward her lap. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

“It’s cookies!” Samantha announced, dancing from foot to foot in anticipation before Peggy had a chance to pull off the foil.

“They look delicious.”

“Yeah, they taste real good.” Samantha shoved a tumble of dark curls behind one shoulder. “Mrs. Warren let me put the frosting on all by myself.”

Rory arched a brow. From where he stood, it looked as if at least an inch-deep glob of chocolate frosting covered the top of each cookie.

“And you did a wonderful job.” Smiling, Peggy slid the plate onto the table, then unzipped Samantha’s jacket and tugged it off. Rory saw a flicker of pain in Peggy’s eyes when Samantha bumped against her hip.

A hard knot formed in his throat. He remembered the desperation in her eyes, the absolute fear in her voice when she’d looked up at him in the greenhouse and said, Samantha. All I could think about was Samantha. How alone she’d be if I died.

He knew too well what happened to a child when it lost the only parent who loved them.

“You can have a cookie, too, Mr. Rory.”

His chin lifted. Peggy sat at the table, giving him a mild look while taking the first bite from the frosting-laden cookie balanced on her fingertips. Samantha, still clad in the hot-pink romper from that morning, looked at him, eagerness glowing in her dark eyes.

“Just one?”

“Well, one at a time,” Samantha said, giving him a stern look.

“Use both hands,” Peggy cautioned as her daughter retrieved the paper plate off the table.

Rory walked around the island, crouching when Samantha reached him. “Thanks.” He flicked a meaningful look at Peggy. “There’s nothing better than having a beautiful woman make me dessert.”

Samantha giggled. “I’m not a woman.”

“No, but you’re a looker.”

“What’s a looker?”

“You.” Rory tweaked her nose, took the plate, then rose and placed it on the island. He selected a hopelessly deformed cookie, then bit it. He blinked as his system absorbed the punch of sugar.

“What’s in there?”

He glanced down. Samantha was now standing on sneaker-clad tiptoes, peering over the edge of the counter into the sack he’d carried home from the hospital’s gift shop. He had intended to check with Peggy before giving Samantha the gift. Too late now.

“It’s a present for you.” Reaching into the bag, he pulled out the fuzzy pink rabbit, then stooped down until he and Samantha were eye to eye. “I spotted her in the window of the hospital’s gift shop. She looked lonesome. I decided you were the right person to keep her company.”

“A new Bugs!” Samantha squealed as she engulfed the rabbit in her arms. “Momma, Mr. Rory bought me a new Bugs!”

Peggy’s eyes were warm when they met his. “I see.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rory!” Samantha threw herself at him, wrapping a thin arm around his neck. The hug went straight to Rory’s heart.

With a stranglehold on the rabbit, Samantha dashed back to Peggy. “Now Bugs has a friend. Her name’s Bugsy. Momma, can I take them to the arts festival tomorrow night?”

“I think they’ll both fit in your backpack.”

“’N Mr. Rory, too?”

With a laugh, Peggy ruffled her daughter’s dark curls. “I don’t think he’ll fit in your backpack.”

“I know,” Samantha said with exasperation. “Can we take him with us to the festival?”

Peggy looked up, met his gaze. She had a beautifully expressive face. He could read every emotion. He knew without a doubt she was as uneasy as he was about the attraction that drew them like divining rods to water.

“Mr. Sinclair was just telling me about all the work he has to do tomorrow. I doubt he has time to go to the festival.”

“I’ll make time,” Rory said quietly. Folded in his pocket was Blake Fallon’s list with the names of everyone who stood to gain if he lost his job as director of Hopechest Ranch. On a second list were the names of people who might take revenge on Blake for his father having made two attempts on Joe Colton’s life. Not only would attending the festival give Rory a chance to meet some of those people, he would also get a flavor for Prosperino and a lay of the land. That might come in handy later if it turned out someone had purposely contaminated the ranch’s water.

“Just let me know what time I need to be ready,” he said, then took another bite of cookie. The fact that he found himself anticipating spending more time with the intriguing mother and daughter who currently gazed at him from across the kitchen was something he chose not to examine too closely.

Six

T here is no Mrs. Sinclair.

Peggy blew out a breath as she arranged Rory’s lunch on a white wicker tray. Her brain had echoed his marital status only about a hundred times since he’d imparted that information last night.

There is no Mrs. Sinclair. That made him single. Eligible. Available. And totally off-limits.

“Totally,” Peggy murmured as she hefted the tray and started toward the foyer.

Despite her growing attraction to the man, she knew she had to be practical. An affair with Rory was out of the question. After all, they were from separate worlds. Hers was a Victorian inn perched against a hillside that faced the rugged California coast. His, a sterile laboratory somewhere in Washington, D.C.

Knowing he would return to that lab in the near future should have been the equivalent of a blast of ice water in her face. Instead, a deep, dark ache pulled at her to make the most of the time they had.

She could feel herself blushing as she started up the staircase, favoring her stiff hip. How, she wondered, had it come so far, so fast that just the thought of feeling Rory’s hands on her flesh could start her heart racing?

She was certain the unsettling events of the previous day were the reason her emotions had veered out of kilter. Rory had swept her to safety, comforted her, tended to her guests. Then there was Samantha. The instant Rory handed her child a fuzzy pink rabbit, Peggy had felt a little crack around her heart.

How could she possibly have a defense against a man like that?

When she reached the door of Rory’s third-floor room, she knocked softly and waited. When no response came, a crease formed between her brows. Last night his plan had been to work in his room most of today. He had not come down for breakfast—a fact that’d had Samantha’s bottom lip poking out in a pout before she’d left for preschool.

Peggy shook her head at the memory. Her daughter was friendly and outspoken and well-used to being around the inn’s guests who arrived and left like clockwork. Still, Peggy had never seen Samantha take to anyone the way she had Rory. That meant she would have to deal with the disappointment that would inevitably accompany his leaving. Making sure Samantha’s attachment to him didn’t intensify was another good reason for them both to have as little contact with Rory as possible.

As it turned out, he might not even be on the premises, Peggy decided, her arms beginning to ache from the weight of the loaded tray.

Whether Rory’s car was still parked in the lot, she didn’t know. She hadn’t ventured outside that morning—had not yet gotten up the nerve to go anywhere near her greenhouse. If his plans had changed and he had left for a while, she would use the passkey she carried in the pocket of her slacks and take advantage of his absence to change the towels and linens in his room.

She knocked again, more loudly, and still got no response. Shifting the tray, she pulled her key from her pocket, slid it into the lock, then eased the door open.

The bed was unmade, the star-patterned quilt trailing across the brass footboard onto the floor. A pair of khaki pants and a tan sweater lay on top of the tangled sheet and blanket; brown leather loafers sat on the braided rug at the side of the bed.

She stepped over the threshold, then jolted when Rory strode out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a white towel barely hitched at his hips. His black hair was wet, slicked back from his face in a way that enhanced the strong, smooth line of his jaw. Slowly, her gaze went to the broad chest tanned and darkened by sleek black hair. And those shoulders… Her fingers tightened on the tray.

He met her gaze, his lips curving, slow and deliberate. “It’s always nice to find a beautiful woman in my bedroom.”

“I’m sorry.” How could one man ooze so much charm and sex appeal with just one smile? “I…knocked. Twice. When you didn’t answer, I thought you might have left.”

He cocked his head, his blue gaze sliding steadily down the length of her black turtleneck and tapered slacks. The way his eyes measured, assessed made Peggy want to squirm.

“How’s the hip, Ireland?”

“Better.” She took a breath. “Stiff.”

“I imagine.” He nodded at the wicker tray. “Didn’t I hear Dr. Colton tell you to avoid climbing stairs for a couple of days?”

“That’s easy for Jason to say. I have guests to attend to. Rooms to clean. I can’t do my work if I don’t use the stairs.”

“Delivering my lunch isn’t part of your work,” Rory said as he walked to where she stood.

He smelled of subtle, woodsy cologne, with undertones of soap from his shower. Nerves scrambled inside her stomach like crabs on a beach. For one brief instant, there seemed to be only his overwhelming presence in the small room, only his compelling scent.

“We made a deal,” she managed. “Lunch for dessert.”

“The deal was you make me lunch. Not deliver it.” He nudged the tray from her hands, then turned and carried it to the chest of drawers built of whitewashed pine. “I was just about to come down to the kitchen.”

“Not dressed like that, I hope.”

The unrepentant grin he shot her over his shoulder told her he had no problem walking around in front of her wearing only a towel. “Don’t like my outfit?”

“Kitchen rules—no shoes, no shirt, no service.”

“I’d better get dressed, then.” He crossed to the bed, snagged up the khaki pants. “Like I keep telling you, Ireland, you’re a tough one.”

“And don’t forget it.” If she was so tough, why were her palms sweating? She rubbed them down her thighs and diverted her gaze from the broad expanse of his bare chest.

On the desk opposite the bed sat a small computer amid vials of what appeared to be water propped upright in a metal rack. Several file folders lay open beside the computer. On the floor sat a printer, churning out pages.

“You’re working. And I have to get back to—”

“Give me a minute,” he said, then headed across the room. “I need to ask you a question,” he added, before disappearing into the bathroom.

Peggy closed her eyes and made a concerted effort not to try to imagine what he looked like beneath that towel.

Seconds later he appeared around the door. “I worked most of the night, running tests on the water samples I took from Hopechest,” he said while hooking the waist button on his khakis. “So I slept in.”

She nodded toward the desk. “Having any luck?”

“No.” He retrieved his tan sweater off the bed, slid it on, then walked to stand beside her. “I can do basic, preliminary testing using my field kit. About the only things I can check for are waterborne diseases like dysentery, typhoid, polio, hepatitis.”

“And?”

“I know the contamination isn’t microbial, which includes the diseases I just mentioned and a few other things. I’m also sure the problem isn’t from a radioactive substance.”

Peggy arched a brow. “That has to be good news.”

