cries. The fragrance of flowers, a celebration of spring, carried delicately on the quiet breeze.
He wondered why he’d been so certain he preferred the rush and noise of cities.
As he stood there he saw a deer come out of the trees and raise her head to scent the air. That was freedom, he thought abruptly. To know your place and to be content with it. The doe cleared the trees, picking her way delicately toward the high grass. Behind her came a gangly fawn. Staying upwind, Roman watched them graze.
He was restless. Even as he tried to absorb and accept the peace around him he felt the impatience struggling through. This wasn’t his place. He had no place. That was one of the things that made him so perfect for his job. No roots, no family, no woman waiting for his return. That was the way he wanted it.
But he’d felt enormous satisfaction in doing the carpentry the day before, in leaving his mark on something that would last. All the better for his cover, he told himself. If he showed some skill and some care in the work he would be accepted more easily.
He was already accepted.
She trusted him. She’d given him a roof and a meal and a job, thinking he needed all three. She seemed to have no guile in her. Something had simmered between them the evening before, yet she had done nothing to provoke or prolong it. She hadn’t—though he knew all females were capable of it from birth—issued a silent invitation that she might or might not have intended to keep.
She’d simply looked at him, and everything she felt had been almost ridiculously clear in her eyes.
He couldn’t think of her as a woman. He couldn’t think of her as ever being his woman.
He felt the urge for a cigarette again, and this time he deliberately suppressed it. If there was something you wanted that badly, it was best to pass it by. Once you gave in, you surrendered control.
He’d wanted Charity. For one brief, blinding instant the day before, he had craved her. A very serious error. He’d blocked the need, but it had continued to surface—when he’d heard her come into the wing for the night, when he’d listened to the sound of Chopin drifting softly down the stairway from her rooms. And again in the middle of the night, when he’d awakened to the deep country silence, thinking of her, imagining her.
He didn’t have time for desires. In another place, at another time, they might have met and enjoyed each other for as long as enjoyments lasted. But now she was part of an assignment—nothing less, nothing more.
He heard the sound of running footsteps and tensed instinctively. The deer, as alert as he, lifted her head, then sprinted back into the trees with her young. His weapon was strapped just above his ankle, more out of habit than necessity, but he didn’t reach for it. If he needed it it could be in his hand in under a second. Instead he waited, braced, to see who was running down the deserted road at dawn.
Charity was breathing fast, more from the effort of keeping pace with her dog than from the three-mile run. Ludwig bounded ahead, tugged to the right, jerked to the left, tangled and untangled in the leash. It was a daily routine, one that both of them were accustomed to. She could have controlled the little golden cocker, but she didn’t want to spoil his fun. Instead, she swerved with him, adjusting her pace from a flat-out run to an easy jog and back again.
She hesitated briefly when she saw Roman. Then, because Ludwig sprinted ahead, she tightened her grip on the leash and kept pace.
“Good morning,” she called out, then skidded to a halt when Ludwig decided to jump on Roman’s shins and bark at him. “He doesn’t bite.”
“That’s what they all say.” But he grinned and crouched down to scratch between the dog’s ears. Ludwig immediately collapsed, rolled over and exposed his belly for rubbing. “Nice dog.”
“A nice spoiled dog,” Charity added. “I have to keep him fenced because of the guests, but he eats like a king. You’re up early.”
“So are you.”
“I figure Ludwig deserves a good run every morning, since he’s so understanding about being fenced.”
To show his appreciation, Ludwig raced once around Roman, tangling his lead around his legs.
“Now if I could only get him to understand the concept of a leash.” She stooped to untangle Roman and to control the now-prancing dog.
Her light jacket was unzipped, exposing a snug T-shirt darkened with sweat between her breasts. Her hair, pulled straight, almost severely, back from her face, accented her bone structure. Her skin seemed almost translucent as it glowed from her run. He had an urge to touch it, to see how it felt under his fingertips. And to see if that instant reaction would rush out again.
“Ludwig, be still a minute.” She laughed and tugged at his collar.
In response, the dog jumped up and lapped at her face. “He listens well,” Roman commented.
“You can see why I need the fence. He thinks he can play with everyone.” Her hand brushed Roman’s leg as she struggled with the leash.
When he took her wrist, both of them froze.
He could feel her pulse skip, then sprint. It was a quick, vulnerable response that was unbearably arousing. Though it cost him, he kept his fingers loose. He had only meant to stop her before she inadvertently found his weapon. Now they crouched, knee to knee, in the center of the deserted road, with the dog trying to nuzzle between them.
“You’re trembling.” He said it warily, but he didn’t release her. “Do you always react that way when a man touches you?”
“No.” Because it baffled her, she kept still and waited to see what would happen next. “I’m pretty sure this is a first.”
