The woman whose flower-delicate scent clung to the linens that enveloped him in warmth.
For a brief instant, Rory wondered what it would be like to have that woman lying naked beneath him, her dark hair spread across his pillow, those compelling green eyes smoky with desire.
“Dangerous thought, Sinclair,” he muttered. Although he had spent little time in Peggy Honeywell’s presence, instinct told him she wasn’t his type. He preferred quick, uncomplicated contacts. Women who laughed and loved without any thought for the future. Because with him, there was no future.
Shoving back the covers, he settled his feet on the cool wood floor and moved his gaze slowly around the cozy room. The woman who had created this setting had clearly put down roots and sunk them in deep. He doubted there would be anything quick or uncomplicated about an affair with her.
Peggy Honeywell was on his mind solely because he was curious to find out what it was about him that made her so damn jumpy. After all, he was a man who loved solving puzzles.
So, what was the key to this puzzle? he mused while he headed to the bathroom. Why had she acted so uneasy in his presence?
His profession? he speculated, then instantly discarded the notion. She had no idea he was FBI. No clue he carried a gun and a badge. He doubted her knowing he was a scientist carried even an inkling of a threat.
A threat. Rory ran a palm across his stubbled jaw as he stared into the mirror over the sink. Maybe it hadn’t been him at all. Could be, she was even more concerned over the state of the inn’s water supply than he had picked up on. She was, after all, a single woman who, he assumed, supported herself. Her livelihood could come to a screeching halt if she had to close Honeywell House if its water supply became contaminated.
Turning on his heel, Rory went to the small desk opposite the bed. There, he retrieved a test tube and indicator strips from his field evidence kit. Last night, before he went to bed, he had checked the inn’s water and found no trace of a contaminant. It was time to run another test.
That way he could give the dark-haired, green-eyed Peggy Honeywell some peace of mind.
“I’m gonna draw a picture of Bugs.”
The mention of the beloved stuffed rabbit had Peggy sending her four-year-old daughter a smile from across the kitchen’s center island. As was their habit in the mornings while Peggy cooked breakfast for the inn’s guests, Samantha had climbed up on one of the long-legged stools, her crayons and drawing paper fanned out in front of her.
“Drawing a picture of Bugs is a great idea, sweetheart. The other day I found an empty frame in the storage closet. We’ll put your picture of Bugs in it and hang it in your bedroom.”
“Okay.” Samantha’s smile lit up her small face, with its pointed chin and pert nose, its big brown eyes mirroring the color of rich earth. Her thick jet-black curls hung past her shoulders, giving her the look of a gypsy.
Samantha selected a crayon that matched the bright pink quilted jumper she wore. “Do you think the lady in the booth can paint Bugs on my cheek tomorrow night? Maybe Gracie’s, too?”
“Probably,” Peggy said soberly. “But it might not be as good a picture as yours.”
“I know,” Samantha said with confidence. Her face set in concentration, she got down to work.
While Peggy used a long-handled wooden spoon to stir the second batch of pancake batter of the morning, she stifled a yawn. Because she’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, just the thought of the long day that lay ahead had fatigue pressing down on her. Thank goodness the winter arts festival wasn’t until tomorrow night, she thought. She had promised to take Samantha and her best friend, Gracie Warren, for a return visit to the face-painting booth they had discovered at last year’s festival. Peggy knew the girls would want to stay until the festival closed.
With the batter smooth of lumps, she turned to the window where colorful pots of herbs lined the sill. After examining the spearmint, she snipped off several sprigs to use for garnish on the serving platters. Instead of turning back to the bowl of batter, she let her gaze focus out the window.
The day had dawned gray and gloomy with a fierce wind that tormented the trees lining the ribbon of road that led up the hill to the inn. Lying awake in bed, she had known the exact moment the wind had intensified, sweeping in with its battering gusts and mournful howl. For some reason she couldn’t explain, the instant she heard that howl, loneliness had begun scraping at her like tiny claws.
She had not felt such a deep, hollow ache since those terrible days after Jay died nearly five years ago.
Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Peggy rinsed the sprigs of spearmint, then laid them on a paper towel to dry. Maybe the reason she felt so uncharacteristically empty was that Rory Sinclair had reminded her so much of the husband she had loved and lost. For that reason, too, it was only natural she hadn’t been able to put the tall, lanky scientist out of her mind.
Until right now, she resolved as she turned to the center island and poured the pecans she’d chopped earlier into the bowl of batter. She had guests to feed, rooms to clean and orders to place with two food distributors and a local winery. After four years, the running of the inn and the chores that went with it were so ingrained that they normally left her brain free to think about anything that struck her fancy.
Although musing about a man with the tough, intense face of a warrior might be pleasurable, she wasn’t going to allow herself that diversion. Her relationship with Jay had taught her that she was a woman readily drawn to a man with an aura of danger about him. She had no intention of again letting herself be tantalized by a man like that. Especially one who was just passing through.
“Good morning.”
Peggy’s stomach gave an intriguing little flip at the sound of Rory Sinclair’s voice. She looked up to find him with one shoulder propped against the doorjamb, his dark gaze focused on her in total concentration. He looked impossibly handsome in black jeans and a gray polo shirt, its sleeves shoved up on his forearms. His jet-black hair glistened wetly from what she assumed was his morning shower.
“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Rory.”
She gave him a cool smile even as heat crept up her neck. How long, she wondered, had he been standing there watching her and Samantha?
“There’s coffee in the dining room. Two of the guests—the ladies who are judging categories in the winter arts festival—are already there.” Peggy inclined her head toward the doorway opposite from the one in which he lingered. “You can get to the dining room through that door. I’ll serve breakfast in about fifteen minutes.”
“Whatever you’re cooking smells great.” Rory strolled across the kitchen, pausing when he reached the side of the center island from where Samantha sat eyeing him, the pink crayon gripped in a fist that had gone motionless above the paper.
“Momma’s making pancakes with nuts in ’em. They’re my favorite.”
“Pecans,” Peggy amended. “And cinnamon-apple sausage to go with the pancakes.” Since she was adamant about her daughter learning manners, Peggy added, “Samantha, this is Mr. Sinclair. He checked in last night after you were in bed.”
Having grown up in an inn constantly filled with strangers, there was nothing shy about the way Samantha scooted the piece of paper his way. “Do you like my picture, Mr. Sink…Mr. Sinkle?”
He smiled. “I think ‘Rory’ is a much easier name. It’s a great picture, Samantha.” He tilted his head. “How old are you?”
“Four,” she replied, holding up the accompanying number of fingers. “I’ll be five in May. What do you think my picture is of?”
Peggy raised a brow as he bent his head to examine the pink, misshapen drawing. Samantha had a habit of using her artwork to test the guests. Ordinarily, Peggy would have chided Samantha into telling what it was she was