Protecting Peggy (9 page)

She surrendered to him, her mouth opening beneath his as she kissed him with all the need and bafflement that pumped inside her.

She felt urgency ignite within him as his arm locked around her waist. He increased the pressure on her
back until their bodies were pressed center to center. Thighs molded against thighs; her nipples tightened against his muscled chest. When she felt his hard arousal against her belly, heat spiraled inside her while her body strained and trembled against his. How could she have forgotten what it was like to be wanted like this?

“Let me have you,” he murmured against her mouth. “Ireland, let me have you now.”

She wanted to say yes. Wanted him, wanted to steep herself in that dark, dangerous taste. It had been so long since she had felt a man's hands on her flesh, an eternity since she had felt this churning frenzy to mate. Yet, this was more, much more, and through her swirling emotions she felt a desperation that sent ice-pick jabs of panic into her chest.

“No.” Her hands trembled when she lifted them to frame his face. She felt dizzy, weak, shaken. “Not yet. I…Rory, I can't.”

A few seconds passed before his hand unfisted from her hair. “You're not ready,” he said, then rested his brow on hers.

“This has all happened so fast. Too fast.” She closed her eyes against the need that churned inside of her. “I can't think. I
have
to think.”

“I'm not going to tell you to take your time.”

Because she was still wrapped in his arms, she leaned back, pulled slightly away. “It's just…I don't take intimacy lightly.”

“I didn't think you did.” His eyes burned over her face and settled on her lips. “Trust me, Ireland, you're not a woman a man could take lightly.”

She stepped from his touch, forced a smile while her legs wobbled. He had made her want, and want badly.

She needed to be reasonable, she reminded herself. She had to think not only of the present, but the future. He would leave, return to D.C. What would she do about this desperate wanting after he was no longer a part of her life?

Weak with desire, she reached out, braced an unsteady hand on the bed's footboard. Her heart was beating in her head, echoing in her ears. She needed air and space. “I have the mayor's phone number in my office. I'll go downstairs and find it for you.”

Rory gave her a long, even look. “Things have moved fast between us. I understand that you might need more time.” Reaching out, he wrapped his hand around hers, then dipped his head. When he skimmed his lips over her knuckles, her heart stuck in her throat. “You're trembling,” he said quietly.

She closed her eyes, opened them. “I know.”

“This isn't over, Ireland. I want you. I'm going to ask you again. Count on it.”

“Okay.” She slicked her tongue over her swollen lips, and ordered herself to breathe. “I want you to ask.”

 

That evening Rory wanted Peggy with the same intensity he'd felt when he'd held her in his arms, pressed his mouth against hers and found the fit perfect and complete.

He had thought about her all during the long afternoon as he prepared water samples for transportation
to the Bureau's lab in San Francisco. Couldn't get her out of his head while he submitted a request to the FBI's database for background checks on the names on Blake Fallon's lists. As he worked, foremost in Rory's mind was a building need to feel Peggy's soft skin grow hot and moist under his hands. He wanted to trace every subtle curve and dip while her pulse pounded for him. Just for him.

She had tasted like smooth, fine aged whiskey. And left him thirsty for more.

Wasn't much he could do about that thirst at the moment, he thought wryly.

Not while he and the delectable Mrs. Honeywell were two out of about fifty people inching their way along a crowded hallway in the Prosperino Community Center. A few steps in front of them, Samantha and Gracie Warren, holding hands and giggling, nudged their way toward the gymnasium where the winter arts festival had set up the children's activity area.

Rory didn't even attempt to use the jostling crowd as an excuse for the reason he had his hand pressed at the small of Peggy's back. She was incredibly soft, enticingly firm, and he
needed
to touch her. She wore a soft, calf-length dress as green as her eyes; beneath his palm, he felt the elegant sway of her hips as she walked beside him. Dammit, he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than just touch.

The girls darted through an open doorway. The instant Peggy and Rory caught up, Samantha began bouncing on her heels, her dark eyes snapping with excitement. “There's the face-painting lady!”