“It is. The downside is the last two categories the contaminant might be from are the largest. One is organic chemical substances, like pesticides, byproducts of industrial processes and petroleum production. The inorganic category includes salts, metals and numerous other compounds that don’t contain carbon.”

“If you can’t run tests here using your field kit, then where?”

“I need a lab that has a gas chromatograph, mass spectrometer and Simultaneous ICP instrument.” He paused, raised a shoulder at her blank expression. “That stands for Inductively Coupled Plasma.”

“If you say so,” she murmured. The man was giving her a science lesson, and all she could think of was how conscious she was of him, standing there, not more than a few inches away. Even though he’d slipped on his sweater, she was still aware of every muscle, every ridge in that broad, solid chest.

He grinned. “Sorry, the scientist in me got carried away.”

“It’s okay.” She forced her thoughts to a safer area. “It sounds like you know what you’re doing, and I’m not sure I can say that about Mr. O’Connell. No one in Prosperino will breathe easy until we know what got into the ranch’s water. And how it got there. I hope you find out soon. I also hope you’ll stop work long enough to eat your lunch,” she added, then started to turn away. “I have to get back to—”

He caught her elbow, turned her back to face him. “You haven’t given me a chance to ask my question.”

She looked up, met his blue gaze while her throat tightened. What was he doing to her? she wondered. How could he make her feel so many different things in so short a time? She nudged her arm from his hold. “What’s the question?”

“I need a lab with the instruments I mentioned.”

“I don’t have a clue where one would be.”

“I do. It’s in San Francisco. Problem is, that’s over a three-hour drive away. I need to find someone who has a private plane for rent. Do you know anyone around here who fits that bill?”

“Michael Longstreet. He’s Prosperino’s mayor.” She angled her chin. “I don’t know if he could get away to fly you, though. He has his hands full dealing with the water problem.”

“He doesn’t need to fly me. I’m a licensed pilot. Any idea what kind of plane Longstreet has?”

“All I know is it’s a small jet.”

“Perfect.”

Peggy felt a tightness settle in her chest at the possibility of Rory’s leaving. “Do you plan to stay full-time in San Francisco while you work at the lab there?”

“No. I have to get everything set up, but the tests run in stages over a couple of days and the results take a while. I need to spend more time here looking at groundwater sources on Hopechest Ranch. There’s a new well being drilled on the reservation near the ranch’s property line. I want to take a look at that well, too.”

“I thought the water on the res tested safe.”

“It has.” He raised a shoulder. “I just like to look at every piece in a puzzle. If I have a couple of days access to a plane, I can get back here, do what I need to do, then return to San Francisco a couple of times to check on the tests.”

“It sounds like you’ll need this room a while longer.”

“Right.” He gazed down at her, his eyes intense. “I still have some things I want to do here.”

It couldn’t be her imagination that his voice had softened, lowered. Otherwise, why would her nerves have started humming like a plucked harp string?

She moistened her suddenly dry lips. “Samantha will be happy to hear you’re staying. Between you and me, she has grand plans to draw you a special picture to thank you for Bugsy.”

“Can’t wait to see it.” When he snagged her hand and curved his long fingers around hers, Peggy’s heart stuck in her throat. “What about Samantha’s mother? How does she feel about my hanging around awhile longer?”

“It’s good for business to have the guest rooms rented.”

He tightened his fingers around hers when she tried to draw away. “What are we going to do about this, Ireland?”

“This room?” she asked weakly.

“This attraction,” he corrected softly. “The one we’re both feeling…and, on my part, having one hell of a time resisting. What do you want to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” she managed. “I…need to think, and I can’t. All I know is that I have no business wanting you to touch me.”

“And I have no business wanting to touch you. But I do.”

“So, I…we both need time to gather our thoughts.”

“Mine are pretty gathered right at the moment.”

The silvery edge of anticipation shot up her spine, mixing in her stomach with a frisson of panic. She dragged her gaze from his, looked at the phone on the small table beside the bed while her brain struggled to remember that all actions carried consequences. “If you want, I can call Michael Longstreet’s office right now so you can talk to him about his plane.”

“What I want right now is to kiss you.”

Her heart leapt into her throat while an alarm blared in her head. She didn’t want this, didn’t want to be seduced by a man with whom there was no future. She dug her nails into her palms. What she wanted didn’t seem to matter, not when just his words could breathe life into old needs that had lain dormant inside her for so long.

“I…didn’t come here so you could kiss me,” she said, even as she leaned into him.

“No, you delivered lunch.” He cupped her chin in his hand, kept his eyes open and on hers when he kissed her softly. “What did you bring me, Ireland?”

Her lashes fluttered shut. “Lemon…basil chicken.”

“Smells great,” he murmured.

The way his mouth worked leisurely down her throat, she knew darn well he wasn’t talking about the chicken.

She let her breath out between her teeth to keep from moaning. “Hope you like it.”

“Best I’ve tasted.” His hand came up, sliding beneath her hair to cup the back of her neck. His long fingers were strong and just a little rough, his grip determined. “I want more.”

“Help yourself.”

His mouth fit perfectly over hers. There was nothing soft about him. His mouth, his hands, his body when he pulled her against him were hard and demanding, his kiss raw and primitive. She wondered if there was a woman alive who would want to be kissed any other way.

Her lips parted hungrily, inviting him in so that she could scrape her teeth over his tongue. He tasted like he looked—dark and dangerous. The tangy scent of him filled her head; visions of their engaging in wild raging sex on the bed just inches away had her senses spinning. Her fingers dug into his waist, holding on as tightly as though she were being tossed around by a storm.

His low groan vibrated through her. His hand tunneled up into her hair, fisted there. He arched her head farther back, then plundered.

She surrendered to him, her mouth opening beneath his as she kissed him with all the need and bafflement that pumped inside her.

She felt urgency ignite within him as his arm locked around her waist. He increased the pressure on her back until their bodies were pressed center to center. Thighs molded against thighs; her nipples tightened against his muscled chest. When she felt his hard arousal against her belly, heat spiraled inside her while her body strained and trembled against his. How could she have forgotten what it was like to be wanted like this?

“Let me have you,” he murmured against her mouth. “Ireland, let me have you now.”

She wanted to say yes. Wanted him, wanted to steep herself in that dark, dangerous taste. It had been so long since she had felt a man’s hands on her flesh, an eternity since she had felt this churning frenzy to mate. Yet, this was more, much more, and through her swirling emotions she felt a desperation that sent ice-pick jabs of panic into her chest.

“No.” Her hands trembled when she lifted them to frame his face. She felt dizzy, weak, shaken. “Not yet. I…Rory, I can’t.”

A few seconds passed before his hand unfisted from her hair. “You’re not ready,” he said, then rested his brow on hers.

“This has all happened so fast. Too fast.” She closed her eyes against the need that churned inside of her. “I can’t think. I have to think.”

“I’m not going to tell you to take your time.”

Because she was still wrapped in his arms, she leaned back, pulled slightly away. “It’s just…I don’t take intimacy lightly.”

“I didn’t think you did.” His eyes burned over her face and settled on her lips. “Trust me, Ireland, you’re not a woman a man could take lightly.”

She stepped from his touch, forced a smile while her legs wobbled. He had made her want, and want badly.

She needed to be reasonable, she reminded herself. She had to think not only of the present, but the future. He would leave, return to D.C. What would she do about this desperate wanting after he was no longer a part of her life?

Weak with desire, she reached out, braced an unsteady hand on the bed’s footboard. Her heart was beating in her head, echoing in her ears. She needed air and space. “I have the mayor’s phone number in my office. I’ll go downstairs and find it for you.”

Rory gave her a long, even look. “Things have moved fast between us. I understand that you might need more time.” Reaching out, he wrapped his hand around hers, then dipped his head. When he skimmed his lips over her knuckles, her heart stuck in her throat. “You’re trembling,” he said quietly.

She closed her eyes, opened them. “I know.”

“This isn’t over, Ireland. I want you. I’m going to ask you again. Count on it.”

“Okay.” She slicked her tongue over her swollen lips, and ordered herself to breathe. “I want you to ask.”



That evening Rory wanted Peggy with the same intensity he’d felt when he’d held her in his arms, pressed his mouth against hers and found the fit perfect and complete.

He had thought about her all during the long afternoon as he prepared water samples for transportation to the Bureau’s lab in San Francisco. Couldn’t get her out of his head while he submitted a request to the FBI’s database for background checks on the names on Blake Fallon’s lists. As he worked, foremost in Rory’s mind was a building need to feel Peggy’s soft skin grow hot and moist under his hands. He wanted to trace every subtle curve and dip while her pulse pounded for him. Just for him.

She had tasted like smooth, fine aged whiskey. And left him thirsty for more.

Wasn’t much he could do about that thirst at the moment, he thought wryly.

Not while he and the delectable Mrs. Honeywell were two out of about fifty people inching their way along a crowded hallway in the Prosperino Community Center. A few steps in front of them, Samantha and Gracie Warren, holding hands and giggling, nudged their way toward the gymnasium where the winter arts festival had set up the children’s activity area.

Rory didn’t even attempt to use the jostling crowd as an excuse for the reason he had his hand pressed at the small of Peggy’s back. She was incredibly soft, enticingly firm, and he needed to touch her. She wore a soft, calf-length dress as green as her eyes; beneath his palm, he felt the elegant sway of her hips as she walked beside him. Dammit, he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than just touch.

The girls darted through an open doorway. The instant Peggy and Rory caught up, Samantha began bouncing on her heels, her dark eyes snapping with excitement. “There’s the face-painting lady!”

Standing just behind Samantha, Rory had a perfect view of the pink backpack she wore strapped over her denim jumper. From one side of the backpack, Bugs and Bugsy peered out at him through the bobbing ends of the child’s long, dark curls.

Unable to resist, Rory bent down. “So, what color are you girls going to have the lady paint your faces?”

His question brought on another round of giggles. “She doesn’t paint your face, Mr. Rory,” Samantha said, scrunching her nose at him. “She paints stuff on your face.”

