Protecting Peggy

“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?”

Peggy slicked 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, but stared down at her with those off-the-chart blue eyes until she had to fight the urge to squirm.

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

Meet the Coltons—
a California dynasty with a legacy
of privilege and power.

Rory Sinclair:
Not the marrying kind.
Having dedicated his life to researching chemical and biological warfare for the FBI, he's not about to be distracted from his current mission. Until he comes head-to-head with a toothless toddler and her beautiful mother…

Peggy Honeywell:
Feisty single mom.
When a town emergency forces a federal agent to move into her bed-and-breakfast, this proud widow suddenly has trouble remembering all the reasons she'd vowed to avoid dangerous men at all costs.

Samantha Honeywell:
Heartbreaker-in-waiting.
This wise two-year-old knows that any man who'd rescue a tattered pink bunny is a keeper!

Michael Longstreet:
Beleaguered mayor.
As the town of Prosperino faces its water crisis, he's about to be tested in life—and love.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

A
s a member of the FBI's elite evidence support team, Rory Sinclair's hopping a flight from D.C. without much advance notice usually meant he was headed to a crime scene. His rainy-night arrival in California wasn't the case, although he'd stowed his computer and field evidence kit in the trunk of the car he had rented three hours ago at the San Francisco airport. For the first time in years, Special Agent Rory Sinclair was off the Bureau's clock and on his own time.

Time, that Rory had agreed to spend posing as a civilian chemist while conducting a surveillance at a widow's homey bed-and-breakfast.

With rain slanting down through the darkness, the sign welcoming Rory to Prosperino—a town hailing itself as a tourist's mecca on the rugged northern California coast—glistened in the car's headlights.

From what Rory could see of the flower-laden planters and neat benches that lined the sidewalks in front of a row of darkened storefronts, Prosperino looked picture-postcard perfect, everything calm and serene. Untroubled.

The urgent call Rory had received the previous day from Blake Fallon, his former college roommate, told Rory there was at least one imperfection on Prosperino's charming facade. That imperfection came in the form of the mysterious contamination of the water supply on Hopechest Ranch, the haven for troubled adolescents and teens where Blake served as director. The contamination had occurred weeks ago. Since then, Blake had watched a series of Hopechest's staff and residents fall ill while the EPA inspector assigned to the case conducted his investigation at a suspicious snail's pace.

Peering through the rain-spattered windshield, Rory spotted the road to Honeywell House marked on the map Blake had faxed him. Braking, he turned, then steered along a thin ribbon of road that curved up a hill. Although Rory had Blake's assurances that the widow Honeywell ran a first-class establishment, comfort wasn't the reason Rory was headed there. EPA Inspector Charlie O'Connell had checked into Honeywell House weeks ago. Rory wanted a close look at the man who had raised Blake's suspicions by conducting at least one clandestine meeting on Hopechest Ranch property.

Honeywell House was impressive, Rory decided as he drove past a wooden sign that welcomed him to the inn. Small spotlights spread dramatic fans of illu
mination across the face of the building that nestled against the hillside. Inside, lights burned gold behind windows dotting four stories, the upper one ringed by a widow's walk.

Rory pulled the car into the gravel lot at the side of the house and climbed out, thankful that the rain had slowed to a light mist. When he turned to walk toward the back of the car, he noted the outline of a small greenhouse sitting a few yards away.

He retrieved his leather duffel bag, computer and field kit out of the trunk, then headed up the water-beaded cobblestone walk. He took the steps two at a time that led up to the large, wraparound porch. Although he'd never given much thought to his surroundings, something compelled him to turn and look back toward the road he'd just driven. The inn sat high enough on the hill that, past the wash of light from the streetlamps, he could see a wedge of the rocky cliffs that edged the fierce, churning Pacific. Mrs. Honeywell, he mused, had herself a piece of prime real estate.

Pushing open the inn's carved double doors, Rory left the chilling mist behind him. A 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 fire
place 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 water. Now, they fear for the health of their unborn babies.”

“Blake mentioned those girls.” For Rory, hearing that was all it took to request the use of some of the massive amount of personal leave he'd accrued, pack his field kit, then head west.

“Mayor Longstreet assures us Prosperino's water supply is tested daily, still we're all nervous,” Peggy said. “The grocery stores can't keep enough bottled water on hand to supply everyone, including me.”

“That's understandable.” Rory stepped to the counter. “I have my field testing equipment with me. If you'd like, I'll check the inn's water every day while I'm here.”

She looked up from the drawer. “I appreciate that. Each morning when I go to the kitchen and turn on the water, I can't help but wonder if what's coming out is okay to drink. To cook with. Bathe in. Knowing for sure would ease my mind. Of course, I'll pay you for the testing.”

“That's not necessary. Since I'm a guest here, I have a vested interest in knowing the water is safe.”

“All right.” She pulled a key and a blank registration card from the drawer, then slid it closed. “All I need is your name and address.”

Rory reached for the pen in a brass holder on the counter. He signed his name and address on the card, then looked up. He noted Peggy's gaze had settled on his hands. “Do you want to see my credit card now?” he asked quietly.

When her eyes jerked up to meet his, he saw edgy caution flicker across her face. She was an innkeeper,
used to strangers in her home. Yet, instinct told him his presence made her uneasy.

“No, I don't need your credit card. Blake told me to bill the Hopechest Foundation for your room.” Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, she dropped her gaze to the registration card. “I keep a list of where my guests live. You're the first I've had who calls D.C. home.”

Throughout his entire thirty-five years, he had called nowhere home, yet Rory didn't see the need to point that out. He was more interested in analyzing what it was about him that made her edgy.

“What about you?” he asked. “Are you a native of Prosperino?”

“Actually, I was born in Ireland.”

He angled his chin. She had the dark hair, green eyes and pure creamy skin of her birthplace. “You don't sound like Ireland.”

“I didn't live there long.” Leaving the card on the counter, she retrieved the key. “I'll show you to your room now.”

“Fine.” He felt her gaze on him, measuring and assessing, while he retrieved his gear.

“Your room is on the third floor. Do you need help carrying your things upstairs?”

“I pack light.” Rory knew the statement summed up his life. The bureau's go-where-you're-sent discipline fitted his lifestyle to a T. He'd never kept—or wanted—anything he couldn't fit in a bag and take along with him.

“I serve breakfast between seven and ten.” She moved from behind the counter and started, brisk and
businesslike, toward the staircase. “As an amenity to my guests, I provide wine and cheese in the library during the early evenings. If you're interested, I can recommend several restaurants in Prosperino that serve an excellent lunch and dinner.”