“Thank you again for defusing what might have turned into an even more unpleasant situation, Mr. Sinclair.”

“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.

Protecting Peggy
Maggie Price

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

MAGGIE PRICE

Viewing the world from behind the badge of an FBI special agent hero wasn’t a giant step for Maggie Price to take. A former civilian crime analyst for the Oklahoma City Police Department, Maggie possesses an insider’s knowledge of cops and the workings of various law enforcement agencies. Add to that her having snagged assignments to several task forces alongside FBI special agents, and it was only natural that FBI forensic scientist Rory Sinclair would stride onto the pages of Protecting Peggy as a true-to-life cop with a microscopic eye for detail and a cop’s dangerous edge.

Maggie loves to hear from readers! Contact her at 5208 W. Reno, Suite 350, Oklahoma City, OK 73127-6317.

To Pam Newell, in appreciation for your support, encouragement and, most especially, for your friendship.

A special thank-you for all the “kid” advice you’ve given me over the years.

Contents

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

One

As 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 illumination 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 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 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.”

“I’ll get those from you tomorrow. How many guest rooms do you have?”

“Five.” She paused, one foot on the bottom step, her hand on the carved newel post. “January is usually my slow month, except for the winter arts festival. That takes place this week. Two of the judges of the art competition are staying here. There’s also a couple spending a few days of their honeymoon with us. You and Mr. O’Connell have the other two rooms.”

As she moved up the gleaming oak staircase in front of him, Rory watched the subtle, elegant sway of her hips beneath her black skirt. Peggy Honeywell had one hell of a walk, he decided.

Tightening his grip on his field kit, he told himself to keep his mind on business. “Speaking of O’Connell, I hope I can persuade him to compare notes on what he’s found so far on the contaminated water. Are our rooms on the same floor?”

“No, in fact, that’s his there,” she said as they stepped onto the second-floor landing.

Rory’s gaze followed hers to a closed door with a brass 2 affixed to its center. Rory knew Blake well enough to give credence to his suspicions about O’Connell. Still, mere suspicions didn’t prove the EPA inspector was up to something nefarious. Also, O’Connell’s failure to identify the contaminant in Hopechest’s water could be due to its degree of rarity. Rarer substances took longer to isolate. Processes of elimination used in the lab could take weeks to make an ID.

Rory followed Peggy up another flight of stairs. Setting a quick pace, she led him down a hallway painted a soft yellow, its wood floor dark with age and polish. As they walked, they passed an antique credenza holding a pewter bowl from which a spiky-leaved plant sprouted.

When they reached the door at the end of the hall, she slid a key into the lock, then swung open the door. “I hope the room is to your liking.”

“It’ll be fine.” He gave the quilt-covered brass bed, prints of wildflowers on the walls and braided rug on the wood floor a cursory look. His surroundings usually suited him, from the lab in D.C. to his rented Virginia apartment to crime scenes all over the world. This room was no different from the hundreds of others he’d stayed in, then left behind.

It was his landlady who drew his attention as she moved toward a closed door, fingering the room key she’d yet to give him.

“The bathroom is through here,” she said, opening the door. “I usually change the linen and towels in the morning. That might not be a good time if you’re planning on working here.”

“Mornings are fine.”

Nodding, she slicked her palms down her thighs. “The closet is over there.”

Eyeing her steadily, Rory settled his gear on the bed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his presence made her jumpy. “Do I make you feel uneasy, Mrs. Honeywell?”

“Of course not,” she countered, then paused while a faint flush crept up her throat. “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression, Mr. Sinclair. I’m a little distracted, is all.”

“Mind if I ask by what?”

“I promised myself I would work on my income taxes this evening. Just the thought of tackling all those forms makes me jittery.”

He gave her a smooth smile. He didn’t believe her for one minute. “That’s understandable.”

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to set up for breakfast before I tackle the paperwork.” She glanced around the room, then walked toward him. “Your key also fits the lock on the front door. You’ll need it to get into the inn after nine at night. I hope you enjoy your stay. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“I will.” Deliberately, he let his fingertips glide against hers when he accepted the key. As a scientist, it was his nature to try to logic out the intangible. As a man, he was becoming increasingly intrigued by her reaction to him.

“Good night, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Please call me Rory. Good night.”

When she turned away, a faint trace of her subtle flowery scent slid into his lungs.

He watched her go, continued staring at the door after it clicked shut behind her. He’d been wrong, he thought. This room was different from the hundreds he’d stayed in over the years. For the first time in his memory, a room he’d checked into smelled as softly sweet and alluring as a woman.

The thought triggered a quick, inner defense signal in Rory’s brain. He hadn’t checked into Honeywell House to sniff at the landlady, he reminded himself as he went through the automatic routine of unpacking his leather duffel. Granted, he would have to be in a coma not to appreciate Peggy Honeywell’s slim figure, emerald-colored eyes and lustrous dark hair that framed her gorgeous face. And, as a man who spent his life solving puzzles, her reaction to him made him curious. Damn curious.

All normal responses to a beautiful, intriguing woman, he assured himself. Still, just because the demands of his job had prevented him from being with a woman at all for some time, that didn’t mean he was going to allow himself to start thinking about the landlady with the mind-set of a randy teenager. He intended to keep his thoughts on the sole reason he had checked into Honeywell House.

Charlie O’Connell.

Rory furrowed his brow as he began setting up his computer and preliminary testing instruments on the small writing desk that sat opposite the bed. It had been evident the EPA inspector wasn’t happy that Hopechest had hired a private chemist to test the ranch’s water. Could be, O’Connell simply resented the fact that the EPA’s failure to ID the contaminant had prodded Blake Fallon to take action. Then again, if O’Connell had something to hide, Rory knew his presence would have sounded an alarm in the inspector’s head to which O’Connell would react.

