Protecting Peggy (8 page)

“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.

T
here 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 delib
erate. “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?”

“I need a lab that has a gas chromatograph, mass spectrometer and Simultaneous ICP instrument.” He paused, raised a shoulder at her blank expression. “That stands for Inductively Coupled Plasma.”

“If you say so,” she murmured. The man was giving her a science lesson, and all she could think of was how conscious she was of him, standing there, not more than a few inches away. Even though he'd slipped on his sweater, she was still aware of every muscle, every ridge in that broad, solid chest.

He grinned. “Sorry, the scientist in me got carried away.”

“It's okay.” She forced her thoughts to a safer area. “It sounds like you know what you're doing, and I'm not sure I can say that about Mr. O'Connell. No one in Prosperino will breathe easy until we know what
got into the ranch's water. And how it got there. I hope you find out soon. I also hope you'll stop work long enough to eat your lunch,” she added, then started to turn away. “I have to get back to—”

He caught her elbow, turned her back to face him. “You haven't given me a chance to ask my question.”

She looked up, met his blue gaze while her throat tightened. What was he doing to her? she wondered. How could he make her feel so many different things in so short a time? She nudged her arm from his hold. “What's the question?”

“I need a lab with the instruments I mentioned.”

“I don't have a clue where one would be.”

“I do. It's in San Francisco. Problem is, that's over a three-hour drive away. I need to find someone who has a private plane for rent. Do you know anyone around here who fits that bill?”

“Michael Longstreet. He's Prosperino's mayor.” She angled her chin. “I don't know if he could get away to fly you, though. He has his hands full dealing with the water problem.”

“He doesn't need to fly me. I'm a licensed pilot. Any idea what kind of plane Longstreet has?”

“All I know is it's a small jet.”

“Perfect.”

Peggy felt a tightness settle in her chest at the possibility of Rory's leaving. “Do you plan to stay full-time in San Francisco while you work at the lab there?”

“No. I have to get everything set up, but the tests run in stages over a couple of days and the results take a while. I need to spend more time here looking at
groundwater sources on Hopechest Ranch. There's a new well being drilled on the reservation near the ranch's property line. I want to take a look at that well, too.”

“I thought the water on the res tested safe.”

“It has.” He raised a shoulder. “I just like to look at every piece in a puzzle. If I have a couple of days access to a plane, I can get back here, do what I need to do, then return to San Francisco a couple of times to check on the tests.”

“It sounds like you'll need this room a while longer.”

“Right.” He gazed down at her, his eyes intense. “I still have some things I want to do here.”

It couldn't be her imagination that his voice had softened, lowered. Otherwise, why would her nerves have started humming like a plucked harp string?

She moistened her suddenly dry lips. “Samantha will be happy to hear you're staying. Between you and me, she has grand plans to draw you a special picture to thank you for Bugsy.”

“Can't wait to see it.” When he snagged her hand and curved his long fingers around hers, Peggy's heart stuck in her throat. “What about Samantha's mother? How does she feel about my hanging around awhile longer?”

“It's good for business to have the guest rooms rented.”

He tightened his fingers around hers when she tried to draw away. “What are we going to do about this, Ireland?”

“This room?” she asked weakly.

“This attraction,” he corrected softly. “The one we're both feeling…and, on my part, having one hell of a time resisting. What do you want to do about it?”

“I don't know,” she managed. “I…need to think, and I can't. All I know is that I have no business wanting you to touch me.”

“And I have no business wanting to touch you. But I do.”

“So, I…we both need time to gather our thoughts.”

“Mine are pretty gathered right at the moment.”

The silvery edge of anticipation shot up her spine, mixing in her stomach with a frisson of panic. She dragged her gaze from his, looked at the phone on the small table beside the bed while her brain struggled to remember that all actions carried consequences. “If you want, I can call Michael Longstreet's office right now so you can talk to him about his plane.”

“What I want right now is to kiss you.”

Her heart leapt into her throat while an alarm blared in her head. She didn't want this, didn't want to be seduced by a man with whom there was no future. She dug her nails into her palms. What she wanted didn't seem to matter, not when just his words could breathe life into old needs that had lain dormant inside her for so long.

“I…didn't come here so you could kiss me,” she said, even as she leaned into him.

“No, you delivered lunch.” He cupped her chin in his hand, kept his eyes open and on hers when he kissed her softly. “What did you bring me, Ireland?”

Her lashes fluttered shut. “Lemon…basil chicken.”

“Smells great,” he murmured.

The way his mouth worked leisurely down her throat, she knew darn well he wasn't talking about the chicken.

She let her breath out between her teeth to keep from moaning. “Hope you like it.”

“Best I've tasted.” His hand came up, sliding beneath her hair to cup the back of her neck. His long fingers were strong and just a little rough, his grip determined. “I want more.”

“Help yourself.”

His mouth fit perfectly over hers. There was nothing soft about him. His mouth, his hands, his body when he pulled her against him were hard and demanding, his kiss raw and primitive. She wondered if there was a woman alive who would want to be kissed any other way.

Her lips parted hungrily, inviting him in so that she could scrape her teeth over his tongue. He tasted like he looked—dark and dangerous. The tangy scent of him filled her head; visions of their engaging in wild raging sex on the bed just inches away had her senses spinning. Her fingers dug into his waist, holding on as tightly as though she were being tossed around by a storm.

His low groan vibrated through her. His hand tunneled up into her hair, fisted there. He arched her head farther back, then plundered.