“I see.” He flicked a finger down her downy-soft cheek. “What kind of stuff?”

“Flowers, ’n’ stars, ’n’—”

“Birds, too!” Gracie interjected, her blond curls dancing.

Pursing his lips, Rory took in the array of carnival-like booths lining the walls. Here, a child could participate in a variety of undertakings that included casting a line for plastic fish, tossing water balloons at a clown and moon walking. The noise generated by the activities at the booths and the loud talk of the crowd echoed off the gym’s high roof.

He turned to Peggy. “Something tells me we’ll be tied up here for a while.”

“I’m afraid so.” She gestured to the small tables clustered in the center of the gym. The red-and-white striped umbrellas and pots of red silk tulips centered on each table lent a sidewalk café atmosphere. Nearby, carts had been set up from which food and drink vendors conducted a brisk business with the adults and children gathered around them.

“Why don’t you and I have a cup of coffee while the girls get their faces painted?” Peggy suggested. “I’ll tell them to check in with us before they go to any of the other booths. We have a full view of everything in the gym from one of these tables, so we won’t have to follow them around.”

“Sounds good to me.” When a crease formed between her brows, he hesitated. “Something about that arrangement not working for you?”

“I’m taking it for granted you want to stay here. The galleries along Main Street are all open—that’s where the formal art judging takes place. This community center stays opens during the festival so the kids will have a place to go while the adults drop by the galleries. You might prefer to view some serious art instead of watching face-painting and listening to cakewalk music.”

Rory gave her a slow smile while he nudged one side of her dark hair over her shoulder. “After what happened between us at lunch, I’m sticking with you, Ireland.”

Color pooled in her cheeks as her fingers played with the strap of her purse. “Okay.” She moistened her lips. “I’ll get the girls started at the face-painting booth, then be back to join you.”

“Fine.” He slid a hand into the pocket of his slacks. “Why don’t you let me treat Samantha and Gracie to the art of their choice?”

“Thanks for offering, but no.” Peggy flashed him a grateful smile. “Gracie’s mom and I have this covered. We’re treating the girls to the artist’s double-deluxe-paint-job-for-two special.”

Rory chuckled. “Can’t wait to see the results.”

“I guarantee you’ll get a good look at them. After her visit to the booth last year, Samantha didn’t wash her face for twenty-four hours.”

Just then, the topic of conversation dashed up, tugged on Peggy’s hand. “Momma, come on!”

“I’ll have a latté,” Peggy said over her shoulder before Samantha dragged her into the crowd.

Rory walked to a cart, waited in line, then placed their orders. Moments later he carried foam cups filled with steaming lattés to an empty table. From where he sat, occasional breaks in the crowd gave him a view of the booth where Peggy engaged in conversation with a smiling woman dressed in a paint-spotted smock. While she spoke, Peggy laid a hand on Samantha’s shoulder in a proprietary gesture that had Rory’s eyes narrowing.

Had his mother not died when he was an infant, he might have known that kind of love. As it was, his father had been far more comfortable working in the FBI’s lab than interacting with a son, so Rory had been shuttled between boarding schools and summer camps. Even latching on to the same career as his father had failed to create more than a tentative link between them.

He glanced back at the booth. Peggy was now crouched between the girls, flipping through pages of what Rory suspected contained examples of the face-painting art. Both girls pointed at a page while nodding vigorously. Laughing, Peggy gave Gracie a hug, then dropped a kiss on her daughter’s puckered mouth.

The intimate family ritual had Rory shifting in his chair. His world was so remote from theirs. Alien. Prosperino wasn’t his place. He had no place. Didn’t want one. Even so, this was the first time in his life he had arrived somewhere and didn’t already have his eye on the door, looking toward his next destination.

That sudden realization twisted the muscles in his stomach. Jabbing his fingers though his hair, he told himself the feeling was just another facet of the restless discontent that had gnawed at him for the past couple of months. He sipped his latté, cementing his intention to call his boss and take more time off the job after he finished his business in Prosperino. He was damn well going to figure out what the hell was going on, and get his life back on an even keel that suited him.

“Are you Rory Sinclair?”

Rory looked up, his thoughts scattering. A man, broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall, stood beside the table. He had a sharp-featured face, wide mouth and sun-streaked brown hair that skimmed the collar of his denim shirt.

“Yes.”

The man extended a hand. “I’m Michael Longstreet. Prosperino’s mayor.”

Rory raised a brow. Longstreet’s well-worn jeans and boots made him look more like one of the area ranchers than a politician.

“Nice to meet you.” Rising, Rory returned the handshake, then gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Longstreet settled easily into the chair. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you when you called my office. My secretary noted in the message you left that you’re staying at Honeywell House. When I walked in here a few minutes ago, I saw you talking to Peggy and put two and two together.”

“And came up with the right answer.” Rory inclined his head toward the vending carts. “Want a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks. Since this crisis with the water hit, I’ve been living on the stuff. Cut me, it’s a good bet I’ll bleed caffeine.” The mayor paused to nod to the couple sitting a few tables away, then looked back at Rory. “Let me see if I’ve got the information you left with my secretary straight. You’re a private chemist, hired by Blake Fallon to run tests on the water at Hopechest Ranch.”

“That’s right.”

“You have a current pilot’s license, of which you’ve already faxed a copy to my office. You want to rent my private plane so you can conduct those tests in a San Francisco lab.”

“So far, you’re batting a thousand.”

“Since you’re staying at Honeywell House, I figure you’ve run into Charlie O’Connell by now.”

“A couple of times.”

“O’Connell has the EPA’s lab at his disposal, and he’s got an almost two-week head start on you. So far, all he’s been able to tell us is what didn’t cause the contamination. I’ve got a town in which nothing’s going to be right again until someone can tell us what the hell happened to the water on Hopechest Ranch. Do you think you can come up with the answer quicker than the EPA?”

“Probably not.” Rory ran a hand over his jaw. “O’Connell has a problem with high-paid consultants who try to steal his thunder. Because of that, he isn’t forthcoming with me. I’ve got a lot of questions he could answer, but won’t. That means I have to backtrack over ground he’s already covered and come up with those answers for myself. Like you said, O’Connell’s been here nearly two weeks longer than me. It’s more than likely he’ll come back with the answers you need before I do.”

Longstreet nodded. “Bottom line is I don’t care who comes up with the answers, as long as I get them.”

“You shouldn’t care,” Rory agreed. “As long as the answers you get are the right ones.”

“There is that.” The mayor leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. “I’ve always believed in the value of having a backup plan. Maybe if the EPA’s lab misses something, you’ll catch it. And vice versa.”

“It could happen.” Rory leaned in. “I understand if you’ve got qualms about renting your plane. Our going for a checkout ride with me in the pilot’s seat might take care of that. For a personal reference, talk to Blake Fallon. We go back a long way.”

“I’ve already spoken to Blake and checked you out with the FAA. You passed.” Longstreet angled his chin. “You ever fly a Bonanza?”

Rory smiled. “I happen to own one.”

“Even better.” The mayor rose. “Do you need directions to Prosperino’s airport?”

“No, I passed it on the way into town.”

“Meet me there in the morning at seven for that checkout ride. If you pass, you’ve got access to the Bonanza for as long as you need it.”

“Great. How much?”

“Just find out what happened to the water on Hopechest Ranch. That’s all I care about,” Longstreet added before striding off.

Rory pursed his mouth. Instinct told him the citizens of Prosperino had voted themselves in one hell of a mayor.

“This place is a madhouse,” Peggy said over the din as she slid into the chair beside him.

“Your town has its fair share of kids,” Rory commented.

“And if you’re not used to it, all this activity can be overwhelming.” She sipped her latté, her mouth settling into a satisfied curve. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take off on your own and go through the galleries? We have some wonderful artists in town. You might find a painting or a piece of sculpture that would look perfect in your home.”

“I don’t have a home.”

Her smile faded. “Everyone has a home.”

“I lease a furnished apartment in Virginia. If I had to, I could box up everything I own in a couple of hours, load it onto my plane and never think twice about leaving that apartment. I don’t think that’s most people’s definition of a home.”

“No, it’s not.” Her green eyes examined his face over the rim of her cup. “What about your family? Do you consider where they are home?”

“Family is another thing I don’t have.”

“No one?”

“My parents are dead. I was an only child.”

“Surely you’ve got some cousins somewhere. Maybe an aunt or uncle?”

“An aunt and one cousin. I lost track of them years ago.”

“That’s too bad.”

Rory angled his chin. “My not having a family sounds dire to you because your business centers around making a temporary home for strangers. The truth is, there are people in this world who don’t have, or even care about having, what you define as a home. I’m one of them.” He lifted a shoulder. “I’ve never wanted the responsibility or restrictions of one.”

“What restrictions?”

He found the look in her eyes too serious for his liking. “You’re tied to one place. You can’t just walk away, come and go as you please. Sounds restrictive to me.”

“I just think it’s sad not to have a place where you can dig in and know you belong.”

“I do have one. It’s called a laboratory. They’re all over the world.”

Because the subject had wedged an unexpected ball of discomfort in his stomach, Rory shifted his gaze to the milling crowd. He caught sight of Kade Lummus, standing at the dart-throwing booth decorated with colorful balloons. Even out of his creased-to-perfection uniform, the guy looked fit beyond reason. A little boy who Rory estimated to be about Samantha’s age stood beside Lummus, gripping one leg of his jeans.

Rory swept a hand in their direction. “Is that Lummus’s son?”

Peggy hesitated a heartbeat before shifting her gaze. “No, his nephew. Kade doesn’t have any children.”

“He married?”

“No.”

Rory remet her gaze. “He’s interested in you. I figure you know that.”

“Yes.”

“Is the feeling mutual?”

“Kade and I are just friends.”

Rory remembered the controlled anger he had seen in Lummus’s eyes last night while Peggy recounted the details of her assault. The cop’s feelings for her went a hell of a lot deeper than friendship.

