Читать книгу Protecting Peggy - Maggie Price - Страница 10

A persistent, unending droning penetrated Rory’s thoughts, dragging him from a deep sleep. When he pried his eyes open and waited for his brain to clear, he realized the noise was the wind. A brisk wind that battered the lace-covered windows that let in a gray morning gloom.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he lingered in bed. He wasn’t sure what kept him beneath the colorful quilt and crisp sheets that he suspected had been ironed. Maybe it was an uncharacteristic urge to familiarize himself with this one room when he’d never felt the need to conduct more than a cursory study of the hundreds of other unfamiliar places he’d woken in during his career.

He propped his back against the headboard while his gaze slicked over the wallpaper spattered with small roses, the braided rug that pooled color across the wood floor, the little porcelain dish that held mints on the bedside table. His brow furrowed. No, he decided, it wasn’t the room itself. Although he appreciated ambiance, he never took much notice of it, especially in a place where he didn’t plan to spend any measurable length of time. What had snagged his attention was the woman who had created the setting that he now examined as if it were evidence under a microscope. The woman whose flower-delicate scent clung to the linens that enveloped him in warmth.

For a brief instant, Rory wondered what it would be like to have that woman lying naked beneath him, her dark hair spread across his pillow, those compelling green eyes smoky with desire.

“Dangerous thought, Sinclair,” he muttered. Although he had spent little time in Peggy Honeywell’s presence, instinct told him she wasn’t his type. He preferred quick, uncomplicated contacts. Women who laughed and loved without any thought for the future. Because with him, there was no future.

Shoving back the covers, he settled his feet on the cool wood floor and moved his gaze slowly around the cozy room. The woman who had created this setting had clearly put down roots and sunk them in deep. He doubted there would be anything quick or uncomplicated about an affair with her.

Peggy Honeywell was on his mind solely because he was curious to find out what it was about him that made her so damn jumpy. After all, he was a man who loved solving puzzles.

So, what was the key to this puzzle? he mused while he headed to the bathroom. Why had she acted so uneasy in his presence?

His profession? he speculated, then instantly discarded the notion. She had no idea he was FBI. No clue he carried a gun and a badge. He doubted her knowing he was a scientist carried even an inkling of a threat.

A threat. Rory ran a palm across his stubbled jaw as he stared into the mirror over the sink. Maybe it hadn’t been him at all. Could be, she was even more concerned over the state of the inn’s water supply than he had picked up on. She was, after all, a single woman who, he assumed, supported herself. Her livelihood could come to a screeching halt if she had to close Honeywell House if its water supply became contaminated.

Turning on his heel, Rory went to the small desk opposite the bed. There, he retrieved a test tube and indicator strips from his field evidence kit. Last night, before he went to bed, he had checked the inn’s water and found no trace of a contaminant. It was time to run another test.

That way he could give the dark-haired, green-eyed Peggy Honeywell some peace of mind.

“I’m gonna draw a picture of Bugs.”

The mention of the beloved stuffed rabbit had Peggy sending her four-year-old daughter a smile from across the kitchen’s center island. As was their habit in the mornings while Peggy cooked breakfast for the inn’s guests, Samantha had climbed up on one of the long-legged stools, her crayons and drawing paper fanned out in front of her.

“Drawing a picture of Bugs is a great idea, sweetheart. The other day I found an empty frame in the storage closet. We’ll put your picture of Bugs in it and hang it in your bedroom.”

“Okay.” Samantha’s smile lit up her small face, with its pointed chin and pert nose, its big brown eyes mirroring the color of rich earth. Her thick jet-black curls hung past her shoulders, giving her the look of a gypsy.

Samantha selected a crayon that matched the bright pink quilted jumper she wore. “Do you think the lady in the booth can paint Bugs on my cheek tomorrow night? Maybe Gracie’s, too?”

“Probably,” Peggy said soberly. “But it might not be as good a picture as yours.”

“I know,” Samantha said with confidence. Her face set in concentration, she got down to work.

While Peggy used a long-handled wooden spoon to stir the second batch of pancake batter of the morning, she stifled a yawn. Because she’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, just the thought of the long day that lay ahead had fatigue pressing down on her. Thank goodness the winter arts festival wasn’t until tomorrow night, she thought. She had promised to take Samantha and her best friend, Gracie Warren, for a return visit to the face-painting booth they had discovered at last year’s festival. Peggy knew the girls would want to stay until the festival closed.