That, Rory thought, was a reaction he planned to watch for closely. And, while he was watching O’Connell, he would keep his eyes and his thoughts off Peggy Honeywell.

Good Lord, Peggy thought as she leaned against the wall just outside the door to Rory Sinclair’s room. Weren’t scientists supposed to be harmless-looking people who wore thick glasses, used pocket protectors in their white coats and had pale skin from being shut up in sterile labs?

That description didn’t come close to the man she’d just snapped the door shut on! Rory Sinclair was tall and lanky, with jet-black hair, a tanned, narrow face hardened by prominent cheekbones and killer blue eyes. His looks—combined with the fact that he’d been dressed all in black—had made her think of a highwayman who’d checked into her inn to take a break for the night from pillaging the countryside.

And the women who lived there.

Peggy closed her eyes. She pictured his hands, those long elegant fingers as he’d signed his name and address across the registration card. Somehow, someway, she had known, just by looking at his hands, how they might feel if he touched her.

“Get a grip, Honeywell,” she muttered.

Shaking her head, she pushed away from the wall and set off down the hallway. What was wrong with her? Just because a man’s hard features and dark clothes made him look absurdly dangerous didn’t mean he was. Rory Sinclair was Blake Fallon’s friend, a scientist who had come to Prosperino on legitimate business—which in no way encompassed him putting his hands on her.

She blew out a breath, having no idea where that crazy thought had come from. No doubt, the man had a wife and a couple of kids back in D.C., she reminded herself. Since it was getting late, she needed to rein in her imaginings and direct her attention to her own business, which included setting up for breakfast.

Her newest guest had caught her off-guard was all, Peggy reasoned as she reached the top of the staircase. When she’d first glimpsed Sinclair standing in the foyer, she had thought for the space of a heartbeat that he might be a ghost. After all, she hadn’t heard him open the inn’s front door. Hadn’t been aware of his footsteps as he crossed the foyer’s wooden floor. Yet, there he’d stood, watching in silence while she dealt with lecherous Charlie O’Connell. However mild Sinclair’s expression, she had seen in his eyes a quick and thorough measuring of the situation he’d walked in on.

How many times had she looked up and found Jay standing only inches away from her when she hadn’t even heard him walk into the room? How often had she seen her husband conduct the same instinctive evaluation of his surroundings as had Rory Sinclair?

Although she had used her skittishness over tackling her taxes as an excuse for her unease around Sinclair, she admitted to herself that her instinctive comparison of him to her late husband had knocked her off-balance.

Starting down the stairs, she pushed away the dull pang of the memory. Jay had been dead nearly five years; even after so long she sometimes wondered if the scars of grief she carried in her heart would ever completely heal.

She had healed, Peggy reminded herself as she shoved her hair behind her shoulders. She had carved out a new life for herself and Samantha. Her business was thriving—if she kept an eagle eye on the budget she would have two guest rooms added on to the inn before the end of the year. In her mind, expansion marked success.

Her mouth quirked when she reached the bottom of the staircase. She supposed she should give thanks that Rory Sinclair had arrived when he did. Successful innkeepers offered their guests openhanded hospitality, not slaps to the face like the one she’d been tempted to deliver to the EPA inspector.

Remembering the way Charlie O’Connell had slunk into her office, trapping her between the desk and his body while his hands gripped her waist had her temper spiking all over again. It took a real Neanderthal to assume that just because a woman was a widow she was lonely for a man’s touch. Granted, it had been a long time since she had stepped into a man’s arms, but that was by choice. If she decided she wanted physical contact, she was relatively sure she could make that happen.

Brow furrowed, she moved across the foyer into the book-lined study. Her gaze swept the oak floor, dotted by hooked rugs, then the small tables scattered about, checking to make sure everything was in place.

Satisfied with the state of the room and that Samantha hadn’t left any of her toys lying around, Peggy moved to the green-marble fireplace. There she crouched, her gaze going to the flames that ate greedily at the dry wood. Only to herself would she concede that on nights like this, when the wind turned sharp and a cold mist shrouded the inn, she felt her aloneness intensely. It was only human to long for someone to hold her, to again have a man to share her life with.

She knew she could pick up the phone, call Kade Lummus—a sergeant on the Prosperino Police Department—and he would come running. Kade was a good-looking man whose open expression and friendly brown eyes invited trust. More than once he had made it clear he was interested in getting to know her on a personal level. If she allowed herself to, she suspected she could become interested in him. Yet, that wasn’t going to happen. She had buried one husband who died because he wore a badge. That was enough for a lifetime.

She was twenty-eight; she didn’t intend to be alone forever. Someday, Peggy thought, shutting off the gas that fed the flames. Someday she would meet another man to whom she could give her heart. A man who would love her and Samantha equally. A man who didn’t have to strap on a bulletproof vest just to try to survive each workday. A man whose family didn’t have to wonder when he left each morning if he would walk back through the door that night. A safe man.

As if beckoned by some unseen force, her thoughts went to Rory Sinclair. He was a ruggedly handsome man who had an aura of danger about him, just as Jay had. An aura that had drawn her inexorably to the only man to whom she had given herself and her heart.

Never again, she vowed. The next time she got involved with a man, she wanted safe.

She was determined to have it, both for the sake of herself and her daughter.

Two

A persistent, unending droning penetrated Rory’s thoughts, dragging him from a deep sleep. When he pried his eyes open and waited for his brain to clear, he realized the noise was the wind. A brisk wind that battered the lace-covered windows that let in a gray morning gloom.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he lingered in bed. He wasn’t sure what kept him beneath the colorful quilt and crisp sheets that he suspected had been ironed. Maybe it was an uncharacteristic urge to familiarize himself with this one room when he’d never felt the need to conduct more than a cursory study of the hundreds of other unfamiliar places he’d woken in during his career.