“You’re friends for now,” Rory amended.

“Now and forever.”

“So, I guess the guy’s just not your type?”

“He’s a cop.”

Rory raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And nothing. Kade wears a badge.”

“You have something against cops?”

“They die.” She closed her eyes, opened them, then set her cup aside. “That sounds awful, but it’s true. My husband was a police officer.”

“I take it he died in the line of duty,” Rory said quietly.

“Yes.” She eased out a breath. “Nearly five years ago. Jay was a sergeant on the LAPD. He was killed less than one week after I found out I was pregnant with Samantha. He never even got a chance to see his child. And she missed out on having a father.”

Rory felt his chest tighten while he watched the play of emotion in Peggy’s face. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

He glanced up in time to see Lummus laugh, then swing his nephew onto his broad shoulders before heading out of the door of the gym.

“Some things I’ll never forget. I won’t let myself forget.”

Rory looked back at Peggy. She was staring into her coffee now, a wrenching sadness in her green eyes. She had spoken the words so softly, he’d barely missed them.

“What things?”

“Opening the door at three o’clock in the morning to find the police chaplain and a deputy chief standing on my porch.” The hand she’d rested on the table inches from Rory’s tightened into a fist. “Going through twenty hours of labor without being able to hold the hand of the father of my child. Then, years later, having to explain to that child why her daddy went away.” Her brow furrowed. “No cops. Never again.”

Rory rubbed a hand over his face. It had to be the height of irony, he decided. Peggy had no idea he was a cop. He’d had no clue the woman he’d almost ravished only hours ago—and had obsessed over since—was a cop’s widow. A widow who had sworn to never again get involved with a man who carried a badge.

Great.

The thought of the kisses they’d shared had him clamping down on a hard tug of guilt. Because he’d kept the truth from her, she hadn’t known—couldn’t have known—that by moving into his arms she had stepped into territory she’d forbidden to herself. Then he hadn’t known, either.

Now he did.

So, what was he going to do about it?

He set his jaw. It wasn’t in his nature to take advantage of a woman. With those he had involved himself with in the past, that had never been an issue since he’d gone out of his way to choose women with philosophies similar to his own. One didn’t have to factor emotional entanglements into the formula if the parties involved moved freely through life with no regrets, no baggage.

Rory now knew that the woman sitting in silence beside him had plenty of baggage.

He had no doubt that, had Peggy known he was an FBI special agent, she never would have let him get close enough to exchange the searing kisses they’d shared. And she sure as hell wouldn’t have encouraged him to ask her again to go to bed with him. Which was a question he had fully intended to ask again. Soon. Maybe even after they got back to the inn that night.

Not anymore, he decided grimly.

He had given his word to Blake Fallon, and he would keep it. That meant staying in Prosperino for as long as it took to find out what had contaminated the water on Hopechest Ranch. Since the question of whether Charlie O’Connell was on the up-and-up remained unanswered, Rory knew he needed to stay at Honeywell House until he found out that answer.

He slid Peggy a sideways look. She had shifted her attention to the face-painting booth; now her mouth curved into a smile as she watched her daughter. Against his thighs, Rory’s hands fisted. He could still taste that lush mouth, still feel the texture of her skin beneath his palms.

His tough luck, he told himself. He would have to be content with those memories, because it was all of her he would ever get.

As of this minute, the gorgeous, sexy-as-hell widow Honeywell was off-limits.

Seven

Three days, Peggy thought as she shifted linens and towels into the crook of one arm while using her passkey to open the door of Rory’s room. Three days had passed since he’d held her. Kissed her. Three long days and eternally longer nights during which she had spent most of her time wondering what had caused Rory to put up the wall between them.

It wasn’t her imagination, she was sure of that. She had felt the invisible barrier the instant it had gone up while she sat beside him in the gym amid the chaos of the arts festival activities. After that, Rory had kept the conversation between them light and genial. Friendly. There had been nothing in his voice to suggest he’d had second thoughts about his kissing her until her eyes rolled back in her head earlier that day. Nothing in his steady gaze that hinted he had changed his mind about wanting her. Yet, in one hammer beat of her heart, her senses focused, and she knew he had taken an emotional step back.

More like a giant leap.

Pulling in a deep breath, Peggy swung open the door and stepped into his room. As always, she found he’d left things relatively neat. The only things sharing space with the sprawling ivy plant on the desk opposite the bed were his small computer and printer. He never left her guest towels wadded on the bathroom floor. Never left wet rings on the tabletops. The perfect guest.

Try as she might, she couldn’t stop her gaze from settling on the open bathroom door. No matter that she knew he wasn’t there, no matter that she willed herself not to, she pictured Rory standing in the doorway, a towel hitched low on his hips, his broad chest tanned and darkened by sleek black hair. And his mouth—that hard, firm mouth—lifted into an unrepentant grin.

The memory sent a pang of desire through her that had her fingers digging into the linens she carried.

Why, oh why, had he put up the wall?

The question set her jaw. Dammit, she needed to get a grip. She had asked herself that one question a hundred times and still had no answer. Since Mr. Sinclair was making himself scarce these days, she didn’t figure on getting any information from him.

She had caught only glimpses of him since the night of the arts festival. Instead of coming down to breakfast the past three mornings, he had left the inn at dawn, presumably heading for the airport where he picked up Mayor Longstreet’s airplane for the flight to San Francisco. When Rory returned at night, it was always well past the time she served wine and cheese in the study. He used the front door and went straight up to his room. And he had avoided setting foot in the kitchen for a helping of the apricot cobbler she had baked. For him.

Her mood darkened to match the late-afternoon gloom that pressed against the windows of the third-floor room. With nerve-aching frustration pounding in her head, she dumped the linens and towels in the tufted slipper chair that sat in one corner, then stepped to the bed. There, she shoved the star-patterned quilt aside and jerked off the top and bottom sky-blue sheets.

She was tired of brooding over Rory Sinclair. Sick of wondering if he had built the deliberate distance between them because he’d taken exception to her reaction to his having no home, no family. Ridiculous, she told herself.

After all, why would the man care what her view was on that subject? It wasn’t as if she had tried to force her opinion on him. If he wanted to spend his life living in an impersonal furnished apartment and calling some sterile laboratory home, more power to him.

No, she reasoned, as she grabbed the first of the pair of pillows and jerked off the blue-and-white striped case. Rory hadn’t put the skids on the relationship that had begun developing between them because she preferred being rooted to one place and he didn’t. The only other thing they had discussed while sitting at the table in the gym was Jay and the reason she had no intention of ever getting involved with another cop. Since she could see no reason that topic could matter either way to a chemist, all she could think was that Rory had simply changed his mind.

He didn’t want her.

So, fine, she told herself as she snagged up the second pillow while trying to ignore the little slashing knives of hurt that snuck through her guard. He didn’t want her. His obvious disinterest in her uncomplicated things to no end.

The scent of Rory’s subtle, woodsy cologne wafted up from the pillowcase and slid into her lungs. Her hands went still as desire poured through her like heated wine.

The raw need she had felt when he held her in his arms and his mouth devoured hers came back a hundredfold. That need was deeper and more complex than anything she’d ever known. Clutching the pillow, she reached for the bed’s brass footboard, then closed her eyes. Caught between common sense and feelings, she needed a moment until reason overcame her own choking desire.

Rory had said he wanted her. He had acted like he did. Yet, for whatever reason, he had decided the hot, searing kisses they had shared on almost the exact spot she now stood were the beginning and the end of any personal involvement between them. She needed to accept that, had to accept it. Why he had changed his mind didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had changed it.

She knew that once her hormones settled down and she started thinking logically again, she would be grateful he had taken that step back. She had a business to run and a daughter to raise. The last thing she needed was to spend time pining for a man who lived a continent away. A man over whom she seemed to have totally lost her head.

But not her heart, she countered instantly. That knowledge sent a wave of relief rolling through her. She hadn’t lost her heart to Rory. Thank God things hadn’t gotten that far.

She took long, cleansing breaths as she made quick work of putting crisp floral sheets on the bed. Just as she leaned to smooth the edges of the quilt, the sound of hurried footsteps coming down the hallway sent her heart into her throat. Rory.

Peggy jerked around, then went utterly still when Charlie O’Connell’s tall form blocked the doorway.

For a moment, the shapes and colors in the room seemed to shift out of sync as fear caught her by the throat. She took a step back, halting when the bed’s footboard caught her in the spine. She curled her fingers, then flexed them while telling herself to calm down. The EPA inspector had done nothing to frighten her—she was just still skittish from the attack in the greenhouse.

“A problem’s come up.” While he spoke, he shoved back the cuff of his green sweater to check his watch. “I need you to help me out.”

“I will if I can, Mr. O’Connell.”

“I’ve got an appointment in fifteen minutes. It’s important and I can’t be late.” He glanced again at his watch. “I went down, tried to start my car. Nothing.”

“There’s a mechanic in town. I can call him for you. He’ll come out to look at your car.”

“Fine, do that. But I don’t have time right now to figure out what’s wrong.” He shoved a hand through his dark hair. “I need to borrow your station wagon for an hour. Two at the most.”

“My car?”

“I’ll pay you.” He jammed a hand in the pocket of his slacks, pulled out some bills. “Same rate as I’m paying for that worthless piece of metal parked out in the lot.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Dammit, woman, I don’t have time to arrange for another car,” he snapped, impatience flashing in his eyes. “This meeting is important. It’s possible I’ll get some answers about the water problems at Hopechest Ranch.”

Peggy bit back the tart reply on the tip of her tongue. If loaning her station wagon would help O’Connell get the answers the whole town had been waiting for, it was the least she could do.

“Let’s go down to my office. I keep an extra set of keys there.”



Three hours after Peggy handed her keys to Charlie O’Connell, Rory steered his own car into the dim, gravel-packed parking lot in front of a dubious-looking brick building. Long fingers of shadow spread across the lot, illuminated only by two neon beer signs in the blackened windows and a bare bulb over the front door.