Standing just behind Samantha, Rory had a perfect view of the pink backpack she wore strapped over her denim jumper. From one side of the backpack, Bugs and Bugsy peered out at him through the bobbing ends of the child's long, dark curls.

Unable to resist, Rory bent down. “So, what color are you girls going to have the lady paint your faces?”

His question brought on another round of giggles. “She doesn't paint your face, Mr. Rory,” Samantha said, scrunching her nose at him. “She paints stuff
on
your face.”

“I see.” He flicked a finger down her downy-soft cheek. “What kind of stuff?”

“Flowers, 'n' stars, 'n'—”

“Birds, too!” Gracie interjected, her blond curls dancing.

Pursing his lips, Rory took in the array of carnival-like booths lining the walls. Here, a child could participate in a variety of undertakings that included casting a line for plastic fish, tossing water balloons at a clown and moon walking. The noise generated by the activities at the booths and the loud talk of the crowd echoed off the gym's high roof.

He turned to Peggy. “Something tells me we'll be tied up here for a while.”

“I'm afraid so.” She gestured to the small tables clustered in the center of the gym. The red-and-white striped umbrellas and pots of red silk tulips centered on each table lent a sidewalk café atmosphere. Nearby, carts had been set up from which food and drink vendors conducted a brisk business with the adults and children gathered around them.

“Why don't you and I have a cup of coffee while the girls get their faces painted?” Peggy suggested. “I'll tell them to check in with us before they go to any of the other booths. We have a full view of everything in the gym from one of these tables, so we won't have to follow them around.”

“Sounds good to me.” When a crease formed between her brows, he hesitated. “Something about that arrangement not working for you?”

“I'm taking it for granted you want to stay here. The galleries along Main Street are all open—that's where the formal art judging takes place. This community center stays opens during the festival so the kids will have a place to go while the adults drop by the galleries. You might prefer to view some serious art instead of watching face-painting and listening to cakewalk music.”

Rory gave her a slow smile while he nudged one side of her dark hair over her shoulder. “After what happened between us at lunch, I'm sticking with you, Ireland.”

Color pooled in her cheeks as her fingers played with the strap of her purse. “Okay.” She moistened her lips. “I'll get the girls started at the face-painting booth, then be back to join you.”

“Fine.” He slid a hand into the pocket of his slacks. “Why don't you let me treat Samantha and Gracie to the art of their choice?”

“Thanks for offering, but no.” Peggy flashed him a grateful smile. “Gracie's mom and I have this covered. We're treating the girls to the artist's double-deluxe-paint-job-for-two special.”

Rory chuckled. “Can't wait to see the results.”

“I guarantee you'll get a good look at them. After her visit to the booth last year, Samantha didn't wash her face for twenty-four hours.”

Just then, the topic of conversation dashed up, tugged on Peggy's hand. “Momma, come on!”

“I'll have a latté,” Peggy said over her shoulder before Samantha dragged her into the crowd.

Rory walked to a cart, waited in line, then placed their orders. Moments later he carried foam cups filled with steaming lattés to an empty table. From where he sat, occasional breaks in the crowd gave him a view of the booth where Peggy engaged in conversation with a smiling woman dressed in a paint-spotted smock. While she spoke, Peggy laid a hand on Samantha's shoulder in a proprietary gesture that had Rory's eyes narrowing.

Had his mother not died when he was an infant, he might have known that kind of love. As it was, his father had been far more comfortable working in the FBI's lab than interacting with a son, so Rory had been shuttled between boarding schools and summer camps. Even latching on to the same career as his father had failed to create more than a tentative link between them.

He glanced back at the booth. Peggy was now crouched between the girls, flipping through pages of what Rory suspected contained examples of the face-painting art. Both girls pointed at a page while nodding vigorously. Laughing, Peggy gave Gracie a hug, then dropped a kiss on her daughter's puckered mouth.