He propped his back against the headboard while his gaze slicked over the wallpaper spattered with small roses, the braided rug that pooled color across the wood floor, the little porcelain dish that held mints on the bedside table. His brow furrowed. No, he decided, it wasn’t the room itself. Although he appreciated ambiance, he never took much notice of it, especially in a place where he didn’t plan to spend any measurable length of time. What had snagged his attention was the woman who had created the setting that he now examined as if it were evidence under a microscope. 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 drawing, but for some reason she was curious to see how Rory Sinclair handled the situation.

“It’s a bunny,” he answered gravely. “With long, pink eyelashes.”

Samantha’s smile beamed like sunshine. “His name’s Bugs. Someday I’m going to have a real bunny. My momma says we’ll have to see about that. Now I have to draw Bugs a carrot ’cause he’s hungry.” Laying the pink crayon aside, she plucked an orange one, furrowed her brow, then started coloring.

Peggy lifted her gaze, met Rory’s blue one. “And I have to finish breakfast ’cause my guests are hungry. As I said, there’s coffee in the dining room.”

“And two lady art judges. I got all that the first time around.” He glanced down. “Samantha, are the ladies in the dining room going to judge your picture, too?”

“No, Momma wants to hang this one in my room.”

“Well, it would have been a sure winner. It’s a really good picture.”

“I know.” She paused, looking suddenly thoughtful as she stared up into his face. “Do you have a little girl, too, Mr. Rory? I could draw a picture for her room.”

“No. I don’t have a little girl or a little boy.”

“You’re not as lucky as Momma, then.”

“Clearly, I’m not,” he commented while Samantha shifted her attention back to the carrot.

Leaning a hip against the island, Rory moved his gaze to the copper pots and baskets hanging from hooks overhead. His attention then went to the butcher-block counters and oversized range and huge refrigerator behind where Peggy stood. “Nice kitchen, Mrs. Honeywell.”

“Thank you.” In an unconscious gesture, she ran her fingertips across the island’s dark granite top. “This was my grandmother’s house.”

“Was she born in Ireland, too?”

Peggy was vaguely surprised he remembered her brief mention of her birthplace. Jay had also been skilled at filing away small details about people.

“No. My birth mother lived in Ireland. I was adopted by an American couple when I was four months old.” Her mouth curved. “Gran used to say I was a special gift from the Emerald Isle.”

“With eyes to match.”

Was it simply her imagination that his voice had lowered, become richer? “I…used to come and stay with Gran in the summers,” she continued, trying to ignore the jump in her pulse. “I spent hours in here helping her cook, my mouth watering from all the delicious scents. This room always felt so homey to me. The whole house, in fact. I want my guests to feel that Honeywell House is more a home than an inn.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do they feel that way?”

“Most say they do.” She tilted her head. “When you check out, maybe you’ll let me know your take on the subject.”

“You’ll want to ask someone other than me about homey feelings. I tested the inn’s water last night and this morning.”

She blinked. His sudden change of subject had her mentally stumbling to catch up. Putting a hand to her throat, Peggy shifted her gaze to her daughter. Samantha hunched over her drawing, the point of her small tongue caught between her teeth while she put the final touches on Bugs’s oversize carrot.

A wave of uneasiness swamped Peggy. Despite reassurances from city officials, she had spent countless hours worrying about the town’s water supply and wondering if she should take her daughter out of harm’s way until the crisis was resolved.

“Is the inn’s water safe?”

“Yes. Everything checks out.”

She closed her eyes. Opened them. “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It’s been two weeks since they found out the water on Hopechest Ranch was contaminated. Some of the kids who drank it are still sick.”

“Do you know any of those kids?”

“No. I’ve only been to Hopechest a few times because the inn keeps me so busy. I do know, though, that Blake Fallon is terribly worried about those kids.” As she spoke, Peggy resumed stirring her pancake batter. “After the agony he went through last year over his father, this is the last thing Blake needs.”

“What agony?”

Peggy looked up. “I thought you said you and Blake were friends.”

“We are.” A look of unease slid into Rory’s blue eyes. “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Well, it sounds as if you have some catching up to do.”

“You’re right. I have an appointment to see him after breakfast.”

Nodding, Peggy decided to voice the concern she’d had since shortly after the EPA inspector checked into Honeywell House. “Charlie O’Connell claims there’s no way to predict how long it might take to find out what it was that contaminated the ranch’s water supply. And how it got there.”

Rory settled a palm on the counter. “Are you asking me if I agree with him?”

“Yes, I guess I am.”

“If O’Connell is conducting his study by the book, he will have taken water samples at the ranch on the day he arrived in Prosperino. Those samples should have been sent to the EPA lab for analysis. Depending on the rarity of the contaminant, it could take weeks to break down its components and make an ID.”

“That just seems like an awfully long time.”

“I know it does.” Rory angled his chin. “To put things in context, the breath you just exhaled contains one hundred and two different composites. To conduct a scientific analysis of that one breath, each composite has to be separated, then analyzed. Contaminated water has to be broken down that same way. In a lab, you can’t rush tests, can’t skip steps. That’s why I agree with O’Connell. There’s no way to predict how long it might take to find out what it was that wound up in the ranch’s water. And how it got there.”

Although she knew next to nothing about Rory Sinclair, instinct told Peggy she could trust what he said. Her gaze went to his hand resting on the countertop, his long, elegant fingers splayed against dark granite. Those long elegant fingers that she somehow knew would work slow, sweet magic against a woman’s flesh.

A dry ache settled in her throat. For so many years she had ignored her physical needs. Now those needs seemed to double and triple when she was in the same room with this one man.