Raising a brow, Rory climbed out the car into the cool evening air that hinted of rain. Minutes after he had touched down in the mayor’s plane, Blake Fallon had called him on his cell phone and invited him to meet for drinks and dinner at a tavern named Jake’s. “The pride of Prosperino,” Blake added after he rattled off directions.

Despite the appearance of the place, Rory was glad Blake had called. It meant putting off returning to Honeywell House for a few more hours. Three days, he thought as he slid his car keys into a pocket of his leather jacket. Three days since Peggy told him she had buried one cop and would never again involve herself with another. Three nights during which he had paced his room, thinking of her, imagining her lying in a bed a few floors below. He carried the taste of her inside him. The need to put his hands on her was killing him, inch by slow inch.

He couldn’t touch her. Wouldn’t. Even if he had planned to stay in Prosperino for good—which he didn’t—nothing changed the fact he was a cop. He might work out of a lab, but he carried a badge and a gun, just as her husband had.

The badge gave Rory connections. Without qualm, he had called a contact at the LAPD and obtained a faxed copy of the incident report detailing Jay Honeywell’s death. Honeywell had been a sergeant, working undercover narcotics. A fellow cop read a situation wrong, jumped to unsupported conclusions, which led to the bust of what was thought to be a cocaine operation in a warehouse. Instead of the expected distribution center, what the cops found when they raided the place were street druggies cooking crank. One suspect fired a shot that ignited open containers of ether. The resulting explosion killed Sergeant Honeywell, two fellow officers and one bad guy.

Setting his jaw, Rory headed for the tavern’s dimly lit door, the loose gravel crunching beneath his feet. He knew he could have her. The knowledge was based not on conceit, but the memory of how Peggy had trembled in his arms when he’d held her. If he closed his eyes, he could feel her body shuddering against his while her nipples tightened and her lips opened beneath his.

Yes, he knew he could have her. Knew, too, that even if they became lovers, chances were good he would leave Prosperino with her having no clue he carried a badge.

Problem was he knew. If he took her to bed knowing how she felt about cops, he would never be able to face himself again in a mirror.

He should get the hell away from Honeywell House. Check out tonight, then bunk with Blake at Hopechest Ranch. The downside to that scenario was it would limit his observation of Charlie O’Connell.

Rory rubbed at the knots in the back of his neck. Who was he trying to kid? He had no evidence to suggest O’Connell was anything other than a disgruntled civil servant who refused to share information. Rory knew damn well that Peggy and Samantha were the reason he hadn’t left Honeywell House. The lady art judges had checked out the day after the arts festival. The honeymooning couple, the day after that. No new guests had arrived since then. Other than himself, Charlie O’Connell was the only guest. The idea of the bastard trying to hustle Peggy while he groped at her had Rory muttering a derisive curse.

Stepping beneath the bare bulb, he pulled open the heavy wooden door. He was instantly greeted by the slam and crack of pool balls and air redolent with a lifetime of tobacco.

Pausing, he waited just inside the door while his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. On his right was a long, scarred bar where several men huddled on stools, talking over their beers; on his left sat two pool tables with glaring fluorescent lights hanging overhead. Both tables were in use.

Rory shifted his gaze, caught sight of Blake Fallon and another man sitting at a table in the back of the bar.

Rory strode past several tables, all occupied. The customers’ dress ran the gamut from work shirts and jeans to tailored suits. A real cultural mix, he thought. He stopped by the bar, ordered a beer, then carried his glass to Blake’s table.

Blake nodded toward the man sitting across from him. “Rory Sinclair, meet Rafe James.”

Still standing, Rory extended his hand. “Good to meet you.”

“Same here.”

The copper skin, midnight black hair and high slash of cheekbones evidenced Rafe James’s Native American heritage. The cool mahogany eyes that gazed out of the sharp-angled face gave the impression they could carve a man into pieces at ten paces.

Rory settled his jacket over the back of an empty chair, then took a seat. “I have to tell you, Fallon, if this dive is the pride of Prosperino, I’m packing my bags and leaving tonight.”

Despite the fatigue that shadowed his eyes, Blake grinned. “You weren’t paying attention on the phone, Sinclair. I said Jake’s sirloin burgers are the pride of Prosperino. Rafe and I already ordered ours. I told the waitress to bring you one, too.”

“I’ll reserve my thanks until I taste the thing.” Rory took a peanut from the plastic bowl on the table, cracked it.

Mentally, he scanned the list of names Blake had given him of people who could profit if he lost his job. Then the names of those who might take revenge on Blake for the two attempts his father had made on Joe Colton’s life. Rafe James hadn’t made either list.

Rory scooped up another peanut. “So, Rafe, what’s your connection with my college buddy here?”

“We raised hell together growing up.” Rafe slid Blake a look. “Now I raise Appaloosas on my own ranch. I get into a lot less trouble these days.”

“True,” Blake agreed. “But you don’t have near as much fun.”

“You have a point.”

Blake’s smile faded as he met Rory’s gaze. “People come from all over the country to buy Rafe’s Appaloosas. He’s holding his breath, just like everybody else, that the water on his ranch keeps testing okay.”

“I wish I could tell you what caused the contamination at Hopechest,” Rory said, then tipped back his beer. “I can’t. Yet. Right now all I can do is give you a list of things that didn’t cause it.” He paused, furrowing his brow. “It’s great that every other water source in the area has tested fine, but that concerns me, too.”

“You’re thinking the contamination was done on purpose,” Blake said. “That someone targeted Hopechest Ranch. Or me. If that’s the case, I need to shut down the entire operation. Get the kids and staff out of there before, God forbid, something worse happens.”

“Don’t jump the gun until we know something for sure.” Rory shifted in his chair. “I’m a chemist, Blake. All I can do is identify the contaminant. That’s the first step. The second one is figuring out how the stuff got into the water. If it turns out whatever the hell it is spread there from an underground source, you’ll probably need a geologist or a hydrologist—or both—to explain how aquifers and water tables work.” Rory frowned. “And I’ll want a question or two answered myself.”

“For instance?” Blake asked.

“Right now, a new well is being drilled on the Crooked Arrow Reservation. The well site is just yards from Hopechest property. The water at that drill site tests okay. If it turns out the contaminant came from a nearby underground source, someone’s going to have to explain to me how and why it got into one well, but not the other.”

Rafe looked at Blake. “That’s the well Springer’s paying to have drilled.”

“Springer,” Rory repeated. “I saw that name on the side of a pickup truck when I took water samples at the well site. What’s Springer?”

“An oil company,” Blake answered. “Operates a refining plant outside of town.”

Rory raised a brow. “So, why is an oil company drilling a water well on an Indian reservation?”

“In a name, David Corbett.” Rafe inclined his head toward the front of the bar. “That’s him shooting pool at the far table. The guy wearing the starched white shirt with its sleeves rolled up.”

Rory caught a glimpse of an athletically built man, just above six feet tall. His loosened navy tie and the conservative cut auburn hair pegged him as an executive.

“He a good guy?” Rory asked.

Rafe nodded. “I do security work as a sideline and I’ve worked off and on at Springer. I filled in there for a couple of weeks when one of their guards got sick and they were in a bind. Springer had just decided to expand its operations, and it made an offer to lease some land that belongs to the Crooked Arrow Reservation. Corbett’s a high-up VP at Springer, so I guess that’s why he personally delivered the offer to the elders at the res. The elders said no.”

Rory angled his chin. “By the way you sound, I take it Corbett didn’t go away mad?”

“No. In fact, he was so appalled by the living conditions of some of the Native Americans that he came back with an offer from Springer to drill a new water well on res land. Free of charge. That’s the well you saw being drilled.”

“Corbett’s a righteous guy,” Blake agreed. His eyes narrowed. “I sure can’t say much for his choice of pool partners, though.”

Rory looked again toward the front of the bar. His gaze settled on the wiry-framed man with light brown hair who was leaning over the pool table. He executed his break, then gave Corbett a smug smile that accompanied the clatter of balls.

Rory tapped an index finger against his glass. “Holly,” he said to Blake. “Your secretary’s name is Holly, right?”

“That’s right.”

“She has the same eyes and jawline of the man playing pool with David Corbett.”

“Showoff,” Blake muttered. “Yeah, that’s Holly’s father. His name’s Todd Lamb.”

Rory watched Lamb circle the pool table, calculating his next shot while he chalked his cue. Neither David Corbett nor Todd Lamb had made either of Blake’s lists.

Rory looked back at Blake. “You have something against Lamb?”

“Nothing personal.” Blake raised a shoulder. “I just don’t like the way he ignores his daughter. Holly deserves better.”

Rory kept his expression neutral as he scooped another peanut out of the bowl. He remembered the way Holly’s gaze had lingered on Blake, the softening in her voice when she spoke to him. Rory suspected the potential was there for more than just a boss-employee relationship.

“Here’s your order, boys.” A redhead with expressive, flirty eyes and a black leather skirt that barely made it past the legal limit sauntered up to the table, a loaded tray in her hands. “Three of Jake’s special sirloin burgers. And fries.” When she leaned and settled the plates on the table, her skinny black top dipped down low over firm, well-developed breasts.

Rory pursed his mouth when she ambled away on skyscraper heels. “Are you boys sure it’s these sirloin burgers that are the pride of Prosperino?”

Rafe chuckled. “Scout’s honor.”

Rory took a bite and found himself pleasantly surprised. “This is great. I’m starved.”

Blake looked at Rafe. “Can you believe you heard that statement from someone staying at Honeywell House?”

“No.” Rafe washed down a bite with a swallow of beer. “The last time I was there, Peggy served me a piece of key lime pie. Best I’ve ever tasted. I made such a big deal over it, she sent the rest of the pie home with me.”

“That’s Peggy,” Blake agreed. “Nobody leaves Honeywell House hungry.” He shot Rory a look. “You sample her apricot cobbler yet?”