It pleased him to hear it, and it annoyed him, because he wanted to believe it. “Then we’ll have to be careful, won’t we?” He released her, then stood up.
More slowly, because she wasn’t sure of her balance, she rose. He was angry. Though he was holding on to his temper, it was clear enough to see in his eyes. “I’m not very good at being careful.”
His gaze whipped back to hers. There was a fire in it, a fire that raged and then was quickly and completely suppressed. “I am.”
“Yes.” The brief, heated glance had alarmed her, but Charity had always held her own. She tilted her head to study him. “I think you’d have to be, with that streak of violence you have to contend with. Who are you mad at, Roman?”
He didn’t like to be read that easily. Watching her, he lowered a hand to pet Ludwig, who was resting his front paws on his knees. “Nobody at the moment,” he told her, but it was a lie. He was furious—with himself.
She only shook her head. “You’re entitled to your secrets, but I can’t help wondering why you’d be angry with yourself for responding to me.”
He took a lazy scan of the road, up, then down. They might have been alone on the island. “Would you like me to do something about it, here and now?”
He could, she realized. And he would. If he was pushed too far he would do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted. The frisson of excitement that passed through her annoyed her. Macho types were for other women, different women—not Charity Ford. Deliberately she looked at her watch.
“Thanks. I’m sure that’s a delightful offer, but I have to get back and set up for breakfast.” Struggling with the dog, she started off at what she hoped was a dignified walk. “I’ll let you know if I can squeeze in, say, fifteen minutes later.”
“Charity?”
She turned her head and aimed a cool look. “Yes?”
“Your shoe’s untied.”
She just lifted her chin and continued on.
Roman grinned at her back and tucked his thumbs in his pockets. Yes, indeed, the woman had one hell of a walk. It was too damn bad all around that he was beginning to like her.
***
He was interested in the tour group. It was a simple matter for Roman to loiter on the first floor, lingering over a second cup of coffee in the kitchen, passing idle conversation with the thick-armed Mae and the skinny Dolores. He hadn’t expected to be put to work,
but when he’d found himself with an armful of table linens he had made the best of it.
Charity, wearing a bright red sweatshirt with the inn’s logo across the chest, meticulously arranged a folded napkin in a water glass. Roman waited a moment, watching her busy fingers smoothing and tapering the cloth.
“Where do you want these?”
She glanced over, wondering if she should still be annoyed with him, then decided against it. At the moment she needed every extra hand she could get. “On the tables would be a good start. White on the bottom, apricot on top, slanted. Okay?” She indicated a table that was already set.
“Sure.” He began to spread the cloths. “How many are you expecting?”
“Fifteen on the tour.” She held a glass up to the light and placed it on the table only after a critical inspection. “Their breakfast is included. Plus the guests already registered. We serve between seven-thirty and ten.” She checked her watch, satisfied, then moved to another table. “We get some drop-ins, as well.” After setting a chipped bread plate aside, she reached for another. “But it’s lunch and dinner that really get hectic.”
Dolores swooped in with a stack of china, then dashed out again when Mae squawked at her. Before the door had swung closed, the waitress they had passed on the road the day before rushed out with a tray of clanging silverware.
“Right,” Roman murmured.
Charity rattled off instructions to the waitress, finished setting yet another table, then rushed over to a blackboard near the doorway and began to copy out the morning menu in a flowing, elegant hand.
Dolores, whose spiky red hair and pursed lips made Roman think of a scrawny chicken, shoved through the swinging door and set her fists on her skinny hips. “I don’t have to take this, Charity.”
Charity calmly continued to write. “Take what?”
“I’m doing the best that I can, and you know I told you I was feeling poorly.”
Dolores was always feeling poorly, Charity thought as she added a ham-and-cheese omelet to the list. Especially when she didn’t get her way. “Yes, Dolores.”
“My chest’s so tight that I can hardly take a breath.”
“Um-hmm.”
“Was up half the night, but I come in, just like always.”
“And I appreciate it, Dolores. You know how much I depend on you.”
“Well.” Slightly mollified, Dolores tugged at her apron. “I guess I can be counted on to do my job, but you can just tell that woman in there—” She jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Just tell her to get off my back.”
“I’ll speak to her, Dolores. Just try to be patient. We’re all a little frazzled this morning, with Mary Alice out sick again.”
“Sick.” Dolores sniffed. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
Listening with only half an ear, Charity continued to write. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t know why her car was in Bill Perkin’s driveway all night again if she’s sick. Now, with my condition—”
Charity stopped writing. Roman’s brow lifted when he heard the sudden thread of steel in her voice. “We’ll talk about this later, Dolores.”