“Something wrong?” he asked quietly.

Peggy looked up, realized he was watching her with the same intense assessment she had seen last night when he walked in on her and O’Connell.

“Of course not,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded steady. She ran her palms down the thighs of her gray flannel slacks. “It’s just a relief to know the inn’s water is safe.”

“I’ll continue to test it twice a day as long as I’m here.”

“I feel guilty not paying you for the testing.”

“Well, I don’t want your guilt on my conscience.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he flashed her a grin. “I’ll take my payment in dessert.”

“Dessert?” She’d have to be careful of that grin, Peggy told herself. It oozed recklessness and charm. Made you want to put down your guard and relax in his presence. She knew instinctively he was a man it would be unwise to relax around.

“Blake says you cook like an angel and that your apricot cobbler is a direct route to heaven.” Rory lifted a shoulder. “I’ve got a sweet tooth that would like to take that trip.”

He didn’t look like he had a sweet tooth. He looked incredibly fit, his stomach washboard flat, his forearms toned and muscular. What would it be like, she wondered, to feel that well-maintained body pressed against hers?

The thought brought all of her nerves swimming to the surface. She picked up a jar of herbed vinegar, set it back down. He would not be good for her, she knew that. Still, knowing something wasn’t good for you didn’t stop you from wanting to sample it.

Which was something she wasn’t going to do. A week from now Rory Sinclair might possibly be back in D.C., working in his lab. And, just because he didn’t have children didn’t mean there wasn’t a Mrs. Sinclair waiting for him at home.

That she suddenly found herself hoping he didn’t have a wife had Peggy scowling. She had no clue what it was that made her thoughts about one of her guests turn totally idiotic. Whatever it was, she was done with it. She was a professional. A businesswoman.

“It’s agreed, Mr. Sinclair,” she said in her most efficient tone. “I’ll prepare whatever dessert you’d like each evening in exchange for your testing the inn’s water every day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to deal with breakfast.”

He opened his mouth to respond when a loud clatter came from the hallway. An instant later, a masculine voice filled the air with vicious curses.

Panic tripped Peggy’s heart. “That sounds like Mr. O’Connell. Samantha, stay here.”

Peggy darted to the kitchen door on Rory’s heels, raced down the hallway at his side. Just as they reached the foyer, the two caftan-clad art judges burst from the hallway that led to the dining room, the mass of metal and wood bracelets both women wore clanking in unison. When Peggy saw the EPA inspector sitting on the bottom stair, massaging his right ankle, she realized he must have taken a tumble down the staircase.

She rushed to him, placed her hand on his arm. “Are you all right, Mr. O’Connell? Do I need to call a doctor?”

He jerked away, anger shimmering in his eyes as he surged up on one foot and leaned against the newel post. “Dammit to hell, woman, what kind of place are you running here?”

Peggy’s chin rose. “One in which you don’t have to yell at the top of your lungs for me to hear you. Now, please calm down and tell me how badly you’re hurt. Do I need to call a doctor?”

“No, dammit, I don’t need a doctor. I need a safety inspector.”

Peggy shook her head. “What for?”

“Oh, Bugs!”

Peggy had no idea Samantha had disobeyed her instructions to stay in the kitchen until she heard her daughter’s high-pitched wail.

“That’s what for.” Propping against the banister, O’Connell jerked his head toward the floor at the bottom of the staircase.

Peggy’s heart sank when she saw Samantha bent over her beloved pink rabbit, its head torn off and stuffing strewn on the wood floor.

“Damn thing was at the top of the stairs,” O’Connell said. “Caused me to slip and fall.”

Samantha glared up at O’Connell, tears streaming down her cheeks while she hugged the bunny’s torso. “You broke Bugs’s head off!”

“Hey, it’s a miracle I didn’t break my own neck.”

Peggy crouched, pulled her sobbing child into her arms. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart.” She would have to have another stern talk with Samantha about leaving her toys lying around the inn. Now, however, was not the time.

“Your kid’s not hurt.” O’Connell delivered the words in a steel tone. “I am. You ought to keep that in mind.”

Peggy lifted her gaze to his. From where she crouched, he looked disconcertingly big. And strong. She hated the fact she was nearly kneeling at his feet, but she couldn’t do anything about that. Not while Samantha clung to her while she sobbed hot tears against her shoulder.

“It’ll be okay, Bugs,” Samantha murmured between watery gasps as she rocked the animal. “I’ll fix you.”

Peggy ran a soothing palm down the child’s dark curls. “Mr. O’Connell, I am very concerned about you. Do you need a doctor?”

“A lawyer’s more like it.”

“I’ve got a question, O’Connell,” Rory said as he stepped between them. Peggy sensed that a protective barrier had suddenly risen in front of her and her child. Still crouched on the floor with Samantha crying against her shoulder, she leaned forward so she could see each man’s face in profile.

“What’s the question, Sinclair?” the EPA inspector asked.

“Why do you want a lawyer?”

“The kid—”

“Samantha,” Rory said evenly. “Her name’s Samantha.”

“Yeah, well, she left that rabbit in the middle of the stairs. The fall I took could have killed me.”

“So, you want a lawyer because you’re thinking of suing Mrs. Honeywell?”

O’Connell looked at Peggy. “Maybe.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Unless we can work out something.”

She gritted her teeth while heated anger pooled in her cheeks. If Samantha and her other guests weren’t present, she would ask the idiot if he actually thought his threatening her with a lawsuit would compel her to sleep with him.

Rory hooked a thumb in the front pocket of his jeans. “Here’s the deal, O’Connell. If you call a lawyer, I’ll have to talk to him, too.”

A guarded look settled in the man’s eyes. “About what?”