“Haven’t had a chance.”

“When you were in my office, you said you and Peggy struck a deal. You test the inn’s water twice a day, she bakes you the dessert of your choice every night.”

“That’s the deal.”

“So, what happened?”

“I test the inn’s water twice a day. It’s fine, in case you were wondering.”

“What about dessert?”

Rory thought of the past nights he’d paced his room, thinking about Peggy. Wanting her. He knew that after he left Prosperino, he would lie awake a lot of nights, thinking about being with her.

“I decided it’d be best if I passed on dessert,” he said quietly. “All it takes is willpower. A lot of willpower.”

Eight

“Mr. O’Connell said he needed to borrow my station wagon for an hour. Two at the most.” Standing at the center island, Peggy turned and checked the clock on the oven, saw it was nearly nine o’clock. She looked back across the kitchen at the table where Kade Lummus sat. “It’s been over five hours.”

Looking relaxed and comfortable in his worn jeans and gray sweater, Kade took the last bite of the warm bread pudding with white chocolate sauce she had served him when he arrived. “You’re sure O’Connell didn’t mention anything about who he planned to meet?” Kade asked, nudging his bowl aside. “Or where?”

“No. I didn’t ask. Looking back, I should have, since he wanted to borrow my car to get there.” She shoved her hair behind her shoulders. “After he said he might finally find out some answers about what happened to the water on Hopechest Ranch, all I wanted was for him to get to his meeting.”

“I would have felt the same way. Everyone’s holding their breath over the water contamination. Waiting for answers is like sitting on a fault line, wondering when the next earthquake will hit.”

“That sums it up.” Her concern about the inn’s water had eased slightly now that Rory was running tests twice a day and slipping the results on notes under her office door. Still, she was like everyone else—worried about the safety of the town’s water supply. If the contaminant suddenly spread, the entire population of Prosperino might have to evacuate. A knot formed in her throat at the possibility. The inn was more than just a means of support for her and Samantha. They had built a life in her grandmother’s house that nestled on the cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Peggy couldn’t imagine leaving and not knowing when she could return.

She picked up a pot holder, slid it into a drawer near the cooktop. “Kade, I feel bad about calling you at home. I wanted your advice on what to do about Mr. O’Connell’s being gone so long. I didn’t intend for you to drive over here.”

As she spoke, rain started to patter on the roof, sounding like fingers lightly drumming on a table. Peggy walked to the window over the sink, nudged back one side of the striped curtain and glanced out. O’Connell’s rental car hunched in the rain beside Kade’s police cruiser, the only cars parked in the lot. She forced away thoughts about Rory, wondering where he was, when he would get back.

Turning, she rubbed at the ache that had settled in her forehead and met Kade’s gaze. “Thanks to me, you’re going to get wet.”

“No big deal.” He sipped the coffee she had brewed when he arrived, his dark eyes watching her over the rim of the mug. “Your bread pudding is worth getting a little wet.”

She relaxed enough to smile. “Thanks. Would you like more?”

“Yes, but I’ll pass. As it is, I have to spend double time at the gym working off this one helping.” He flipped the cover closed on the small pad on which he’d jotted notes. “I’ve got all the information I need on your station wagon. I’ll have dispatch put it out on the air tonight.”

“I don’t want Mr. O’Connell to get into trouble. I did loan him the car.”

“At this point, the only thing he’s guilty of is breaking his word to you. I’ll make sure dispatch broadcasts the information as a ‘check the welfare of the driver’ stop.” Kade rose, walked to the back door and snagged his jacket off the nearby coatrack. “My shift starts at seven in the morning. Give me a call. If O’Connell hasn’t surfaced, I’ll upgrade him to a missing person and put a statewide APB out on your station wagon.” As he spoke, Kade pulled on his jacket. “Give Samantha a kiss for me. Tell her I’m sorry I didn’t make it here before her bedtime.”

“I will. She’ll be upset she missed seeing you.” Peggy walked to where he stood, put a hand on his arm. “I appreciate all you do for us, Kade.”

He looked down, his steady brown eyes locked with hers. “I don’t want your appreciation, Peggy. You know that.”

“I know.” She dropped her hand, curled it against her thigh. “And you know I can’t ever get involved again with a cop. I can’t do it, Kade.”

He cupped a hand to her cheek, his mouth tightening. “I’ve thought about giving up the job so you and I would have a chance to see what could happen between us. I can’t bring myself to do that. No matter how much I care about you, I can’t turn my back on the job. I’m a cop. That’s all I’ll ever be. It’s who I am.”

Jay had been the same way, born to wear a badge. He had thrived on the edge of danger that was a natural part of the job. The job that had killed him. His senseless death had left her with a scar on her heart and a hole in her life that would always be there.

“It’s no good, Kade,” she said softly. “If you walked away from being a cop, you would someday hate me for that.”

“Yeah.” He dropped his hand, eased out a breath, then changed the subject. “After your attack, we put extra patrols on the inn. None of the guys have spotted anything. We also haven’t had any additional sightings of the drifter I told you about. Looks like he’s left the area.”

“That’s a relief.”

Kade hesitated. “Before I left the other night, I asked Sinclair to keep his eyes open for anything around here that didn’t look right. He’s called twice to let me know he hasn’t seen anything. He’s also grilled me on what we’re doing about finding the guy that hurt you.”

Peggy slid her hands into the pockets of her slacks, pulled them back out. She’d had no idea Rory had called Kade. Then again, how could she know, since he’d made himself so scarce the past three days?

“It’s nice that so many people are looking out for Samantha and me,” she said.

“You know you can call me if you need anything. Anytime.” Without waiting for her to comment, Kade turned, pulled open the door, then shut it tight behind him.

Weary, she rested her forehead against the door. Kade was a good man. An honorable one. She had no doubt that, for as long as he lived, he would be there for her and Samantha. She closed her eyes. Jay had told her he would be there for her always. Yet, he hadn’t even lived long enough to see their daughter.

“No cops,” Peggy said quietly. “Never again.”

It wasn’t lost on her that she had been perfectly able to control the depth of her feelings for Kade, but not for Rory. Why couldn’t she make herself stop yearning for a man who would only be a part of her life for so short a time?

“Crazy,” she murmured. She was an intelligent woman, responsible and, for the most part, logical. Here she was, stupidly, irrationally drawn to a man who could offer her nothing but heartbreak. She’d had enough of that in her life, and she didn’t need to go around, leaving herself open for more. Especially from a man who didn’t even want her.

Stifling the moan that rose in her throat, Peggy pushed away from the door. Her bruised hip felt stiff, and the headache now brewing dead center in her forehead told her all the sleep she’d lost over the past nights had finally caught up with her.

She moved to the table, carried the dishes Kade had used to the sink, rinsed them and placed them in the dishwasher. That done, she headed toward the front of the inn for her ritual of settling the inn for the night.

Leaving a dim light burning in the foyer, she moved into the study. The fire she’d built earlier simmered in the grate, its warmth drawing her across the room. Rain pattered softly against the windows. Feeling the fatigue in her legs and back, she settled onto the leather couch that faced the fire. She would sit here for a minute or two, she told herself. Sit here, and wait for Charlie O’Connell to return with her station wagon.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the soft leather while deep in her restless heart, the truth stirred. Rory was whom she waited on. Rory whom she wanted to walk through the door. Rory whom she wanted to come home.



The sky broke the same instant Rory walked out of Jake’s. He dashed across the tavern’s gravel parking lot, slid into his car and shook the rain from his hair. Seconds later, he pulled out of the lot and turned the car onto the dark coastal highway for the short trip to Honeywell House.

He had hoped the stop at Jake’s would help his thoughts steady. Instead, they had constantly turned to Peggy. The memory of her warm, subtle taste, the soft feel of her skin had left his mind as restless as the sea that churned against the ragged cliffs edging the dark shoreline.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Here he was, a man who had never wanted the restriction or the responsibility of a home, drawn to a woman who thrived on those very things. Things he had never had. And didn’t want, he reminded himself.

He steered around a curve, then headed across a bridge. Below, the angry surf rolled in, crested, then broke. His jaw tightened as his car’s headlights stabbed through the darkness and the rain to illuminate the thin ribbon of road leading up to Honeywell House. Something was happening inside of him and he had no idea what it was. All he knew was that no one had ever had a hold on him like this before. No person…or thing, he amended when he pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine.

The inn sat nestled against the hill, the small spotlights spreading dramatic fans of illumination up three stories to the widow’s walk. A light, weak but welcoming, glowed with golden warmth behind the window in the foyer.

It wasn’t just the woman who had left that light burning that drew him. It was the home she had made.

“Christ.” Rubbing his eyes, he sat in silence while the rain drummed against the car’s roof and slid down the windows. For the first time in his life, he knew what it felt like to come home.

He took a mental step back, stunned by the realization, stunned it had been there to come out. He didn’t know what was causing the change inside of him. Had no clue how to stop it. Didn’t know if he could. Or even if he wanted to. He couldn’t deny that he cared about Peggy more than he had ever cared about any other woman. Still, his feelings didn’t alter the fact he had lived his entire life on the road to somewhere else. It was a lifestyle that fit him like a glove. That he was now wondering if he could settle in one place, be on the inside looking out was foreign territory and needed to be approached with caution.

As did Peggy’s determination to never again involve herself with a man who wore a badge.

In truth, he had no idea what to do about either issue—if, in fact, he should do anything. Since it was apparent he wasn’t coming up with any solutions sitting in his car, he shouldered open the door and ducked into the rain. Perhaps because his mind had been so weighted down with thought, he didn’t notice until this moment that Charlie O’Connell’s rental car was the only other vehicle in the lot.

Where the hell was Peggy? he wondered as he dashed up the porch steps. It was nearly ten o’clock—what was she doing out so late with Samantha?

Using his key, Rory swung open the front door and stepped into the foyer where the dim light glowed. He locked the door behind him, his gaze flicking in the direction of her small office. The door was closed, no sliver of light showed beneath.

