Protecting Peggy Page 8

  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.”<
br />
  “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

  There 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?”