“I came down to breakfast ten minutes ago. I saw the pink bunny at the top of the staircase.”

“See—”

“Not in the middle of the staircase. Off to one side. Against the wall, in fact.” Rory shrugged. “Didn’t look like a safety problem to me. It sounds more like you just got clumsy. If you had gotten hurt, it would have been your own fault. Besides, what does it say about an inspector who trips over something hot pink?”

“We saw the bunny, too, Mr. O’Connell,” one of the art judges volunteered while the other nodded in agreement. “This gentleman is right. The bunny was against the wall. You must not have been looking where you were going.”

Apparently realizing he was outnumbered, O’Connell scowled. “Yeah, okay. I guess I’m more shaken up than anything.”

Peggy swiveled her head, gave the women a grateful smile. “Ladies, would you please escort Mr. O’Connell into the dining room? I’ll have breakfast ready in just a few minutes.”

O’Connell limped across the foyer between the two women, their bracelets clanking as they each patted one of his arms. Murmuring their sympathies, they steered O’Connell down the hallway that led to the dining room.

Peggy gave Samantha a hug, then settled on the bottom step. “Sweetheart, why don’t you take Bugs to your room? While you’re at preschool, I’ll see if I can sew him back together.”

“Can you fix him, Momma?” Voice hitching, Samantha stared at her through swollen, tearful eyes. “Can you really fix him?”

Cupping the small, tearstained face in her hands, Peggy placed a light kiss on her daughter’s trembling lips. “I can try.”

“Okay.” Samantha bent and gathered up the bunny’s head. Snuggling it and the fuzzy, pink body against her chest, she headed toward the hallway.

Peggy shook her head. “Dear Lord, give me strength.”

Chuckling softly, Rory offered his hand. “All this before breakfast. Are things always this eventful around Honeywell House?”

She hesitated an instant before sliding her hand into his. His flesh felt warm and firm against hers as he helped her to her feet.

“No, thank goodness.” Because his fingers had tangled with hers, she took a step back, disengaging her hand from his. “Usually things are on the sedate side.” She flicked a look toward the hallway in which O’Connell had disappeared. “I appreciate you stepping in. I doubt I would have been quite so tactful.”

“A lioness defending her cub doesn’t worry about tact.”

Peggy pulled in a deep breath. “No, she doesn’t. Samantha comes first with me.”

“That’s the way things should be.”

Peggy knew she had guests waiting for their breakfast, knew she needed to get to the kitchen. Still, she lingered inches from him, the spicy male tang of his cologne pervading her lungs.

“When Samantha showed you the picture she drew, I wondered how on earth you guessed it was a bunny. You knew because you saw Bugs at the top of the stairs.”

“The rabbit and the picture are both hot pink.” He shrugged. “I made a wild guess.”

“An accurate one.” She smiled as she fingered a wayward wisp of hair off her cheek. “Thank you again for defusing what might have turned into an even more unpleasant situation, Mr. Sinclair. If you’ll join the other guests in the dining room for coffee, I’ll see to breakfast.”

“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?”

She slid 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, just stared down at her with those off-the-chart blue eyes until she had to fight the urge to squirm.

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

Three

His appetite sated from a breakfast of melt-in-the-mouth pecan pancakes and apple cinnamon sausage, Rory stood in the gravel parking lot that bordered Honeywell House, a hip leaned against the front fender of his rental car. For the past hour he’d been telling himself that he couldn’t argue with what Peggy had said before she left him in the foyer. Keeping their dealings on a business level would be wise.

He just wasn’t sure that wise was the course he wanted to follow.

After all, wise wouldn’t get the woman into his arms. Wouldn’t have him feeling her ripe, sexy mouth softening and heating under his. Wise wouldn’t get her into his bed.

Which would definitely put an enjoyable twist on his stay in Prosperino.

Ireland. Why the hell had he called her that? He’d never before even thought about giving any female a nickname, especially a woman he had known less than twenty-four hours. It was those eyes, he decided. Cool jade that sparked liquid fire when her temper kicked in. Eyes that he suspected would go dark and smoky when she stepped into a man’s arms.

His arms.

Frowning, he jerked up the collar of his battered leather jacket. It did little to block the bite of the wind that blustered off the sea churning at the base of the cliff. A thin, damp fog crawled over the gravel parking lot, creeping up the steps that led to the inn’s wraparound porch. The gray morning gloom nearly obscured the small greenhouse that sat only a few yards from the parking lot.

In his mind, Rory pictured again how Peggy had looked when he first walked into the kitchen where the scents of baking had started his mouth watering. Standing there at the work island, dressed in a gray sweater and slacks, her dark hair pulled loosely back with a red ribbon, she had looked outrageously sexy. She’d been stirring pancake batter, for Christ’s sake, but that didn’t stop a kick of lust from heating his blood.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he gazed at the inn’s front porch with a stare as brooding as the gray clouds overhead. When he arrived last night, he hadn’t noticed the chairs there, fashioned out of rustic wood or the table covered with a floral, lace-edged cloth. It had been too dark to see the orange and yellow mums that spilled from colorful pots lining the porch’s rail. And the pink bicycle with training wheels that nosed into an alcove away from the front door.

The woman over whom he was currently obsessing had created that welcoming scene. Not only had she made herself and her young daughter a home that apparently kept body and soul anchored, she made a point to create a temporary home for those who passed her way.

A home—even a temporary one—was something he’d never had and he didn’t want one now. What he did want—on a short-term basis—was her.

“Not going to happen.” Even as he spoke the words, the wind snatched them away.

That he was intensely attracted to a woman so unlike those he habitually sought out caused a feeling of unease to creep over him. For months he had been trying to understand the source of a restless discontent that had settled around him. A feeling that his life had somehow gotten a half beat out of synch. This added disquiet over Peggy Honeywell didn’t help.