With the batter smooth of lumps, she turned to the window where colorful pots of herbs lined the sill. After examining the spearmint, she snipped off several sprigs to use for garnish on the serving platters. Instead of turning back to the bowl of batter, she let her gaze focus out the window.

The day had dawned gray and gloomy with a fierce wind that tormented the trees lining the ribbon of road that led up the hill to the inn. Lying awake in bed, she had known the exact moment the wind had intensified, sweeping in with its battering gusts and mournful howl. For some reason she couldn’t explain, the instant she heard that howl, loneliness had begun scraping at her like tiny claws.

She had not felt such a deep, hollow ache since those terrible days after Jay died nearly five years ago.

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Peggy rinsed the sprigs of spearmint, then laid them on a paper towel to dry. Maybe the reason she felt so uncharacteristically empty was that Rory Sinclair had reminded her so much of the husband she had loved and lost. For that reason, too, it was only natural she hadn’t been able to put the tall, lanky scientist out of her mind.

Until right now, she resolved as she turned to the center island and poured the pecans she’d chopped earlier into the bowl of batter. She had guests to feed, rooms to clean and orders to place with two food distributors and a local winery. After four years, the running of the inn and the chores that went with it were so ingrained that they normally left her brain free to think about anything that struck her fancy.

Although musing about a man with the tough, intense face of a warrior might be pleasurable, she wasn’t going to allow herself that diversion. Her relationship with Jay had taught her that she was a woman readily drawn to a man with an aura of danger about him. She had no intention of again letting herself be tantalized by a man like that. Especially one who was just passing through.

“Good morning.”

Peggy’s stomach gave an intriguing little flip at the sound of Rory Sinclair’s voice. She looked up to find him with one shoulder propped against the doorjamb, his dark gaze focused on her in total concentration. He looked impossibly handsome in black jeans and a gray polo shirt, its sleeves shoved up on his forearms. His jet-black hair glistened wetly from what she assumed was his morning shower.

“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Rory.”

She gave him a cool smile even as heat crept up her neck. How long, she wondered, had he been standing there watching her and Samantha?

“There’s coffee in the dining room. Two of the guests—the ladies who are judging categories in the winter arts festival—are already there.” Peggy inclined her head toward the doorway opposite from the one in which he lingered. “You can get to the dining room through that door. I’ll serve breakfast in about fifteen minutes.”

“Whatever you’re cooking smells great.” Rory strolled across the kitchen, pausing when he reached the side of the center island from where Samantha sat eyeing him, the pink crayon gripped in a fist that had gone motionless above the paper.

“Momma’s making pancakes with nuts in ’em. They’re my favorite.”

“Pecans,” Peggy amended. “And cinnamon-apple sausage to go with the pancakes.” Since she was adamant about her daughter learning manners, Peggy added, “Samantha, this is Mr. Sinclair. He checked in last night after you were in bed.”

Having grown up in an inn constantly filled with strangers, there was nothing shy about the way Samantha scooted the piece of paper his way. “Do you like my picture, Mr. Sink…Mr. Sinkle?”

He smiled. “I think ‘Rory’ is a much easier name. It’s a great picture, Samantha.” He tilted his head. “How old are you?”

“Four,” she replied, holding up the accompanying number of fingers. “I’ll be five in May. What do you think my picture is of?”

Peggy raised a brow as he bent his head to examine the pink, misshapen drawing. Samantha had a habit of using her artwork to test the guests. Ordinarily, Peggy would have chided Samantha into telling what it was she was drawing, but for some reason she was curious to see how Rory Sinclair handled the situation.

“It’s a bunny,” he answered gravely. “With long, pink eyelashes.”

Samantha’s smile beamed like sunshine. “His name’s Bugs. Someday I’m going to have a real bunny. My momma says we’ll have to see about that. Now I have to draw Bugs a carrot ’cause he’s hungry.” Laying the pink crayon aside, she plucked an orange one, furrowed her brow, then started coloring.

Peggy lifted her gaze, met Rory’s blue one. “And I have to finish breakfast ’cause my guests are hungry. As I said, there’s coffee in the dining room.”

“And two lady art judges. I got all that the first time around.” He glanced down. “Samantha, are the ladies in the dining room going to judge your picture, too?”

“No, Momma wants to hang this one in my room.”

“Well, it would have been a sure winner. It’s a really good picture.”

“I know.” She paused, looking suddenly thoughtful as she stared up into his face. “Do you have a little girl, too, Mr. Rory? I could draw a picture for her room.”

“No. I don’t have a little girl or a little boy.”

