Protecting Peggy. Maggie Price
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mix of scents wafted in the warm air—lemon, cinnamon and lavender. The foyer was spacious with waist-high oak wainscoting from which colorful wallpaper rose. A handsome mahogany reception counter sat in the center of a gold and cream tapestry rug that pooled over the polished wood floor.
Through an archway to his left he glimpsed a study lined with shelves crowded with books. The room had a high ceiling, wood floor and a green-marbled fireplace in which flames fed on thick logs that burned with a woodsy smell. The plump leather couch in front of the hearth looked like a great spot to curl up with a book.
He doubted he would have time to do that on this trip.
Turning his attention back to the foyer, he noted the brass plaque inscribed “Private” affixed to the wall beside a door that stood partially ajar.
Rory settled his bags against the wall, took two steps toward the reception desk, then halted when a deep voice coming from behind the door said, “There’s no need to put your back up just because a man pays you attention.”
“That kind of attention isn’t welcome,” a woman responded. “Touch me again, and you and all of your belongings will be out in the street. You have my word on that.”
Rory arched a brow. The woman’s voice was as steady as the January mist that shrouded the inn. With an ample spicing of temper.
Shifting his stance, he peered through the doorway into what appeared to be a small office. He could see one side of a bookcase, a file cabinet and a portion of a desk. It was the woman standing at the front of that desk, facing sideways, who commanded his attention. She was medium height with a delicate build, squared shoulders and creamy skin that held the trace of a flush. An angry flush, Rory theorized, considering the tone of her voice. Her dark hair fell, wave after wave, over the shoulders of her vivid turquoise sweater; the hem of a long black skirt skimmed her calves.
When the owner of the bass voice stepped closer to the woman, he moved into Rory’s line of sight. The man was tall and solid with a square jaw and sharp eyes. Judging from the brown hair just going to gray, Rory put his age at forty-something. He wore brown slacks and a tan sweater, its sleeves shoved up on his well-developed forearms.
“I didn’t come in here meaning to upset you.” Although the deep voice had softened, Rory caught the hard edge to the words. “Look at it this way, we’re both unattached. We have mutual needs. What’s the harm in helping each other satisfy those needs?”
“The only need you can help me satisfy is to leave this office. That way I can start getting my inn settled for the night.”
My inn. Rory pursed his mouth. Because Blake had referred to the bed-and-breakfast proprietress as “the widow Honeywell who cooks like an angel,” Rory had been expecting an apron-clad, homey woman with gray hair tucked into a bun. Peggy Honeywell was anything but homey and looked to be in her late twenties. He wondered vaguely what had happened to the husband who had died and left her such a young widow.
As if sensing his presence, she turned her head toward the door. Rory saw surprise flicker in her expression when her gaze met his. Even from a distance he could see that her wide-set eyes were the color of rich emeralds.
She looked back at the man. “This discussion is over. Excuse me while I see to a customer.”
The man flicked an idle glance across his shoulder at Rory, then looked back. “I’ll be staying here at least another week. Let me know when you change your mind.”
“I won’t. Good night, Mr. O’Connell.”
Training kept Rory’s expression unreadable as he slid the keys to his rental car into one pocket of his leather bomber jacket. Small world, he thought. That the guy putting moves on the Widow Honeywell was Charlie O’Connell, the EPA inspector whom Rory had come there to surveil.
Peggy Honeywell swung the door open and moved into the foyer with a dancer’s grace. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Her gaze slid to the bags Rory had settled against the wall. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any vacancies.”
“Blake Fallon made a reservation for me. I’m Rory Sinclair.”
“Oh, yes, Blake said you’d be in tonight.” Her mouth curved. “Since you planned to drive up from San Francisco, I was expecting you later.”
“I managed to catch an earlier flight out.”
“That’s fortunate.” Rory sensed her hesitate before offering a hand. “I’m Peggy Honeywell, Mr. Sinclair. Welcome to Honeywell House.”
When his fingers curved around hers, Rory felt flesh as smooth as soft butter…and the heat of the angry flush that still rode high on her cheeks.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that O’Connell had stepped from the office and was now leaning in the doorway. The man’s brow furrowed as he gazed down at the hard-sided field evidence kit Rory had settled against the wall beside his duffel bag and computer.
Rory turned, extended his hand. “Rory Sinclair.”
O’Connell looked up, then pushed away from the doorjamb. “Charlie O’Connell.” The inspector’s handshake was dry and firm. Decisive. “What brings you to Prosperino, Sinclair?”
“I’m a chemist. Blake Fallon hired me to conduct independent tests on the water at Hopechest Ranch. Blake shut down the well there nearly two weeks ago. He’s anxious to find out what contaminated the water. And how it got there.”
Rory saw the instant caution kick into O’Connell’s eyes. “Getting answers to questions like those takes time.”
“True.” To cement his cover, Rory added, “According to Blake, with so many people having gotten sick, it’s possible the ranch might face some lawsuits down the line. The attorney for the Hopechest Foundation, which owns the ranch, wants independent testing done on the water.” Rory angled his head. “How about you, O’Connell? You vacationing in Prosperino?”
“Hardly. I’m an inspector with the EPA. The contamination on Hopechest Ranch is my case. My jurisdiction.”
Rory kept his expression somber. “I’m not looking to step on anyone’s toes.”
“See that you don’t.”
Setting his jaw, Rory watched O’Connell turn and cross the foyer.
“I’m sorry,” Peggy said after the inspector shut the inn’s front door behind him with a snap.
Rory turned his head, gazed down into her eyes. He imagined any number of men would be happy to permanently lose themselves in all that intriguing jade. Not him. He was a man for taking, enjoying and moving on. “What are you sorry for?”
“Mr. O’Connell has been a guest here for two weeks. At times, he can be decidedly unpleasant.”
Like when he’s trying to put the make on you. “I don’t see that you need to apologize for him.”
“You’re right, of course.” When she looked toward the small, private office, her mouth tightened, reminding Rory of the temper he had heard in her voice. “He’s responsible for his own actions. I just regret he directed his bad mood toward another of my guests.”
Rory shrugged. “Slid right off.”
“Good.” She shoved her dark hair behind her shoulders. “I’m sure you’re tired from your flight and drive. It will just take a minute to get you registered,” she added, then turned and walked to the registration counter, the long sweep of her skirt matching her flowing stride.
“Fine.”
“Blake told me the purpose of your visit, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Rory.”
She gave him a slight smile as she stepped behind the counter and slid open a drawer. “The whole town is holding its breath until we find out what contaminated the ranch’s water. Several pregnant teenage girls who live at the ranch drank tainted