He did, however, understand what it was that drew him to her.

In the world of science, like charges repelled each other. Unlike charges attracted. He was one of the nomads of the world with no roots, no family, no woman waiting for him to return. Just looking at the inn told him Peggy had dug in and was there to stay. She had a daughter to raise, and he would bet that more than a few of Prosperino’s male residents had their eye on the innkeeper and their thoughts on a future with her.

Rory knew he couldn’t have found a woman more his opposite if he’d run an ad listing the qualities he preferred to avoid in the opposite sex.

The uneasiness churning inside him hitched up a notch when he thought about the unpleasant consequences of having to disentangle himself from an affair with a woman who put stock in permanence. Common sense told him it would be best for everyone involved if he simply avoided Peggy Honeywell. So, avoid her, he would.

That shouldn’t be too difficult since he had plenty on his plate to deal with. Like identifying what substance had contaminated the water on Hopechest Ranch. That unknown substance had sent innocent kids to the hospital and put fear in the hearts of young pregnant girls.

The sobering reality shifted Rory’s thoughts to the reason he was now in Prosperino.

Glancing at his watch, he calculated he had a few minutes before he needed to leave for his meeting with Blake Fallon. At breakfast he’d overheard Charlie O’Connell mention to one of the art judges that he had an appointment this morning. Rory figured now was as good a time as any to chat.

Just then, the inn’s front door swung open and the EPA inspector stepped onto the porch.

“Bingo,” Rory said softly. He narrowed his eyes against the wind and watched O’Connell make his way along the cobblestone walk, his slight limp the apparent aftereffect of his tumble down the stairs. His tan gabardine overcoat hung open over his crimson sweater and khaki slacks. Gusts of wind picked up strands of his brown hair.

Rory waited until his quarry reached the gravel lot before pushing away from the car’s fender. “Got a minute, O’Connell?”

The EPA inspector flicked him a look as he walked to a black sedan that displayed the logo of a rental car company on its back bumper. “A minute’s about all I have. I’m running late for an appointment.”

“I want to talk to you about the water on Hopechest Ranch.”

O’Connell twisted the key in the lock, pulled the door open, then turned and met Rory’s gaze. “What about it?”

Rory raised a brow. “I don’t guess I need to remind you it’s contaminated. I’d like to know what your findings are so far.”

“I bet you would.”

“Meaning?”

Resting a forearm along the top of the car’s door, O’Connell pursed his lips. “I don’t have time to beat around the bush, Sinclair, so I’ll lay this out for you. I’ve worked a lot of cases where private consultants were involved. It’s my opinion you’re all alike. You get hired by your client after an investigation is in full swing. You show up in your nice clothes and leather jackets with your state-of-the-art instruments, and expect us government drones to hand over the results of the work we’ve already done. That isn’t going to happen here.”

Rory wondered what the man would say if he knew he was talking to a fellow government drone. “I don’t expect you to do my work for me, O’Connell. All I’m asking is that you discuss with me what you’ve found out so far.”

O’Connell flicked an impatient glance at his watch. “Like what?”

“Hopechest Ranch gets its drinking water from an underground source. Have you made any headway figuring out how the water became contaminated?”

“Not yet.”

Rory took a deep breath. It was clear the man wasn’t inclined to share information. Still, he had to try. “From talking to Blake Fallon on the phone, it sounds like all the victims came down with acute bacterial infections. Has the EPA’s lab ruled out the vibrio cholerae bacteria? If not, we might be looking at a potential cholera epidemic.”

“We ruled out cholera two days ago.”

“What about traces of mercury in the water? Lead, cadmium, arsenic or beryllium? Find any of that?”

“When I issue my final report, I’ll make sure you get a copy.”

“Your final report is considered public record. I can get a copy for myself.”

“I’ve got to go, Sinclair.”

Rory watched as O’Connell slid into his car, then slammed the door shut. The engine coughed once, then hummed to life.

Despite Blake’s suspicions, Rory knew just because the man wasn’t forthcoming with information didn’t mean he was involved in anything nefarious. In truth, O’Connell sounded like a disgruntled government worker—the FBI’s lab had a few of those, too. If, on the other hand, Blake was on target and O’Connell was up to no good, Rory had no clue what the hell that might be. Or what O’Connell might stand to gain.

Shaking his head, Rory slid into his own rental car. He knew, like in any other investigation, the answers would come in their own time.

With Blake Fallon’s faxed map on the seat beside him, Rory steered his car over a narrow bridge that spanned the rushing Noyo River. He had driven far enough inland that the fog had dissipated. A heavy cover of grim, gray clouds still obscured the January sky, but at least he could now see the countryside.

A neat, white-railed fence lined the curving road that skirted Hopechest Ranch property; beyond the fence were rolling hills covered with a thick blanket of grass where cattle grazed. In the distance, towering redwoods speared, straight and strong, into the clouds.

Peaceful was the word that slid into Rory’s mind as he glanced at the serene landscape. He frowned, wondering again what it was that compelled him to notice the scenery when he’d taken so little notice of it for years.

A sign pointed him toward the turnoff for the ranch’s main entrance; in the distance, several barns, a stable adjoined by neat, white-railed paddocks and what looked like a handful of long bunkhouses huddled beneath the gray sky. From his conversation with Blake, Rory knew that Hopechest Ranch was not only a haven for kids from troubled homes, but also a full working ranch with a permanent staff. The thirty to forty kids who lived there at any given time were all assigned chores that allowed them to experience the challenges and triumphs of hard work. In addition to the operation of a nationally known counseling program, Hopechest Ranch was home to a school, state-of-the-art gymnasium, archery range and art studio.