“You’re not as lucky as Momma, then.”

“Clearly, I’m not,” he commented while Samantha shifted her attention back to the carrot.

Leaning a hip against the island, Rory moved his gaze to the copper pots and baskets hanging from hooks overhead. His attention then went to the butcher-block counters and oversized range and huge refrigerator behind where Peggy stood. “Nice kitchen, Mrs. Honeywell.”

“Thank you.” In an unconscious gesture, she ran her fingertips across the island’s dark granite top. “This was my grandmother’s house.”

“Was she born in Ireland, too?”

Peggy was vaguely surprised he remembered her brief mention of her birthplace. Jay had also been skilled at filing away small details about people.

“No. My birth mother lived in Ireland. I was adopted by an American couple when I was four months old.” Her mouth curved. “Gran used to say I was a special gift from the Emerald Isle.”

“With eyes to match.”

Was it simply her imagination that his voice had lowered, become richer? “I…used to come and stay with Gran in the summers,” she continued, trying to ignore the jump in her pulse. “I spent hours in here helping her cook, my mouth watering from all the delicious scents. This room always felt so homey to me. The whole house, in fact. I want my guests to feel that Honeywell House is more a home than an inn.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do they feel that way?”

“Most say they do.” She tilted her head. “When you check out, maybe you’ll let me know your take on the subject.”

“You’ll want to ask someone other than me about homey feelings. I tested the inn’s water last night and this morning.”

She blinked. His sudden change of subject had her mentally stumbling to catch up. Putting a hand to her throat, Peggy shifted her gaze to her daughter. Samantha hunched over her drawing, the point of her small tongue caught between her teeth while she put the final touches on Bugs’s oversize carrot.

A wave of uneasiness swamped Peggy. Despite reassurances from city officials, she had spent countless hours worrying about the town’s water supply and wondering if she should take her daughter out of harm’s way until the crisis was resolved.

“Is the inn’s water safe?”

“Yes. Everything checks out.”

She closed her eyes. Opened them. “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It’s been two weeks since they found out the water on Hopechest Ranch was contaminated. Some of the kids who drank it are still sick.”

“Do you know any of those kids?”

“No. I’ve only been to Hopechest a few times because the inn keeps me so busy. I do know, though, that Blake Fallon is terribly worried about those kids.” As she spoke, Peggy resumed stirring her pancake batter. “After the agony he went through last year over his father, this is the last thing Blake needs.”

“What agony?”

Peggy looked up. “I thought you said you and Blake were friends.”

“We are.” A look of unease slid into Rory’s blue eyes. “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Well, it sounds as if you have some catching up to do.”

“You’re right. I have an appointment to see him after breakfast.”

Nodding, Peggy decided to voice the concern she’d had since shortly after the EPA inspector checked into Honeywell House. “Charlie O’Connell claims there’s no way to predict how long it might take to find out what it was that contaminated the ranch’s water supply. And how it got there.”

Rory settled a palm on the counter. “Are you asking me if I agree with him?”

“Yes, I guess I am.”

“If O’Connell is conducting his study by the book, he will have taken water samples at the ranch on the day he arrived in Prosperino. Those samples should have been sent to the EPA lab for analysis. Depending on the rarity of the contaminant, it could take weeks to break down its components and make an ID.”

“That just seems like an awfully long time.”

“I know it does.” Rory angled his chin. “To put things in context, the breath you just exhaled contains one hundred and two different composites. To conduct a scientific analysis of that one breath, each composite has to be separated, then analyzed. Contaminated water has to be broken down that same way. In a lab, you can’t rush tests, can’t skip steps. That’s why I agree with O’Connell. There’s no way to predict how long it might take to find out what it was that wound up in the ranch’s water. And how it got there.”

Although she knew next to nothing about Rory Sinclair, instinct told Peggy she could trust what he said. Her gaze went to his hand resting on the countertop, his long, elegant fingers splayed against dark granite. Those long elegant fingers that she somehow knew would work slow, sweet magic against a woman’s flesh.

A dry ache settled in her throat. For so many years she had ignored her physical needs. Now those needs seemed to double and triple when she was in the same room with this one man.

“Something wrong?” he asked quietly.

Peggy looked up, realized he was watching her with the same intense assessment she had seen last night when he walked in on her and O’Connell.

“Of course not,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded steady. She ran her palms down the thighs of her gray flannel slacks. “It’s just a relief to know the inn’s water is safe.”

“I’ll continue to test it twice a day as long as I’m here.”