He took two steps toward the staircase, pausing when he came even with the arched entrance to the study. The waning flames in the fireplace put out just enough light for him to see Peggy curled on the couch.

Because he couldn’t help himself, he moved across the study to stand near her.

It was a fitful sleep, he decided as he pulled off his leather jacket and laid it on one of the nearby wing chairs. She was lying on her side, one hand fisted against a small throw pillow. In the flickering light, her skin looked stunningly pale, the shadows deep where her dark lashes fanned across her cheeks. She murmured something indistinguishable; a crease of worry formed between her brows.

A bad dream, he thought as he moved over and crouched in front of her. The need tethered tight inside him strained hard at her scent. She smelled like the inn, of that welcoming combination of lemon, cinnamon and lavender that had greeted him the first night. And was so much a part of what had drawn him back over the past days.

When her head jerked, her dark hair pooled across the pillow like rich mink.

Wanting to soothe her, he traced a fingertip down the deepening crease between her brows.

“No!” Her fist swung out, caught him on one shoulder. “Don’t—”

“Wake up, Ireland. You’re having a bad dream.”

“No! Don’t touch me.” She shot awake, her eyes wide, glazed and unfocused. At the same instant, she lunged to her feet, rocked a bit.

He gripped her upper arms to steady her. “It’s Rory,” he said quietly. Her skin had gone deathly pale. “You had a bad dream.”

She gulped in a breath, blinked her eyes. “Rory?”

“You had a bad dream,” he repeated. His hands slid up, cupping her shoulders. “You’re okay now.”

“Oh, God. I dreamed…” She shuddered. “He came back.”

“Who?”

“The man in the greenhouse. He came back.”

When she leaned in and pressed her face into his shoulder, Rory felt the thunder of her heart. He closed his eyes. It felt right having her in his arms. So right. Even as he told himself to step back, he buried his face in the soft fall of her hair. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

“Yes.” Her arms slid around his waist. “A bad one.”

“Do you want a glass of wine?” He rubbed a hand gently up and down her spine. “Maybe something stronger to steady you?”

She inched her head back to look up at him. The firelight shaded her green eyes with gold. Rising on tiptoe, she pressed a kiss to his throat. “You. I want you.”

“Ireland.” The feel of her teeth scraping against his throat shot desire through him like a bullet. Knowing he needed to distance himself from an edge that had suddenly spun closer, he forced himself to think about the badge in his pocket. “I’m not the right man for you.”

“I know.” Her mouth was urgent and frantic and hot against his neck, his jaw. He felt the tremors that coursed down her body, heard her shuddering breaths. “You’ll leave Prosperino. You won’t come back. It doesn’t matter.”

“Eventually it will.” Fighting to hold on to control, he gathered her hair in his hand and drew her head back until their eyes met. The desire he saw there made his knees weak. “There’s no future for us. I can’t promise you any kind of future.”

She reached up, framed his face with her hands while her body molded itself to the lines of his. “When Jay died, I made a future for myself and Samantha. I don’t need a man to do that for me. I’m not thinking of tomorrow, Rory,” she said, her voice low and thick. “I’m thinking of right now. You’re who I want right now.”

He could have taken her in one greedy gulp. For a brief, blinding instant, he considered falling into the mindless pleasure of her touch and taking what his body ached to have. It was his heart and his mind that held him back.

“This can’t happen.” He tightened his hands on her arms, gave her a gentle shake. “Not like this.”

“I…” She stilled against him while a dull flush crept into her cheeks. Her arms slid from around his waist. She took a step back. Then another. “I’m sorry. You made it clear over the past three days that you don’t want…” She dropped her face into her hands. “Oh, God, I can’t believe I just attacked you.”

“If you think I minded, you’re wrong.” He shackled his fingers around her wrists, forced her hands down. “Look at me. Ireland, look at me,” he repeated, then waited for her gaze to meet his. When it did, the mortification in her eyes made his chest tighten. “Dammit, there’s no reason for you to be embarrassed.”

“I think there is.”

“Maybe this will change your mind.” He stepped closer; he couldn’t help it. “You’re driving me crazy. All I’ve done for the past three days is think about you. I can barely do my job. Dammit, I can’t even breathe without wanting you. I’ve stayed away because I’m not sure I can keep my hands off of you.”

Her lips parted as a glimmer of relief spread over her face. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I thought…you weren’t interested.” She closed her eyes, opened them. “This coming from the woman who just tried to jump your bones.”

His mouth curved. He freed one of her wrists, used his fingers to nudge a wave of dark hair from her cheek. “I’m not complaining.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just saying no.”

“I have reasons.”

Shifting his gaze to the row of rain-streaked windows that looked out onto the front porch, he fought the urge to tell her he was an FBI special agent. The instant she knew he carried a badge, she would turn away. He was sure of that. What he wasn’t sure of was Charlie O’Connell. Rory had no proof that the EPA inspector had his own agenda in regard to the contaminated water on Hopechest Ranch. Still, Rory couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut that told him there was more going on with O’Connell than met the eye.

For all Rory knew, O’Connell could have been the man who attacked Peggy in the greenhouse. O’Connell claimed he had been at the reservation checking the site where Springer was drilling the new water well. Rory had checked, and couldn’t find anyone who could verify the EPA inspector’s alibi. That didn’t mean the man was guilty, but it sure as hell didn’t put him in the clear, either.

Rory bit back a frustrated curse. He knew if he told Peggy he was FBI, her behavior toward him would change. It was possible O’Connell would sense that change, and wonder about it. He might start thinking that Peggy was hiding a secret or two about the chemist Blake Fallon had hired. Depending on what O’Connell was up to, any suspicions on his part could put Peggy at risk.

The prospect tightened Rory’s throat. For now, it was safer for everyone to continue to think he worked for a private company.

Brow furrowed, he caught Peggy’s waiting gaze. “There are things about me that I can’t tell you. In the long run, they probably don’t matter much since I’m leaving Prosperino as soon as my job here is done.”

“I keep reminding myself of that.” She was gazing up at him as if she were looking beyond the surface, to what no one else had seen, even himself. “I know I shouldn’t let myself get close to you because you’ll leave soon.” She dropped her gaze. “I tell myself that, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference. It should, but it doesn’t.”

Suddenly, it was important to him that she understand why he couldn’t stay. Sliding his hand from her wrist to curve around her fingers, he settled on the couch, then nudged her down beside him.

“I told you the other night that I don’t have a home. I’ve never had one. My mother died when I was young. My father had no clue how to raise a child, and he didn’t bother to find out. He sent me to boarding schools, camps. I did my time at those places, then I walked away without looking back. I’m good at walking away. I’ve been doing it all my life.”

She nodded. “I figured that out when you told me you can put everything you need into suitcases and toss them into your airplane. You don’t like roots.”

“I’ve got no use for them. You do.” Staring into the fire, he laced his fingers with hers. “You put down deep roots, Ireland. You stay in one place and you make that place a home not only for you and your child, but for any stranger who happens to come your way.” He turned his head, met her gaze. “You need a man who will put down roots right beside yours.”

“Eventually, that’s what I want.”

“I’ve never stayed anywhere for long. I don’t know that I can stay anywhere. Or if I even want to try.” He eased out a breath. “I care about you, more than I’ve ever cared for anyone. I don’t want to hurt you. I need you to know up front that there’s no future with me. It just isn’t in the cards. If something happens between us, I don’t want you looking back with regret. I want you to be sure.”

She shoved a hand through her hair. “I thought I was. When I woke up and saw you standing beside the couch, I thought I was sure.”

“You’d had a bad dream. Your face was chalk white, you were shaking. Vulnerable. You reached for me because I was the nearest safe port in the storm.” He angled his chin. “You told me you don’t take intimacy lightly. If you hadn’t had the dream, would you have reached for me the way you did?”

“I don’t know.” Her dark brows slid together. “I just don’t know.”

He nodded. “So, tell me about the dream.”

“It was so real. I could feel the man’s fingers clenched in my hair, on the back of my neck.” She shook her head. “What Kade said when he was here a while ago must have brought it on. Everything was so fresh in my mind.”

“Lummus was here?”

“Yes, I called him when Mr. O’Connell didn’t come back.”

“Come back?” Rory narrowed his eyes. “His car’s parked in the lot. Yours isn’t. When I drove up, I thought you were gone.”

“That’s right, you weren’t here, so you don’t know.”

“I don’t know what?”

Peggy slid her fingers from his and rose. “This afternoon Mr. O’Connell borrowed my station wagon because his car wouldn’t start. He said he’d be gone only an hour, two at the most. That was around four o’clock.”

“You haven’t heard from him since?”

“No.”

“Why did he need to borrow your station wagon?”

“He said he had a meeting. An important one in which he might finally get some answers about what happened to the water on Hopechest Ranch.”

Rory leaned forward. “Did he say who he was meeting with? And where?”

“No, and I didn’t ask.” She raised a shoulder. “I called Kade around nine o’clock to get his advice on what to do. He came by and got the information he needed on my station wagon so dispatch can put something on the air tonight. He said if O’Connell doesn’t show up by morning, to call him and he’ll list him as a missing person and issue an APB on my car.”

“That’s good.” Rory rose. “Did you check O’Connell’s room to make sure his things are still there?”

She tilted her head. “You’re thinking like Kade. We did that while he was here. As far as I can tell, all of Mr. O’Connell’s belongings are still here.”

“What about his work papers? Files? Any of that in his room?”

“No. But then, I’ve never seen any of his work when I’ve cleaned his room.”

Rory walked to the fireplace, stared into the glowing embers. He thought about Blake having seen O’Connell’s car parked at one of the hay sheds on Hopechest Ranch. Another car had been nosed deep in the shadows. A white car.

Rory retrieved his jacket off the wing chair. “I’m going out for a while, see if I can find O’Connell.”