Impressive operation, Rory decided as he pulled his car to a halt beside a sign that identified the administration building. Blake had told him the ranch had once belonged to a private family. The structure in which Blake both lived and worked had been the family’s dwelling.

That was what it looked like, Rory thought as he took in the two-story wood-frame house with a porch that wrapped around two sides and part of a third. The structure was old, but well-maintained with what looked to be a fresh coat of white paint and shiny white blinds in the windows. A thin curl of smoke rose from the chimney. Just like at Honeywell House, several chairs and a small table took up one corner of the front porch.

Rory climbed out of his car and started up the brick walk. He noted several nearby oaks standing sentinel just outside the long hedge that bordered the yard. Two planters on either side of the front door held trimmed shrubs; beside the door was a discreet brass plaque: Hopechest.

The reception area was done in gray-blue and ivory. Polished tables flanked a comfortable-looking couch upholstered in a dark fabric. The floor was hardwood and gleaming. A mantelpiece held an antique mirror and an arrangement of dried flowers. Below it a fire crackled eagerly.

Behind an uncluttered desk sat a rather plain young woman who peered at a computer monitor through a pair of understated glasses. She had long, straight brown hair that nearly concealed the phone’s receiver she held tucked between one shoulder of her navy blazer and her ear. While she spoke into the phone, her fingers flew across a computer keyboard. The surface of the desk was neatly stacked with printouts and brown accordion files tied with string. The nameplate aligned with the front edge of the desk read Holly Lamb. She gave Rory an engaging smile and held up a finger to indicate she’d be with him in a moment.

The smile that lit up her face had him rethinking his initial assessment. She wasn’t plain, he realized, not with that classical-shaped face, high cheekbones and perfectly shaped nose. But her skin was bare of makeup, her brownish-green eyes nearly lost behind the lenses of her glasses. He suspected, with the right makeup, the woman would be stunning.

“Mr. Fallon has a meeting that morning,” she said into the phone, “but I can give you an appointment for two o’clock the same afternoon.” Her fingers paused over the keyboard, then started moving again. “Fine. He’ll see you in his office on Wednesday at two.”

She smiled up at Rory as she replaced the receiver. “Good morning, may I help you?”

“I’m Rory Sinclair—”

“Oh, yes, Blake’s scientist.” She rose, tall and slender, moving around the desk with easy grace. The skirt that matched her navy blazer ended just above the knee; her navy shoes were low-heeled and sensible. “I’m Holly Lamb.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Lamb.” Rory returned her firm, brisk shake.

“Holly. We’ve got our fingers crossed that you’ll be able to identify what got into our water.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Her gaze darted to the hallway behind her desk. “I don’t think Blake has gotten a good night’s sleep since this whole thing started.” She looked back at Rory. “It’s been awful with so many of the kids and staff getting sick.”

“How about you? Has the water made you sick?”

“No. I live in downtown Prosperino. The water there is fine. Well, so far it is, anyway. My saving grace is that I drink a lot of canned soda instead of water. Not the healthiest thing to do, but in this case my bad habit kept me from drinking the ranch’s water and getting sick. Maybe winding up in the hospital.”

Using a hand that sported short, unpolished nails, she shoved her long brown hair behind her shoulder. “Blake asked me to bring you back to his office the minute you got here.” Turning, she led the way past her desk, Rory following. “I understand you and Blake were roommates in college.”

“That’s right.”

Her mouth curving at the edges, she slid Rory a sideways look. “I bet you could tell me some good stories about Blake.”

Rory cocked his head. Although she kept her tone light, he picked up on a personal thread that had him wondering if there was more than just the job between Holly and her boss.

“I could. Problem is, Blake knows some good stories about me, too. I’d better keep my mouth shut.”

“I had to try.” She gave a brisk tap on a door at the end of the hallway. After a muffled “Come in,” she pushed the door open and stepped back for Rory to enter.

“Blake, you have company.”

“I’ll be damned.” Smiling, Blake rose from behind a wide expanse of polished desk and strode across the office. Gripping the hand Rory offered, Hopechest Ranch’s director delivered a resounding slap to his friend’s shoulder. “How many years has it been?”

“Too many to count.”

“I agree.”

Blake Fallon had changed little since their college days, Rory decided. His tall, athletic build evidenced the frequent workouts Blake had stuck to when they’d shared a dorm room. The only difference seemed to be that he now wore his dark, thick hair shorter. His skin carried a healthy, golden tan that told Rory his friend didn’t spend all of his time behind the neat-as-a-pin desk where a single file folder lay open.

Rory inclined his head toward the desk. “I see you’re still chronically neat, Fallon. You still polish your stapler every day?”

Blake chuckled. “At least I can find my stapler. I bet you still keep a desk that looks like an avalanche hit it.”

“Some things never change.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rory noted that Holly’s gaze lingered on her boss for an extra beat before she shifted her attention. “Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Sinclair? Tea?”

“Call me Rory, and I’ll pass. I had breakfast before I left the inn.”

“Let me know if you change your mind. How about you, Blake?”

“Nothing for me, Holly. I’ll let you know if we need anything.”

Rory waited until the door clicked shut on Holly’s departing form. “Did you tell her I’m FBI?”

“No. You and I are the only ones who know. Until we get to the bottom of things around here, I figured that was best.” All of a sudden, Blake’s voice sounded deathly tired.

Rory glanced at the office’s far corner where two green leather wing chairs and a matching sofa angled around a low coffee table. “We going to stand the whole time I’m here, or are you going to offer me a place to sit?”

Blake shoved a hand through his dark hair then gestured Rory toward the grouping of furniture. “Sorry. My hosting skills are a little off. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“More than just last night, I’d say,” Rory observed as he pulled off his leather jacket and tossed it over one of the visitors’ chairs that sat in front of the desk. The strain his friend felt showed in the dark circles under his eyes. “You look the same way you did during finals when we crammed a full semester of textbook reading into one week.”