“I feel guilty not paying you for the testing.”

“Well, I don’t want your guilt on my conscience.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he flashed her a grin. “I’ll take my payment in dessert.”

“Dessert?” She’d have to be careful of that grin, Peggy told herself. It oozed recklessness and charm. Made you want to put down your guard and relax in his presence. She knew instinctively he was a man it would be unwise to relax around.

“Blake says you cook like an angel and that your apricot cobbler is a direct route to heaven.” Rory lifted a shoulder. “I’ve got a sweet tooth that would like to take that trip.”

He didn’t look like he had a sweet tooth. He looked incredibly fit, his stomach washboard flat, his forearms toned and muscular. What would it be like, she wondered, to feel that well-maintained body pressed against hers?

The thought brought all of her nerves swimming to the surface. She picked up a jar of herbed vinegar, set it back down. He would not be good for her, she knew that. Still, knowing something wasn’t good for you didn’t stop you from wanting to sample it.

Which was something she wasn’t going to do. A week from now Rory Sinclair might possibly be back in D.C., working in his lab. And, just because he didn’t have children didn’t mean there wasn’t a Mrs. Sinclair waiting for him at home.

That she suddenly found herself hoping he didn’t have a wife had Peggy scowling. She had no clue what it was that made her thoughts about one of her guests turn totally idiotic. Whatever it was, she was done with it. She was a professional. A businesswoman.

“It’s agreed, Mr. Sinclair,” she said in her most efficient tone. “I’ll prepare whatever dessert you’d like each evening in exchange for your testing the inn’s water every day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to deal with breakfast.”

He opened his mouth to respond when a loud clatter came from the hallway. An instant later, a masculine voice filled the air with vicious curses.

Panic tripped Peggy’s heart. “That sounds like Mr. O’Connell. Samantha, stay here.”

Peggy darted to the kitchen door on Rory’s heels, raced down the hallway at his side. Just as they reached the foyer, the two caftan-clad art judges burst from the hallway that led to the dining room, the mass of metal and wood bracelets both women wore clanking in unison. When Peggy saw the EPA inspector sitting on the bottom stair, massaging his right ankle, she realized he must have taken a tumble down the staircase.

She rushed to him, placed her hand on his arm. “Are you all right, Mr. O’Connell? Do I need to call a doctor?”

He jerked away, anger shimmering in his eyes as he surged up on one foot and leaned against the newel post. “Dammit to hell, woman, what kind of place are you running here?”

Peggy’s chin rose. “One in which you don’t have to yell at the top of your lungs for me to hear you. Now, please calm down and tell me how badly you’re hurt. Do I need to call a doctor?”

“No, dammit, I don’t need a doctor. I need a safety inspector.”

Peggy shook her head. “What for?”

“Oh, Bugs!”

Peggy had no idea Samantha had disobeyed her instructions to stay in the kitchen until she heard her daughter’s high-pitched wail.

“That’s what for.” Propping against the banister, O’Connell jerked his head toward the floor at the bottom of the staircase.

Peggy’s heart sank when she saw Samantha bent over her beloved pink rabbit, its head torn off and stuffing strewn on the wood floor.

“Damn thing was at the top of the stairs,” O’Connell said. “Caused me to slip and fall.”

Samantha glared up at O’Connell, tears streaming down her cheeks while she hugged the bunny’s torso. “You broke Bugs’s head off!”

“Hey, it’s a miracle I didn’t break my own neck.”

Peggy crouched, pulled her sobbing child into her arms. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart.” She would have to have another stern talk with Samantha about leaving her toys lying around the inn. Now, however, was not the time.

“Your kid’s not hurt.” O’Connell delivered the words in a steel tone. “I am. You ought to keep that in mind.”

Peggy lifted her gaze to his. From where she crouched, he looked disconcertingly big. And strong. She hated the fact she was nearly kneeling at his feet, but she couldn’t do anything about that. Not while Samantha clung to her while she sobbed hot tears against her shoulder.

“It’ll be okay, Bugs,” Samantha murmured between watery gasps as she rocked the animal. “I’ll fix you.”

Peggy ran a soothing palm down the child’s dark curls. “Mr. O’Connell, I am very concerned about you. Do you need a doctor?”

“A lawyer’s more like it.”

“I’ve got a question, O’Connell,” Rory said as he stepped between them. Peggy sensed that a protective barrier had suddenly risen in front of her and her child. Still crouched on the floor with Samantha crying against her shoulder, she leaned forward so she could see each man’s face in profile.