Peggy raised a brow. “Please don’t do that just because he has my car. It’s late, it’s raining and the police are already looking for him.”

Rory shrugged on his jacket, then walked to her. Because it was undoubtedly unwise to touch her, he kept his arms at his sides. “I’m pretty sure that my putting the brakes on our making love tonight, then telling you to take some time to think things through might be two of the stupidest things I’ve ever done. If I go upstairs to bed right now, I’m going to lie awake all night, telling myself how big an idiot I am. Trust me, it’s better for my mental health to get some fresh air and keep busy for a while.”

Her mouth curved. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to lie awake all night thinking. If it weren’t for Samantha, I’d go with you and get some of that fresh air for myself.”

He dipped his head. “Good night, Ireland.”

“Good night.”

He took one last look at her and thought how gorgeous she was, standing there in the fire’s wavering glow. Her dark hair was a beautiful mess, her lips slightly parted, her green eyes glistening.

“Idiot,” Rory muttered as he strode toward the door. “You’re a flaming idiot, Sinclair.”

Nine

Rory swung by Jake’s Tavern to make sure Charlie O’Connell hadn’t stopped off for a beer on his way back to Honeywell House. Although Peggy’s black station wagon wasn’t parked in the gravel lot, Rory checked inside the tavern just to make sure no one had seen O’Connell. No one had.

When Rory climbed back into his car, he turned on the engine before putting a call in to Blake to let him know about the EPA inspector’s disappearing act.

“He didn’t tell Peggy whom he was meeting?” Blake asked. “Or where?”

“No. All he said was that the meeting would take about an hour. Two at the most. O’Connell was either lying or he got sidetracked somewhere along the way. Peggy called Kade Lummus after O’Connell didn’t show up. Lummus put the car’s description on the air.”

“The cops won’t find O’Connell if he’s having another clandestine meeting at one of my ranch’s hay sheds.”

“You’re right.”

“I’ll put on some clothes and drive out to check the shed where I saw him before,” Blake said. “I’ll scope out a couple of other places on the ranch, too. While I’m doing that, why don’t you drop by Ruby’s to see if anyone has spotted O’Connell?”

Rory arched a brow while the car’s engine idled and the wipers slapped rain from the windshield. “Ruby’s?”

Blake chuckled. “This is your night to visit the town’s hot spots, Sinclair. First Jake’s, now Ruby’s.”

“Is Ruby’s another dive?”

“Bite your tongue. Ruby’s is more like the heartbeat of Prosperino. It’s a café on Main Street, across from City Hall. It’s the place where the locals go to exchange news. Some people call that gossip. Here’s a tip—Ruby’s meat loaf is out of this world.”

“It’s a little late for meat loaf.”

“Then try some of Ruby’s cherry pie. It’s almost as good as Peggy’s. Almost, but not quite.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Scowling, Rory clicked off his cell phone. He was trying his damnedest to keep his mind on Charlie O’Connell and off his landlady—who he could be ravishing this very moment if his conscience hadn’t gotten in the way.

“Hell.”

By the time Rory turned onto Main Street the rain fell in sheets, obscuring the café’s wide-pane front windows in a watery blur. Only a few cars angled in the parking spots in front. Peggy’s station wagon wasn’t one of them.

He parked his car, then shouldered open the door against the wind and the rain. As he dashed to the sidewalk, he wondered how many more times he was destined to get wet that night.

Inside the café, the air was ripe with good, rich scents and the clatter of dishes. A long, Formica counter with the requisite stools stretched along one wall. A three-tiered stand holding homemade pies sat on one end of the counter. Tables and chairs of a serviceable metal dotted the yellowed linoleum floor. Booths covered in red vinyl lined two walls.

Rory shoved his fingers through his damp hair while his gaze swept over the smattering of customers. His chin rose when he spotted Michael Longstreet sitting with another man in a booth at the rear of the café.

“Mayor,” Rory said when he reached the booth.

“Sinclair.” Longstreet, clad in a starched white shirt and jeans, returned Rory’s handshake, then gestured at his companion, a solidly built man with a linebacker’s shoulders. “Joe Colton, meet Rory Sinclair.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Colton.” Rory’s first impression of the former U.S. Senator and corporate magnate was one of vitality and health and well-channeled power. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Call me Joe, and take a load off,” he said, sliding over on the bench seat to make room. The patriarch of the Colton family had a tanned, square-jawed face softened by kind blue eyes. He wore a thick sweater a shade darker than his eyes, and khaki pants. When he lifted his head, the overhead lights picked up the threads of gray in his dark hair. “You’re the chemist working for Blake Fallon, right?”

“That’s right.” Rory pulled off his leather jacket, hung it on the back of an empty chair, then slid in beside Joe. “The mayor’s making my job a lot easier by loaning me his Bonanza so I can run tests at a lab in San Francisco.”

Michael shrugged, his sun-streaked brown hair skimming his shirt collar. “If you weren’t flying her, she’d be on the ground all the time. With all that’s going on, I haven’t had a chance to think about flying.”

“In case that changes, I’m not planning to take her up tomorrow,” Rory said. “The tests I’m running right now take forty-eight hours for results to come back. I won’t need to fly to San Francisco until the day after tomorrow.”

“Fine. The plane’s yours for as long as you need it.”

A middle-aged waitress with expansive hips and brown hair teased into a beehive appeared beside the booth. Order pad in one hand, she nodded at Rory. “Get you something, sugar?”

“Coffee.”

Joe leaned in. “Is this your first visit to Ruby’s?”

“Yes.”

“You should try her cherry pie.”

Michael smiled. “Joe, he’s staying at Peggy’s place.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Oh, well, in that case you’re probably getting your fill of Peggy’s desserts. Nobody can top ’em. Not even Ruby.”

I wouldn’t know. Rory eased out a breath. Thinking about the gorgeous, sexy woman he had left—untouched!—at the inn had him rubbing a hand over his face. He looked at the waitress. “I’ll pass on dessert. Bring me coffee. Black.”

“Sure thing, sugar.”

He waited to get down to business until the woman settled the steaming cup in front of him, then refilled Joe’s and Michael’s cups.

“Charlie O’Connell, the EPA inspector, had car trouble earlier today. He borrowed Peggy’s station wagon to go to a meeting. He was due back at the inn hours ago, but hasn’t made it yet. She hasn’t heard from him. Have either of you seen him?”

Joe pursed his lips. “Our paths haven’t crossed for a couple of days. How about you, Michael?”

“I haven’t seen him today. Where was this meeting?”

“That’s one of the problems—no one knows. O’Connell didn’t tell Peggy where the meeting was, or who it was with. All he told her was that he had a good chance of getting some answers to what it is that contaminated the water on Hopechest Ranch.”

Michael whistled softly. “We could use those answers. We need those answers.”

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “We can’t do much about stopping the contamination, and preventing it from happening again, until we find out what the hell got into the water. And how the hell it got there.”

“I know,” Rory said. “I’m hoping to have some answers for you soon.”

Joe raised a hand. “I’m not hammering at you, son. I know getting results from a lab takes time. It’s just that all those kids out at Hopechest Ranch haven’t had a lot of breaks in their lives. They need one now.”

A dim beeping had Michael pulling the pager off of his belt. His mouth tightened as he read the display. “Great. Just what I need to end the day.”

“Problem?” Joe asked.

“Homer Wentworth wants me to call him.”

Joe ducked his head. “Glad you’re the mayor and not me,” he murmured into his coffee.

Michael looked at Rory. “Have you met Homer?”

“No.”

“Lucky you. He’s the town’s malcontent. A bitter old man who doesn’t like Hopechest and what he calls those good-for-nothing-kids who live there. He comes to every city council meeting just to carp over each dollar that’s spent.” Michael paused, his mouth curving into a wry grin. “Too bad Suzanne’s not here. I’d have her call the old goat.”

“Suzanne?” Rory thought of the woman whom Peggy had said delivered the packet of toxicology reports to the inn. “The same Suzanne who works for Blake at Hopechest?”

“Right, Suzanne Jorgenson,” Michael replied. “She attends all the city council meetings, too. Whenever Homer starts complaining about Hopechest, Suzanne jumps right in the middle of him. It’s a pleasure to sit back and watch her duke it out verbally with Homer. The woman packs a punch.”

Rory noted the look of frank admiration that had settled in Michael’s eyes when he spoke of Suzanne Jorgenson. Something there, Rory decided. Something that encompassed more than just city business.

“Guess I’ll go back to my office and give Homer a call.” The mayor slid out of the booth, clipped his pager back onto his belt. “Wish me luck.”

“You’ve got it,” Joe said.

Rory rose, shook Michael’s hand. “Good luck. And thanks again for the use of your Bonanza.”

“No problem. Good luck with those tests.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I get some answers.”

As the mayor strode away, Rory slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks and shifted his thoughts to Blake Fallon. To the guilt Blake felt over his father trying to kill Joe Colton. To the dread Blake felt at the prospect someone had contaminated the water on Hopechest Ranch as an attempt to revenge what Emmett Fallon had done. Now that he’d met Joe Colton, Rory figured this was a good time to start making up to Blake for his having taken their friendship for granted for so many years.

He met Joe’s gaze. “Do you have time for another cup of coffee?”

“Sure.”

Rory motioned for the waitress, then slid into the side of the booth Michael had vacated. After their cups were refilled, he said, “Mr. Colton—Joe—I don’t just work for Blake, I’m a friend of his, too.”

“That so?”

“Yes. We roomed together in college.” Rory’s mouth curved. “Raised a lot of hell together. Over the past years Blake and I lost touch. That’s my fault. I’m not exactly an expert at maintaining ties. I never felt the need to do that. Lately I’ve started thinking that isn’t the best thing a person can do. I plan to keep in touch with Blake from now on.”

“I imagine that will make him happy.”

“I hope so. When I arrived in Prosperino, I didn’t know anything about what Blake had been through the past couple of months.”

“You’re talking about his dad, right? About Emmett trying to kill me. Twice.”