“That, in addition to working in a date or two,” Blake added as he and Rory settled into wing chairs.

“Those were the days.”

Focusing his thoughts on business, Rory rested one ankle on the opposite knee as he leaned back in the chair’s leathery softness. “On the phone you gave me an overview of what’s happened over the past weeks. I need you to start at the beginning and fill in the details.”

“It all seems like a bad dream.” As he spoke, Blake rubbed a palm over his face. “Like I told you, back in late November a litter of kittens was born dead. A while later another barn cat and a dog dropped dead on the same day. The dog was old, he’d been around for years, so everyone thought it was age that got him. The cat was only about a year old. Neither did it show signs it’d gotten into a fight, no cuts, wounds or anything. One morning it was chasing mice in the stables, that afternoon it was dead. The ranch foreman found it and buried it. He told me he figured the cat had gotten hold of a mouse that carried some disease or had been poisoned, and that’s what killed it.”

“Sounds like a logical assumption.”

“Yeah. Shortly after that, two kids woke up sick. They’re both younger, smaller in build. They bunk next to each other in the building we call The Homestead. It’s a dormitory-style lodge where our temporary residents awaiting fostering or adoption stay. Both kids had the same symptoms—headache, vomiting, high fever, muscle aches, disorientation. It was winter, so we’d assumed they’d come down with the flu. At first, the doctor who treated them thought that, too.”

“I want to talk to that doctor about the symptoms. What’s his name?”

“Jason Colton. He’s a GP. His office is across the street from Prosperino Medical Center. I’ll give him a call and set up a time for you to see him.”

“Good.” Rory lifted a brow. “He any relation to the foster family you lived with after your parents split up?”

“Good memory, pal.”

“Comes in handy in my job.”

“Joe and Meredith Colton are the doc’s aunt and uncle.”

Rory nodded. “After those first two kids, how long did it take others to start getting sick?”

Blake furrowed his brow. “Not long. They all lived in The Homestead. The floors used there for the sleeping areas are all open and lined with bunk beds. The living room, dining room and kitchen are communal, so everyone intermingles.”

“I take it you thought the flu was spreading fast, like it always does.”

“Yes. A couple of the counselors got sick, too.” As he spoke, Blake knocked a fist lightly against the chair’s arm. “I should have figured out the connection to the water sooner.”

“The doctor thought it was the flu. From the sound of things, everyone else did, too. I don’t know why you should have thought any different.”

“I’m director of Hopechest Ranch. That makes me responsible for everyone who steps foot on this property.”

“That’s a big responsibility for one man to shoulder.”

“Yeah.” Blake blew out a breath. “Anyway, after about a week, it dawned on me that the only people getting sick were those who live or work on Hopechest Ranch. Some of my employees live in downtown Prosperino, others on the Crooked Arrow Indian Reservation, which borders the ranch’s land. Some of the staff who live here drive into downtown daily to buy supplies. It kept nagging at me that if a rampaging flu was what was making the ranch’s people sick, surely it would have spread to the town or the res.”

“One would think.”

“So, since only the people here were sick, it stood to reason that the cause was something on the ranch. I thought maybe it could be low levels of carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty heater in one of the lodges. E-coli from contaminated meat. Anthrax. Asbestos. I considered everything but the water.”

“Why?”

“We test it. The last time was two days before the dog and the kittens died. Everything checked out.”

“So, if the contamination was intentional, that gives us close to an exact date when it occurred.” Rory pursed his lips. “What about your water pump? What sort of filter do you have?”

“A gas chlorine injector.”

“So, even if whatever got into the water had a distinctive odor or taste, the injector would have masked that.”

“For a while, anyway. But this stuff is odorless and tasteless. Otherwise, with the number of people we’ve got around here, someone would have noticed a difference in the water.” Blake leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. “One morning, I got a call from a counselor at Emily’s House—that’s our dorm for unwed mothers. Five of the girls had woken up deathly ill. One was having premature labor pains. Doc Colton admitted all of them to the hospital for tests. At that point, I knew time was running out. I couldn’t wait around until someone died before I got to the bottom of this. I called the health department and the EPA.”

“What happened after that?”

“The health department tested all the food, the heaters and the air inside all the facilities, everything. While they did that, Charlie O’Connell showed up and checked the water. Bingo, we had the source of contamination. I shut down the well. Since then, I’ve had water trucked onto the ranch.” Blake stared down at his hands dangling between his thighs. “You meet up yet with O’Connell?”

“A couple of times.”

“What’s your impression?”

“That his favorite pastime is putting the moves on my landlady.” Rory’s brows drew together, the annoyance self-directed that the comment had been the first thought to pop into his head. It sure as hell wasn’t what Blake needed to know.

His friend’s brows lifted. “O’Connell making any progress?”

“Mrs. Honeywell has threatened to toss him and his belongings out in the street.”

“Good for Peggy.”

“Yeah.” Shifting in his chair, Rory heard again the edge that had settled in her voice, pictured the heat of temper that had sparked in those compelling green eyes when she laid down the law to O’Connell. Dangerous territory, Rory cautioned himself before steering the conversation back to business. “I talked to O’Connell for a couple of minutes this morning about the ranch’s water.”

“He give you any information?”

“Only that the bacteria that causes cholera isn’t what put your people in the hospital.”

Blake blinked. “Holy hell, I never thought of cholera.”

“Don’t, because the EPA has ruled it out. They’ve probably ruled out other things, too, but O’Connell isn’t forthcoming. The bottom line is, he isn’t happy about your hiring a private consultant to do the same testing he’s doing.”

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