“What’s the question, Sinclair?” the EPA inspector asked.

“Why do you want a lawyer?”

“The kid—”

“Samantha,” Rory said evenly. “Her name’s Samantha.”

“Yeah, well, she left that rabbit in the middle of the stairs. The fall I took could have killed me.”

“So, you want a lawyer because you’re thinking of suing Mrs. Honeywell?”

O’Connell looked at Peggy. “Maybe.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Unless we can work out something.”

She gritted her teeth while heated anger pooled in her cheeks. If Samantha and her other guests weren’t present, she would ask the idiot if he actually thought his threatening her with a lawsuit would compel her to sleep with him.

Rory hooked a thumb in the front pocket of his jeans. “Here’s the deal, O’Connell. If you call a lawyer, I’ll have to talk to him, too.”

A guarded look settled in the man’s eyes. “About what?”

“I came down to breakfast ten minutes ago. I saw the pink bunny at the top of the staircase.”

“See—”

“Not in the middle of the staircase. Off to one side. Against the wall, in fact.” Rory shrugged. “Didn’t look like a safety problem to me. It sounds more like you just got clumsy. If you had gotten hurt, it would have been your own fault. Besides, what does it say about an inspector who trips over something hot pink?”

“We saw the bunny, too, Mr. O’Connell,” one of the art judges volunteered while the other nodded in agreement. “This gentleman is right. The bunny was against the wall. You must not have been looking where you were going.”

Apparently realizing he was outnumbered, O’Connell scowled. “Yeah, okay. I guess I’m more shaken up than anything.”

Peggy swiveled her head, gave the women a grateful smile. “Ladies, would you please escort Mr. O’Connell into the dining room? I’ll have breakfast ready in just a few minutes.”

O’Connell limped across the foyer between the two women, their bracelets clanking as they each patted one of his arms. Murmuring their sympathies, they steered O’Connell down the hallway that led to the dining room.

Peggy gave Samantha a hug, then settled on the bottom step. “Sweetheart, why don’t you take Bugs to your room? While you’re at preschool, I’ll see if I can sew him back together.”

“Can you fix him, Momma?” Voice hitching, Samantha stared at her through swollen, tearful eyes. “Can you really fix him?”

Cupping the small, tearstained face in her hands, Peggy placed a light kiss on her daughter’s trembling lips. “I can try.”

“Okay.” Samantha bent and gathered up the bunny’s head. Snuggling it and the fuzzy, pink body against her chest, she headed toward the hallway.

Peggy shook her head. “Dear Lord, give me strength.”

Chuckling softly, Rory offered his hand. “All this before breakfast. Are things always this eventful around Honeywell House?”

She hesitated an instant before sliding her hand into his. His flesh felt warm and firm against hers as he helped her to her feet.

“No, thank goodness.” Because his fingers had tangled with hers, she took a step back, disengaging her hand from his. “Usually things are on the sedate side.” She flicked a look toward the hallway in which O’Connell had disappeared. “I appreciate you stepping in. I doubt I would have been quite so tactful.”

“A lioness defending her cub doesn’t worry about tact.”

Peggy pulled in a deep breath. “No, she doesn’t. Samantha comes first with me.”

“That’s the way things should be.”

Peggy knew she had guests waiting for their breakfast, knew she needed to get to the kitchen. Still, she lingered inches from him, the spicy male tang of his cologne pervading her lungs.

“When Samantha showed you the picture she drew, I wondered how on earth you guessed it was a bunny. You knew because you saw Bugs at the top of the stairs.”

“The rabbit and the picture are both hot pink.” He shrugged. “I made a wild guess.”

“An accurate one.” She smiled as she fingered a wayward wisp of hair off her cheek. “Thank you again for defusing what might have turned into an even more unpleasant situation, Mr. Sinclair. If you’ll join the other guests in the dining room for coffee, I’ll see to breakfast.”

“You’re always so polite while you’re trying to get rid of me.” He smiled, a slow curving of the lips that gave his strong-featured face a devastating appeal. “What’s it going to take for you to call me Rory?”

She slid her tongue along her bottom lip. She didn’t want to picture herself in his arms, breathing his name against his heated flesh, but she did. “I think…” Her voice hitched, and she cleared her throat. “It would be wise for us to keep things between us on a business level, Mr. Sinclair.”

He said nothing for a moment, just stared down at her with those off-the-chart blue eyes until she had to fight the urge to squirm.

“You’re right, Ireland,” he said softly. “That would probably be the wise thing to do.”