Deflated, Dolores poked out her lower lip and stalked back into the kitchen.
Storing her anger away, Charity turned to the waitress. “Lori?”
“Almost ready.”
“Good. If you can handle the registered guests, I’ll be back to give you a hand after I check the tour group in.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll be at the front desk with Bob.” Absently she pushed her braid behind her back. “If it gets too busy, send for me. Roman—”
“Want me to bus tables?”
She gave him a quick, grateful smile. “Do you know how?”
“I can figure it out.”
“Thanks.” She checked her watch, then rushed out.
He hadn’t expected to enjoy himself, but it was hard not to, with Miss Millie flirting with him over her raspberry preserves. The scent of baking—something rich, with apples and cinnamon—the quiet strains of classical music and the murmur of conversation made it almost impossible not to relax. He carried trays to and from the kitchen. The muttered exchanges between Mae and Dolores were more amusing than annoying.
So he enjoyed himself. And took advantage of his position by doing his job.
As he cleared the tables by the windows, he watched a tour van pull up to the front entrance. He counted heads and studied the faces of the group. The guide was a big man in a white shirt that strained across his shoulders. He had a round, ruddy, cheerful face that smiled continually as he piloted his passengers inside. Roman moved across the room to watch them mill around in the lobby.
They were a mix of couples and families with small children. The guide—Roman already knew his name was Block—greeted Charity with a hearty smile and then handed her a list of names.
Did she know that Block had done a stretch in Leavenworth for fraud? he wondered. Was she aware that the man she was joking with had escaped a second term only because of some fancy legal footwork?
Roman’s jaw tensed as Block reached over and flicked a finger at Charity’s dangling gold earring.
As she assigned cabins and dealt out keys, two of the group approached the desk to exchange money. Fifty for one, sixty for the other, Roman noted as Canadian bills were passed to Charity’s assistant and American currency passed back.
Within ten minutes the entire group was seated in the dining room, contemplating breakfast. Charity breezed in behind them, putting on an apron. She flipped open a pad and began to take orders.
She didn’t look as if she were in a hurry, Roman noted. The way she chatted and smiled and answered questions, it was as though she had all the time in the world. But she moved like lightning. She carried three plates on her right arm, served coffee with her left hand and cooed over a baby, all at the same time.
Something was eating at her, Roman mused. It hardly showed . . . just a faint frown between her eyes. Had something gone wrong that morning that he’d missed? If there was a glitch in the system, it was up to him to find it and exploit it. That was the reason he was here on the inside.
Charity poured another round of coffee for a table of four, joked with a bald man wearing a paisley tie, then made her way over to Roman.
“I think the crisis has passed.” She smiled at him, but again he caught something. . . . Anger? Disappointment?
“Is there anything you don’t do around here?”
“I try to stay out of the kitchen. The restaurant has a three-star rating.” She glanced longingly at the coffeepot. There would be time for that later. “I want to thank you for pitching in this morning.”
“That’s okay.” He discovered he wanted to see her smile. Really smile. “The tips were good. Miss Millie slipped me a five.”
She obliged him. Her lips curved quickly, and whatever had clouded her eyes cleared for a moment. “She likes the way you look in a tool belt. Why don’t you take a break before you start on the west wing?”
“All right.”
She grimaced at the sound of glass breaking. “I didn’t think the Snyder kid wanted that orange juice.” She hurried off to clean up the mess and listen to the parents’ apologies.
The front desk was deserted. Roman decided that Charity’s assistant was either shut up in the side office or out hauling luggage to the cabins. He considered slipping behind the desk and taking a quick look at the books but decided it could wait. Some work was better done in the dark.
An hour later Charity let herself into the west wing. She’d managed to hold on to her temper as she’d passed the guests on the first floor. She’d smiled and chatted with an elderly couple playing Parcheesi in the gathering room. But when the door closed behind her she let loose with a series of furious, pent-up oaths. She wanted to kick something.
Roman stepped into a doorway and watched her stride down the hall. Anger had made her eyes dark and brilliant.
“Problem?”
“Yes,” she snapped. She stalked half a dozen steps past him, then whirled around. “I can take incompetence, and even some degree of stupidity. I can even tolerate an occasional bout of laziness. But I won’t be lied to.”
Roman waited a beat. Her anger was ripe and rich, but it wasn’t directed at him. “All right,” he said, and waited.
“She could have told me she wanted time off, or a different shift. I might have been able to work it out. Instead she lies, calling in sick at the last minute five days out of the last two weeks. I was worried about her.” She turned again, then gave in and kicked a door. “I hate being made a fool of. And I hate being lied to.”
It was a simple matter to put two and two together. “You’re talking about the waitress . . . Mary Alice?”