The intimate family ritual had Rory shifting in his
chair. His world was so remote from theirs. Alien. Prosperino wasn't his place. He had no place. Didn't want one. Even so, this was the first time in his life he had arrived somewhere and didn't already have his eye on the door, looking toward his next destination.

That sudden realization twisted the muscles in his stomach. Jabbing his fingers though his hair, he told himself the feeling was just another facet of the restless discontent that had gnawed at him for the past couple of months. He sipped his latté, cementing his intention to call his boss and take more time off the job after he finished his business in Prosperino. He was damn well going to figure out what the hell was going on, and get his life back on an even keel that suited him.

“Are you Rory Sinclair?”

Rory looked up, his thoughts scattering. A man, broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall, stood beside the table. He had a sharp-featured face, wide mouth and sun-streaked brown hair that skimmed the collar of his denim shirt.

“Yes.”

The man extended a hand. “I'm Michael Longstreet. Prosperino's mayor.”

Rory raised a brow. Longstreet's well-worn jeans and boots made him look more like one of the area ranchers than a politician.

“Nice to meet you.” Rising, Rory returned the handshake, then gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Longstreet settled easily into the chair. “Sorry I didn't get back to you when you called my
office. My secretary noted in the message you left that you're staying at Honeywell House. When I walked in here a few minutes ago, I saw you talking to Peggy and put two and two together.”

“And came up with the right answer.” Rory inclined his head toward the vending carts. “Want a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks. Since this crisis with the water hit, I've been living on the stuff. Cut me, it's a good bet I'll bleed caffeine.” The mayor paused to nod to the couple sitting a few tables away, then looked back at Rory. “Let me see if I've got the information you left with my secretary straight. You're a private chemist, hired by Blake Fallon to run tests on the water at Hopechest Ranch.”

“That's right.”

“You have a current pilot's license, of which you've already faxed a copy to my office. You want to rent my private plane so you can conduct those tests in a San Francisco lab.”

“So far, you're batting a thousand.”

“Since you're staying at Honeywell House, I figure you've run into Charlie O'Connell by now.”

“A couple of times.”

“O'Connell has the EPA's lab at his disposal, and he's got an almost two-week head start on you. So far, all he's been able to tell us is what
didn't
cause the contamination. I've got a town in which nothing's going to be right again until someone can tell us what the hell happened to the water on Hopechest Ranch. Do you think you can come up with the answer quicker than the EPA?”

“Probably not.” Rory ran a hand over his jaw. “O'Connell has a problem with high-paid consultants who try to steal his thunder. Because of that, he isn't forthcoming with me. I've got a lot of questions he could answer, but won't. That means I have to backtrack over ground he's already covered and come up with those answers for myself. Like you said, O'Connell's been here nearly two weeks longer than me. It's more than likely he'll come back with the answers you need before I do.”

Longstreet nodded. “Bottom line is I don't care who comes up with the answers, as long as I get them.”

“You shouldn't care,” Rory agreed. “As long as the answers you get are the right ones.”

“There is that.” The mayor leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. “I've always believed in the value of having a backup plan. Maybe if the EPA's lab misses something, you'll catch it. And vice versa.”

“It could happen.” Rory leaned in. “I understand if you've got qualms about renting your plane. Our going for a checkout ride with me in the pilot's seat might take care of that. For a personal reference, talk to Blake Fallon. We go back a long way.”

“I've already spoken to Blake and checked you out with the FAA. You passed.” Longstreet angled his chin. “You ever fly a Bonanza?”

Rory smiled. “I happen to own one.”

“Even better.” The mayor rose. “Do you need directions to Prosperino's airport?”

“No, I passed it on the way into town.”

“Meet me there in the morning at seven for that checkout ride. If you pass, you've got access to the Bonanza for as long as you need it.”

“Great. How much?”

“Just find out what happened to the water on Hopechest Ranch. That's all I care about,” Longstreet added before striding off.